Evermore

By G C Rosenquist

1855...Emily March thought life with her new husband, Nathan, on his vast tobacco plantation was going to be Heaven. But, soon after arriving at Evermore, life is Hell. Ghosts, murder, dark secrets, civil war and pure evil seem to grow out of the very soil of the plantation and Emily finds herself in a battle for her sanity and her soul. Evermore is an epic, haunting ghost story spanning the years before, during and after the Civil War. Author Gregg. Rosenquist has created a truly original and scary story you won't be able to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2005
• ISBN: 9781593742911

Book preview

Book 1

Chapter 1

The mass of black that surrounded Emily surprised and gladdened her heart. It seemed as if the entire town had gathered around her father’s, Edshar’s, long walnut casket to bid him farewell. The casket rested quietly next to the rectangular hole on two milled tree stubs no higher than her knees. A framed portrait of her father sat on the grass, leaning against the foot of the box so that it caught the sun and reflected a big white spot, erasing his face. That morning, after she had finally finished preparing him and as her father lay in his coffin in the cellar, Emily had an artist paint the portrait. It was a dignified and colorless portrait, the only hint of color coming from the brown suit coat he wore. Although it looked like him, his expression was grim, as the artist had, for some reason, brought her father’s two white bushy eyebrows together at a downward angle above his nose. Emily had no idea what she would do with it after the burial.

It was much too hot a day for a funeral and the late July rains they’d had in Burkesville made it unbearably humid, especially at night. In fact, Emily blamed the heat for her father’s heart attack. As she watched her mother quietly weeping into a white handkerchief, Emily remembered how she’d come running into her room the morning before, hysterical and in obvious agony. Emily followed her into their room and found her father lying still on the floor, face up and eyes opened. She ran to get Doctor Rilly. He examined her father and pronounced him deceased. As she prepared his body in the cellar that night, still numb from his sudden passing, Emily thought it ironic that he ended up being one of his own customers so soon. He’d just turned fifty. Even morticians had to die, he’d always joked to her and her mother. They never thought it was funny.

She thought him so dear that she took it upon herself to learn the skills so she could be near him. He taught her everything about death. That it wasn’t an ending, but a beginning. That the reason people wore black at funerals was that it made it hard for the spirits to find the living. That the dead should be buried with something they loved in life so they didn’t come looking for it. In her father’s case, it was his Bible.

When they bought the house in Burkesville, they converted the bottom half of it into a funeral home, the first one in Kentucky. The cellar was where they prepared the bodies and the parlor, decorated with green curtains and twenty wooden chairs was where the wakes were held. They filled in the death certificates, arranged the showings and burials and comforted the grieving family. It was all so new to people used to just placing their loved ones in a box, saying words over it, then burying it. Father thought it a good Christian way to spread the word of God. That was five years ago. Now the pomatum that held all the make-up, scalpels, and perfumes was now hers. She remembered how, under the flickering light of a single candle in the cellar, she brushed toner on his cheeks but the humidity caused the toner to congeal and she couldn’t blend it into his skin properly. It looked as if he’d been slapped in the face and nothing she did fixed it. But she knew he’d know what to do. Emily broke down and wept, pressing her ear down onto his chest and willing his heart to beat again. She cried so hard that she stained his shirt dark with tears. She realized at that moment that she couldn’t do it anymore without him; she was a retired mortician at the age of eighteen.

It was good of Nathan March to come to her father’s funeral, Emily thought. He stood patiently in back of her mother and Amanda Sallybanks, Emily’s best friend. Tall and dark in his black suit, he was the only man there who had the good manners to be holding his hat and not wearing it, even though the sun beat down on his skin like a hammer. His thick black hair was combed straight back and held into place with an oily substance that shone like the Cumberland River did at night as it caught the reflection of the moon upon its surface. He had a long face and a long nose and underneath was a thick black mustache with ends so sharp they looked dangerous. He was a man of high character and at times she was flattered at the attention he lavished on her. But now it was different. She could feel his brown, staring eyes burning her skin like the piercing of tiny arrowheads. He’d come all the way from his tobacco plantation in Marrowbone in a new cabriolet and he’d known her only a month. The day they’d met, he’d come into town on business and had seen her as she and Amanda, in their Sunday finest, were at the train station waiting for Wesley Braxton to arrive back from another one of his restless adventures. Nathan introduced himself, commented on how beautifully red Emily’s hair was, and invited the two ladies to lunch with him. They declined but when Wesley didn’t get off the next train, they decided to accept Mr. March’s invitation after all. They lunched at the inn next to the station and it was soon clear what Mr. March’s intentions were concerning Emily, but she didn’t pay them much thought at the time. He was twenty-nine, a full twelve years older than her and Wesley filled her mind and heart completely.

