The Black Rose 1: Genesis

By Raymond Towers

In 18th Century Delaware, the Latham brothers are seeking their fortune through taming the wild frontier. Among their workers are the exiled Romani gypsies, a people who harbor many dark secrets, including near immortality. Certain men will do anything to unearth these secrets. It seems that no one has the power to stop them. Many innocent lives will hang in the balance. Rating: HIGH controversy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Towers
• Release date: Aug 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310402562

Raymond Towers

Raymond Towers is an author of fantasy, horror and science fiction that strays away from the mainstream, plus a little in the way of true paranormal and other genres. He has written and independently published over forty titles, most of them full-length novels and collections, with several more on the way. The author has been a lifelong resident of warm and sunny southern California, a location that pops up frequently in his writing. At the moment, the author is looking for ways to reach new readers all over the world, in addition to pursuing his great love of writing and taking it to the next level.

Book preview

The Black Rose 1

Genesis

Raymond Towers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Raymond Towers

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Content Rating: All of the characters in this e-book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental. This e-book contains a HIGH amount of controversial subject matter.

Cover Image: The cover image is titled Young Beautiful Brunette Woman. It was produced by Katalinks, and was acquired through Dreamstime.

This novel is dedicated to M.C., who has the sweetest of throats.

Table Of Contents

Introduction

Adam And Eve

In The Beginning…

Foundation

Betrayal

Murder

Revenge

Genesis

Original Drafts

First Intro - Inspired By M. C.

Midnight Rendezvous 1

Midnight Rendezvous 2

Midnight Rendezvous 3

Preferred Method Of Vampire Creation

About The Author

Author Website

Introduction

This was supposed to be a fantasy story, with sorcerers and knights, and that sort of thing. At least, those were my intentions when I first set about to find a female that I could collaborate with, who could add to the intrigue with her own machinations and motivations. Already, I’d completed a couple of writing projects with the help of women, one erotic novella and one full fantasy novel. I found it intriguing, fascinating, and even a lot of fun to batter a woman senseless with a million questions. A woman I had a personal interest in, mind you, who I could poke at and pry apart and make all sorts of interesting little things come out of. I had just finished one of my Roaches In The Attic titles, which really, really strained the limits of my head as far as science fiction goes. I wanted my next project to be more relaxed and playful, and to be done in a sort of partnership, because I can become quite the hermit when I immerse myself into a long and complex storyline.

I was looking forward to working on a project I’ve been putting off since the early 1990s, or for nearly 25 years now. This project has had three or four incarnations to it already. I believe one rough draft has 70 pages, and another has over 100. I thought it necessary to create an entire universe to fit this project into before I finally got down to writing it. This is the Chaos Rift Universe, which has 8 published titles in it already, plus a couple of offshoot novels. Alas, this project has still not been written. But I was ready to write it, really I was. I already had a general outline of how I wanted things to start off with, but I needed a woman or two to role-play as my heroines. As it turns out, I only found one. This was MC, who I had fallen in love with by then and who I frequently wrote fiction and poetry for in the hopes of winning her heart. Thanks to her, I have previously published the short story collection titled Inspired By MC.

So there I was, with my outline ready to go. Already I could see that this fantasy novel would require a lot of background to it. My concept was growing into two books in my mind, and perhaps more than that, even… and I had a thought. You know how pesky thoughts can sometimes be. They climb up over all of a person’s other thoughts, and start jumping up and down on top of the entire pile and waving their hands and raising such a ruckus that one is forced to halt whatever they are doing to look at this one, troublesome little thought. My thought was: Wouldn’t MC make for a better vampire instead of a sorceress?

The idea blossomed. It grew and grew like a hot air balloon being filled up with helium, and it eclipsed what was already shaping up to be a series… with another series, because there was no way possible that I could get everything I wanted to write crammed into one mere book! My original model for this book was Interview With A Vampire, the pop movie, as opposed to the book by Anne Rice. Off I went to scour for an appropriate historical time period to toss my characters into. I did approach MC about this change of plans. She was flighty and vague. By then the concept was so strong in my mind that I thought, fine, I’m writing this novel without you, honey, but I am basing my primary heroine on you, and that’s exactly what I did!