While Parson Lowe spoke words he read aloud from the book of John over her father’s coffin, her eyes searched for Wesley. He’d let her down again and again. She promised herself it would be the last time. She’d told him that if he wanted her hand he would have to curb his roving ways and settle down. Here she was on the worst day of her life and he wasn’t there to comfort her. They’d said things to each other under an ancient oak tree in a field of yellow daisies and white yarrow—things only those who love each other say. She now felt they were lies.

Emily’s mother leaned against Amanda, trembling, as Parson Lowe finished reading from the Bible and closed it softly so as not to make any sound. He reached forward, took the portrait of Emily’s father and leaned it against his leg. Then he waved at four big black men in back, slaves, who were wearing muddy boots and white shirts drenched heavy with sweat. They respectfully made their way to the casket, their eyes never looking up, two men at the head and the other two at the foot. They passed a circle of rope around their respective ends, lifted the casket and slowly lowered it down into the rectangular hole. The rope, under the strain of the weight of the casket, made violent snapping sounds. When the casket made bottom, they dropped the rope on top of it and walked away, disappearing over a green hill dotted with white weathered granite markers. There was a wood-handled spade standing in a mound of dirt at the head of the grave and Pastor Lowe motioned for Emily’s mother to take it. She slowly stepped forward, took the spade and dropped black earth down on to the casket. As she turned she let go of the spade and she fainted, almost falling into the hole. Nathan and Amanda rushed and helped her to her feet.

I’m sorry, she whispered. This heat is unbearable.

Everyone understood. Nathan helped her into the carriage and Amanda, with the grim portrait in her hands, got in with her. After receiving everyone’s condolences, Emily went over to the carriage. Nathan was still there with Amanda tending to her mother, letting her drink from a small tin flask he pulled from his breast pocket.

Thank you, Mr. March, Emily said and shook his hand. My mother’s taking this quite hard.

Think nothing of it, Miss Em, he said and dabbed the sweat from the back of his neck with a handkerchief. He stood so tall over her he cast a shadow, the first time all day the sun wasn’t in her eyes.

We would be heartened if you would sup with us tonight.

He smiled. I thank you for the invitation but I have some business back in Marrowbone I must tend to. Maybe tomorrow?

Emily nodded. Tomorrow then, she said, shook his hand and walked back up to her father’s grave. She heard the horses grunt and pull the carriage away. She saw Nathan in his cabriolet following the carriage and he waved to her. She waved back and watched them disappear behind a row of Sycamore trees.

She found herself alone now and stared down into the hole in which her father laid. The sun was at such an angle that it cast a shadow so thick she couldn’t see the outline of the casket. As she stared into the darkness, she imagined herself on the edge of an abyss, its depths immeasurable and she wondered what would happen if she fell in. Would she fall forever or hit bottom a moment after she hurled herself down? Edshar may have taught her many things but he never taught her what to do if he should ever pass on. She listened hard, hoping to hear him sharing more of that fatherly wisdom he seemed to have no end of, but all she heard were the oncoming thumps of heavy footsteps. Over the hill appeared one of those four slaves. He was the shortest of the four and muscles rippled through his dirty shirt like the wind blowing upon the breadth of a tree. She’d seen him before at another funeral and remembered his name was William. When he reached the grave, he nodded his head politely at her and began the strenuous task of filling the hole back up. At first the dirt sounded like rain falling upon the porch back home but after a minute of rhythmic shoveling, the dirt made no sound. It seemed to get swallowed up in a vacuum of some kind; maybe it was that abyss she imagined. She watched William work until all that was left was a mound of black earth and a freshly planted square white granite headstone. Carved into the top of the stone was a border of winged cherubs and underneath, in bold block letters, it read: Edshar James Halliwell, 1805-1855, Beloved Father and Husband. It faced east, towards the rising sun, just like he did when he drank his coffee on the porch in the morning.