And here it is, bathed and groomed and all dressed up, ready for you to read it. I can only hope that the sequel will be as fun to write as this first novel was. And there will be more, because there are always more novels to write, even if it does take me 25 years to get to them.

Well, enough reminiscing. Take a deep breath to clear your mind. Think of murky swamps, Colonial houses, entrepreneurs, and most of all think of horror, because in the end, that’s what this novel is all about.

Raymond Towers

#####

Adam And Eve

(Morganville, Sussex County, Delaware, in the year of our Lord 1794)

The house was in as much a state of shambles as the man standing before it, the young Alexander Latham thought bitterly, as he first cast his eyes upon it.

Once, he recalled, it had been a worthy place. It had been built in the early Georgian style, named after the pompous English kings of that era, set back fifty paces from the road and protected by paling fencing to the front and sides. The house’s long axis ran parallel to the road, that is to say, its broad face. On the first floor was centered the main doorway, with two large windows placed on either side. The clapboard siding climbed up to the second floor, where five perfectly symmetrical windows had been set. These balanced the placement of the windows and door on the first floor exactly. The roof was pitched in the gable style, hanging slightly lower than the top of the walls. The paint had been one of the more expensive hues of that time, in a combination of blue and gray. His grandfather, James Latham, had seen to the precision of the architecture personally, Alexander had been told many times in the past.

Once, this had been a proud place, but no more.

Now, the House of Latham was a neglected old woman. The fencing was crooked in some places, altogether missing in others. The paint was faded, the clapboard visibly warped by time and weather. The once grand front door was wide open and forgotten, as if the house were beckoning any passing wanderer at all into its no longer warm hospice.

I do hope no one has squatted in the old place. Alexander, nicknamed Zander, turned to face the driver of the carriage that had brought him out. You can leave my belongings here on the road. I haven’t any coin to spare for you, besides that which I used to procure your services from your master. I shall carry it all in myself, in due time.

Yes, sir. The driver replied. He was a big brute of a Negro named Reuben.

The young man had made pleasant conversation with the Negro, during the short ride from the nearby town of Morganville. The slave had warmed up to him sure enough, as Zander was an amiable sort, and even more so when he had a goodly amount of coin in his purse.

Zander had impressed the bigger man with the accounts of his misfortunes and his travels. He’d lived a comfortable lifestyle previously in northern Delaware, but more recently he’d lost his entire fortune due to a short but powerful streak of horrid luck. This had abruptly taken place when his budding company of carpenters had bolted outright to a competitor’s union, after said rival had promised the workers unreasonably higher wages. That the hefty promises wouldn’t be kept had mattered little to his carpenters, as the mere mention of more coin was enough to turn their loyalty against Zander. The loss of his livelihood had led the young man to abandon the places he’d lived in for most of his life. He had no choice but to uproot his entire history, and to retreat back to the place where he’d been born, but which he hadn’t set foot upon for nearly twenty years.

I was a boy of five years of age, the last time I trod upon Morganville. He said.

The most difficult part of his move, Zander sighed, was that his sweetheart, Martha Bassett, had refused to travel south with him. He was very sad to leave his Martha behind. Before a state of melancholy could settle around his lean shoulders, Zander pushed the matter out of his mind and thought of more practical things.

Much of his remaining means Zander spent up in making the trip to Morganville. He had taken the shorter route over water, from his proud home in Wilmington, down the yawning mouth of the Delaware River to the very industrious Lewis-Town. After securing passage on a fishing boat headed further south, Zander was in time deposited at the tiny port of Sandy Branch. Finally, a fully loaded wagon transporting finished goods in from the coast had carried him and his belongings across the remaining distance to Morganville.

But you’re just a boy! The big Negro had slapped his thigh and laughed heartily. You couldn’t be the at the head of a company of grown men!

Zander had laughed with him. He did admit that he had much trouble with carpenters who’d been at their station for decades, and who adamantly refused to be ordered about by a man of a mere twenty-five years of age.

Enough about me and my past. Zander had coaxed the slave. You must tell me your story as well. To begin with, what is your age?

Reuben shrugged, for he’d long ago forgotten how old he was.

The Negro went on to tell what he did recall. He was sold as a boy in an auction house in Philadelphia and brought down to Sussex County. After having worked at a tobacco farm in Millsboro for a number of years, he was sold again, to the Morganville tradesman who presently owned him. Usually, Old Man Cushman rented him out to do whatever labor needed to be done, whether it be laying brick, digging out graves, or cutting down Cypress trees from the nearby swamp. Or as was the case today, to drive a passenger out to a destination and unload goods.

Zander noticed the brand on the slave’s cheek, which read ‘Slave For Life.’ After all this small talk, he was finally comfortable enough to ask about that. He motioned timidly, for the Negro was much bigger than he was. How did you get that scar?

Reuben scowled. I run off one too many times, from the farm at Millsboro. The men that came to get me saw fit to trample me with a horse, an’ they busted my leg some. After that, they tied me down and branded me like that.

He’d sounded angry then, angry enough that Zander had quietly slipped off his side of the wagon and taken a few steps to the back. He waited quietly until Reuben sullenly jumped off the driver’s side. The Negro limped slightly as he went back to join him. That was the first time he’d become aware of the big man’s limp.

I’ll leave everything here, then? Reuben asked.

Worriedly, Zander glanced at his new home’s open doorway. You can leave it there, yes. I’ll take it in myself. I’ll ask you for one more task, but I’m afraid I haven’t much coin to pay you with. I’d give you one of my older shirts, except it’s much too small for you, but I haven’t much else to trade.

Why would you trade one of your shirts? Reuben asked, for most country people of that day only owned a couple of sets of clothing.

It doesn’t fit me anymore. Zander admitted. I’ve fully grown out of it. It is made of Osnaburg, so it has some value.

(The German town of Osnaburg provided much of the textile fabric for the Netherlands, Britain and its American colonies during this period. Eventually, the name of the town was passed on as the name of the fabric. It was a rough material, typically made of flax, jute and tow, and it was a popular fabric because it was long lasting and tough.)

I can trade an Osnaburg shirt. Reuben nodded slightly. What do you want done?

Zander motioned toward the abandoned house. Help me clear this place of squatters, if there are any that need clearing out.

Reuben actually grinned, as he set about looking through the tall grass until he found a sturdy board that had fallen away from the rest of the fence.

Not to be shown up, nor known to be a man who cowered behind another man, Zander took up a steady stride that would enable him to reach the front door first. Into the wide opening he announced, I am Alexander Latham. I have come to renew my claim to this household in the name of the Family Latham!

Boldly, he cleared the threshold, only to be rewarded by stepping face-first into a large spider’s web.

Son of a whore… Zander grumbled, as he cleared thick webbing from his face.

Reuben sniggered behind him, before he slid past Zander and set off into the house like a soldier.

A steady stream of memories filled Zander’s head, from the time he had spent in the residence as a child. Before him was the wide hallway, with stairs that led up to the second level. Directly behind the second floor landing was another set of stairs that led back down on the other end. To his left lay the formal living room. Past that was the formal dining room, followed by a smaller outcrop that served as the kitchen. To the right was the more casual family room, behind which lay the last room, where the younger Lathams were once relegated to play while the adults had gone about their day’s business.

The second floor consisted of four sizable chambers: two master bedrooms, and two slightly smaller rooms where the children were grouped together to sleep. Above the outcrop of the kitchen would be found the servant’s quarters. These quarters had both an entrance into one of the children’s bedrooms, and its own set of short stairs leading out of doors.

As Reuben had taken to the right, Zander felt compelled to go in the opposite direction. He would not be having the tall Negro going back to Morganville and proclaiming that this latest Latham was nothing better than a coward.

The formal living room was dusty and bereft of furniture, perhaps it had been sold, perhaps it had been looted. The room still displayed the wide and open chimney at its centerpiece. This chimney, and its counterpart chimney set at the opposite end of the house, evidenced the only usage of red brick in the entire structure. Everything else was made of strong wood.

The formal dining room was empty and forgotten as well. With some dismay, Zander noticed that many of the large windows had been shattered with stones, for the hard missiles were clearly seen on the aged and soiled carpeting. Children had done this, he assumed, for the Lathams as a family did not enjoy a reputation that other families would envy. There were many dark secrets to be found in the House of Latham.

Continuing on to the kitchen, Zander observed gutted cabinetry, more broken windows, and a second open doorway. All these open doors, he considered. These he would have to secured first, before anything else was done.