William took a long, thirsty swallow from an old canteen he kept on the ground near his feet and offered her some. Emily declined. He nodded his head to her again, then slung the spade and the strap of the canteen over his left shoulder and whistled as he walked up that hill again. It was a song Emily had never heard before, a slow and sad song, but his gait bounced, like a man full of wealth.

When he’d completely disappeared, Emily fell to her knees next to the headstone. She closed her eyes and prayed a moment; then she kissed the tips of the fingers on her right hand and pressed them where her father’s name was.

Goodbye, Daddy, she whispered and walked home, taking a different path than the one she took there so his spirit couldn’t follow her home. Another thing she’d learned from him.

* * * *

Emily and Amanda sat in rocking chairs on the front porch. They’d changed into light, matching yellow summer dresses that had white flowers sewn on them, and they sipped iced tea from porcelain teacups. They watched the sky turn deep shades of orange and blue as the sun, in its inching, eternal journey, cut its way under the horizon. Billowy white clouds moved across the bright colors so slowly that even if Emily watched them, she couldn’t see them moving. The only way to see their movement was to pick a certain cloud in the sky with a distinctive shape and; after a short conversation with Amanda, look back up at that same area of sky and see how far the cloud had traveled or changed. To Emily it was a game and one she didn’t think Amanda would fancy, so she kept it to herself. Amanda seemed more interested in the goings-on in town and the people who passed by on their way to Hitherjeddes General Store or some other establishment—they kept the street in front of the house alive until well after dark. Someone always waved at the pair and scared a foraging squirrel, charcoal black from head to tail, from the fencerow and back up the tall elm tree that sat next to the gate. Emily had seen that squirrel many times before and named it Cocoa. As far as she could tell, it was the only black squirrel in town and she fed it peanuts whenever she had them. Sometime he’d even take them from her fingers but there was much too much activity for him to come up to her that evening. She was glad about that. It was too hot to move and they’d already gone through one pitcher of iced tea.

Old man Pritchett came by carrying a weathered green canvas bag over his shoulders. He was a skeletal man who always claimed to be older than dirt. A floppy gray hat hid the fact that he no longer possessed anything resembling hair on his head. It seemed to have migrated down to his face in the form of a straggly silver beard, which managed to collect every food and dust particle it came in contact with. He’d been mining the hills outside of town for gold for decades but the closest he’d ever come was a miserable little heap of pyrite, which is what Emily thought was in the bag on his shoulders.

How de do, Miss Em, Miss Amanda? he said and stopped at the gate.

How are you this day, Pritch? Emily answered as she waved a paper fan at her neck.

I couldn’t be better, ma’am, I think my luck has finally changed. I got me a load of rock I’m takin’ to Mr. Randolph at the bank.

Emily sat up in her chair. Are you telling me you mined today…in this heat?

He let out with a rumbling laugh, encouraged at her amazement. Sure did, Miss Em. Right after, I’m heading to Mac’s for a drink to celebrate. Care to join me?

I was gonna invite you in for some iced tea.

Pritch’s face puckered up and it looked like he’d seen his ex-wife coming down the street. Oh, I never touch that stuff. You know better than that.

My apologies, Pritch. You’re right. Well, I truly hope that your luck has indeed changed.

Thanks, Miss Emily, he said, turned away, then came back again. He took his hat off and held it at his chest. I’m real sorry about your daddy, Miss Emily. He was a good man. I wish I could’ve been there at the funeral today.

I know you do, Pritch. Thank you.

He put his hat on and headed into town.

Amanda sat forward in her chair and glanced at Emily. Honestly, Em, she began. I don’t know why you encourage a man like that. He probably has ideas to marry you.

Emily giggled. "He’s been married once, Amanda. He ain’t one to do something like that twice. Besides, my daddy liked him and that’s good enough for