He stepped outside, taking in an encroaching snare of shadbush and sassafras trees. Behind those were a few sturdy specimens of black walnut trees, intermingled with the more unruly hickory. How much he and his sister Penelope had loved climbing the walnut trees for their fruit, he recalled, and how they’d laughed when they’d crushed too much of the walnuts with their ill-aimed stones!

This jubilation was short-lived, however, as Zander sobered up and took in the taller trees that began to crowd the landscape some fifty yards behind the house. According to the family legend, the gypsies had worked there once, when a lumber camp had been located in that place. Those same strange people had also lived deep, deep into the swamp.

The Great Cypress Swamp.

Recollections of things he had heard as a child began to rouse themselves up in Zander’s old memories, of things that couldn’t possibly be true. These were stories of brutal murders, of dark demons that howled in the night, and of beings that could not die who thrived on the taste of human blood. They were all tales meant to keep little children obedient, all made-up fabrications. This is what he kept telling himself, but in the back of his mind he could never be sure. It was all fantasy, he reassured himself. It had to be. Yet here in the warm afternoon, he felt a cold sweat begin to emerge from his flesh.

Master Latham? Reuben’s thick voice could be heard behind him, startling him.

Zander turned around and excused his nervousness. We have a family plot, back in the foliage somewhere. He managed an anxious chuckle. I wonder if I can even find it.

The big man scanned the unkempt landscape. It’d take some kind of work, to get this place looking proper-like.

For now, it will just be me doing all that work. Zander started back to him. You didn’t find anybody in the house, did you?

No, sir. Reuben shook his head. A couple of the bedrooms upstairs looked like someone might have slept on the floor a time ago. Whoever that was, they’re gone now.

Let’s get you that shirt, then. Zander grinned, striding easily back into the house.

It was a hunting shirt, long-sleeved and sized for an adolescent. The lavish item had been dyed in walnut, had a short cape around the shoulders and chest, a pair of pewter buttons, and was fringed at the cape, wrists and hem. It was a fairly expensive article of clothing, even though it was out of the current fashions of the day.

A pity, I never went hunting while wearing it. Zander said. It’s of no use to me now, since I no longer even fit into this shirt. It will probably just sit in its trunk as it has been for the last few years.

You could trade it yourself. Reuben suggested, more out of courtesy since he clearly wanted the garment.

After all that I’ve lost already, one shirt won’t make it any worse. Zander sadly shook his head. Let me tell you this. What is your master’s name again?

Master Cushman.

You tell Master Cushman that I asked you to trade it for me. He already knows I’m in dire straits, as I could barely pay him enough to have you bring my baggage and my person here. He won’t take it from you, will he?

No, sir. He’s known as an honest trader in these parts. He wouldn’t last long if he were a crooked sort, not in a town as small as Morganville.

Zander shrugged. Tell him I asked you to trade it for me, if that’s what you intend to do with it. Tell him I asked you to purchase foodstuffs or some such commodity with the proceeds. Whatever you gain from it, you can keep for yourself.

Why are you doing this for me?

As the Good Book says, bless others and you will be blessed ten-fold in your turn. Zander grinned. And as I’ve told you, I am in dire need of being blessed!

The reply seemed to satisfy the big man. For a moment, Reuben seemed to be wondering if he should stretch his meaty hand out for a handshake.

That’s the manner in which a man seals a deal with another man, isn’t it? Zander asked, holding his own arm out first.

The Negro slave shook hands with the young man.

You are not like other men.

No, I’m not. Zander grinned. I’m a Latham!

Reuben was so pleased with his acquisition, that he even helped Zander bring his handful of pieces of luggage into the house. Afterward, the big and now content Negro climbed back onto his rickety wagon and took the reins. A moment later he prompted the tall and strong Spanish horse into movement.

Zander watched as the only person he’d spoken to in a friendly way, in all of Morganville, indeed in all of southern Delaware, was now slowly riding off into the distance. When he could no longer see the wagon, Zander turned back to face the house. A moment later he realized that the late afternoon sun was setting to put itself away soon.

After releasing a long sigh, he quietly ambled toward the front door.

For the next few days, Zander could be seen beating back the brush with an old hoe and shovel, while wearing dark brown breeches (pants that only come down to the knees), white stockings and a soft linen shirt made for less hazardous environments. His shoes were of a fancier fashion as well, black, buckled and polished. When the sun was particularly harsh on him, he topped his head with a Tri-Corn (three-pointed) hat made of felt and embellished with gold trim.

Occasionally, the sound of Zander firing off his flintlock rifle could be heard on the isolated property, as the young man sprayed buckshot into the air and attempted to kill for himself some unlucky goose or quail, or even a squirrel if it looked large enough to whet his appetite.

A few times, Zander felt unnerved as he dressed and cooked his kill out of doors. He sensed he was being watched. His wary eyes would scan the land around him, but the brush was dense enough that a small army could be hiding within it and not be witnessed.

I’d share a portion with you, if you allow yourself to be seen! He would sometimes call out.

No one ever answered him, but once or twice, he could have sworn that he’d heard a slight scamper through the foliage. This rustling was always moving away from where he stood. It was concerning enough that Zander began carrying his rifle with him everywhere he went. He would always keep the weapon within his sight.

Not only was he being watched, Zander discovered, but he was being stalked as well, and it was from a wholly unexpected source. He began keeping a diary of his experiences, once it had become clear that what he was witnessing was not born from his own imagination. This was not paranoia, but was actually taking place before his very eyes.

From Alexander Latham’s diary, year of our Lord 1794:

The dreams haunt me, of her. For weeks now, I have been having them. I have seen her everywhere in the house: On the dilapidated porch during the early morning hours, when the fog has come in from the swamp, or through the large downstairs windows. Even in the various rooms of the house during the day, and when I least expect to see her. Most recently, she has appeared at the doorway of the bedroom I have taken. This latest manifestation took place only one night past!

So often have I seen this phantom, that I can now describe her with the utmost of accuracy. She can’t possibly be of a higher stature than one or two inches past five feet, as compared with my own height of five feet and eight inches. Her hair appears to be fairly long, but I have not seen it in its entirety. Therefore I cannot be completely certain of this. It is either a very dark shade of brown, or otherwise black as pitch, as are her eyes. And those eyes, they seem to pierce through me like daggers.

Definitely, her features are Spanish. With the slight upturn of her chin that she frequently exhibits, she has reminded me much of the regal portraits I have seen of that country’s queens and princesses. Her nose is pleasant enough, her lips sensual and full, her jowls fleshy and soft, and her bosom prominent.

Always, I have seen her enrobed in a long and flowing garment of white, which seems to flow of its own accord at times. This even when there is no breeze to taunt or stir up against it.

Were I any lesser man, or is it one less foolish, undoubtedly my house would already stand vacant. Alas, I presently have neither the relatives willing to take me in, nor the funding to procure for myself another place of residence. Any practical ideas of my departure most closely resemble a wingless fowl attempting to take flight. Ha! Imagine that!

As a result, my resolve has always been to remain here, in order to confront this enticing she-demon that has chosen the House of Latham to plague, if indeed a she-demon it is!

For many nights, Zander’s sleep was as a stubborn mule, refusing to pull a plow across the field even after being coaxed or beaten. He tossed about in vain, hoping to embrace his slumber, but this lover was as elusive as any other unwilling woman he’d given chase to in the past.

Bitterly, briefly, Zander allowed his mind to recall his last lover, Martha Bassett. The woman who not for any price could be enticed to depart her pleasant home in Wilmington, which he left well back in the north of Delaware. And who could blame Martha! Even he was having his terrible doubts over having come out to this wretched place!

Zander took to sleeping in a different room every night, in the hopes of coming across his alluring specter again. This did not last very long, however, as one night he awoke at the sound of scratching coming from one of the large front windows. There in the soft focus of moonlight, he saw a large rat, perhaps as big as both of his fists put together. The creature scurried back and forth as it tried to find a breach on the windowsill to invade the house. With morbid fascination, Zander watched this industrious rodent, with its brown fur, ugly whiskers and long, purplish tail, until he could take no more and he shouted to scare it away. The rat leaned precariously on the edge of the sill, before it finally committed itself and jumped into the grass below.

The young man had hoped that was the last of such pests, but only two nights later, another rat was seen. This one was a much darker brown, the size of only one fist this time. Again with the aid of moonlight, the man watched it amble out from a small crevice in the wall, and scamper toward his sleeping spot as if he were presenting it with some sort of buffet. Zander frightened this rodent away too, before he took the rolled up breeches that he’d been using as a pillow, and the cape he’d been using as a blanket, and fled up the stairs.

The night after this, Zander found himself unable to sleep. He had hoped to come to this secluded place in southern Delaware for a respite from the financial turmoil he had left behind, and not to be burdened with even more troubles. How wrong he’d been about that!

Still, he had nowhere else to go.

His grandfather had built the House of Latham. The house had remained in his family’s possession for three generations now, so he could not easily turn his back on it, nor did he wish to sell it if any buyers were even interested in that place. It wasn’t quite a ruin yet, but of course, Zander had not the resources or the strength to return it to the glory of its past. At the moment, he was having enough trouble just keeping himself fed.

A sudden stir interrupted his thoughts, causing him to bolt from his spot on the floor and out of the second floor bedroom. Long ago, he had become accustomed to prowling about in the dark, ever since he had first seen his phantom and had mistaken it for a real woman lurking about in the night. At the start, Zander resolved to chase her from the grounds, assuming she was some hapless vagrant who was unaware that a rightful heir had returned to claim his property. He must have been wrong about this, for she could not have possibly been a being of flesh and blood as he was. She had to be something else.

There! He witnessed a white wisp at the end of the hallway, next to the door that led into the dining room and the kitchen. It was she. His heart began to race. It had to be her!

What is your name? He cried out, only to hear his voice quickly eaten up by the darkness.

She never appeared more than one time on any given night, Zander knew. His body knew this as well, for now that the sighting had come and was gone, the fatigue that it had been putting off was hurrying to settle in. Zander did not anticipate having any further trouble finding sleep. His deepest lament was that he would be no closer to discerning the truth of his lovely ghost that night, if ever he was destined to. In the dark, the young man returned to his chambers. Once his head touched his makeshift pillow, he could recall nothing else.

Well, there was one curious thing, which he discovered when his body roused up early the next morning. He could have sworn he heard the following words being whispered into his ear:

I am Eve, and you will be my Adam.

The short utterance had been gifted to him in a woman’s soft voice. Zander had no doubt that it had been his mysterious ghost that had spoken to him. Out of desperation, he searched out the entire house, but of course, she was nowhere to be found by then.

It was only now that he was beginning to realize how deep his yearning was for his ghost. Had he related any of this to his former drinking chums in Wilmington, undoubtedly they would have argued that he was falling in love with the blessed phantom. He could hardly bring himself to deny the charge.

Zander found himself entirely restless that morning, so much that he abandoned the house and determined to walk the entire four miles into Morganville. Once there, he purchased the little supplies he could afford, as well as a pitcher of coffee from the local coffeehouse, that he would reheat later. He purchased also whatever medical remedies the shop-keep recommended to him that would allow him to stay awake through the night. The journey back was a pleasant stroll thanks to the mildness of the noon sun.

For the rest of the day, Zander slept. It was not until well in the afternoon that he again began to roam the dusty and cobwebbed chambers of his new residence.

I will be your Adam! He shouted, into every room, into every crevice or corner, and out of every window.

After this, he tried to busy himself with a few time-consuming chores, such as mending the latticework in the backyard. It had nearly collapsed from the weight of the every-thickening snarls of vines growing on it. Once this was done, he began to clear the shrubbery from the small family graveyard sitting further back on the property.

When he had his fill of these things, the tired and sweaty Zander casually stripped to his long undershirt, which stretched down to his thighs. Knowing no visitors were expected to drop by, he removed his shirt and walked naked to the short barrel he kept filled with water. With an old rag, he wiped the worst of the grime from his body. While Zander was busy tending to this, he slowly received the distinct impression that he was being watched.

At nothing definite, he shouted, I will be your Adam!

The vegetation was still thick all around the property, except in the small spots he’d cleared away already. From the deepest part of the thicket he heard the rustle of brush, first from one direction, and a moment later from another. This was not his ghost, the young man knew. The thought unnerved him enough that he quickly scooped up his clothing and hurried back inside.

With his rifle in his arms, Zander kept a sentry’s watch from the kitchen window, but he saw nothing save a few birds chasing each other through the trees.

As the evening began to grow long, Zander paced about impatiently in one room, before he moved on to the next, and then the next. He’d earlier heated his coffee in the old stove, fancifully termed the ‘Pennsylvania Fireplace,’ pouring the coffee from its metal pitcher and into a tin cup. He had enough of the drink to keep him from standing still for too long in any single place. For hours, he took in the sight of the decrepit walls. He thought of the house that had been forgotten there to rot, until the darkness arrived and consumed it all.

Later, Zander strode up the stairs, peering out through each of the windows. Every time he did this, he hoped to catch a glimpse of the phantom that had long since become his obsession. Finally, after many hours, and unexpectedly, he saw her. Never before had Zander witnessed her for more than a blink of the eyes or two. But there she was, strolling through the barely cleared grave markers as if she were merely strolling through a public park.

Zander was torn between calling out to her, and risk scaring her away, or keeping still his tongue. Choosing the latter, he hurried into his usual bedroom to retrieve his coat, before he slipped down the stairs and outside, and into the growing cold embrace of the night.

The young man half expected the ghost to be gone by the time he reached the little cemetery. He was mildly surprised when he found her still there. With only a sliver of moonlight to reveal her form, and only a distance of three or four yards between them, Zander was finally able to gaze upon her fully. She was even more beautiful than he’d at first thought, but was she a real person, or a phantom, or something even worse than that?

After gazing at him for a brief moment, the woman turned her back on him. She quietly began to step past the small number of headstones, seemingly in no great hurry or concern because of Zander’s proximity to her. Since the sound of her soft footfalls sounded real enough, Zander followed her.

After only a few minutes of plodding about, Zander realized that she was leading him away from the relative safety of his property, and into the thick mystery of the swamp. A curse fall upon his own head, he scolded, for in his haste, he had left behind his rifle!

As an assassin’s garrote, a sinister aura surrounded that Great Cypress Swamp. It was said that pirates once roamed that land, after finding it a safe haven from the appointed constables and the single-minded militaries that would chase such rogues in from the coast. One of these many legends he recalled from his childhood. If one were brave enough to pierce deep into this murky swamp, that person could still come across an ancient gallows. From those gallows, it was said, pirates had once hung their own kind, or whatever authorities they managed to capture, or even hostages whose kin could not afford to ransom them free. Was any of that true?

It was the gypsies, these legends went, who first cursed that land. They placed wards and enchantments all around the swamp, in order to keep their atrocities and their secrets guarded. However, the gypsies and the pirates were not the only ones who had given the swamp the disturbing reputation it had earned.

Some years later, the witches had come. Here in the Great Cypress Swamp, they had found refuge from the unforgiving grasp of the Church. Whatever darker energies the gypsies had left behind, the witches had found, and strengthened, and multiplied. It was the Devil himself, it was rumored, who protected his witches. The Devil changed the course of the very land to confuse any who dared attempt to persecute his diabolical followers. An unholy exchange, these witches had made with their red god, according to those very few who would even dare to speak about it. These witches would sacrifice innocents in the name of their master, and thus were permitted to command the Devil’s horde, facilitating the murder of even more innocents. Goblins, ghouls, demons, and other monsters were said to roam through that swamp, on nights when the full moon illuminated their way among the living. These terrors would snatch up children and prey on the weak and infirm. His very own ancestors, Zander had been told on a few occasions by his own kin, were said to have been knee-deep in that malevolent filth.

No sooner had those vile thoughts crossed the young man’s mind, than the ground beneath his feet gave way and caused him to stumble down into it. In his panic, Zander thought the very earth was attempting to swallow him, until his fleeing senses returned and revealed to him that he had only slipped on a slosh of mud. Zander took stock of his person as he clambered back to his feet. Up to his elbows and knees, he was now covered in wet, black earth.

Coming across a perch on more stable ground, Zander desperately tried to rid the sludge from his limbs. While he was doing this he began to hear some very strange grunting noises. As an old man’s polite cough, they sounded, guttural and raspy, and choppy enough that they threatened to deepen into something more repulsive and out of control. It took him several moments to decipher these strange noises as a demon’s laughter.

Zander glanced to all sides, in the obscurity attempting and failing to discern more than a few yards ahead of him. The trunks of thin, gnarled trees he observed, and the outlines of a small herd of leafy bushes, but nothing else. It seemed he had lost track of his beautiful ghost, while he’d been fussing with the