Jezebelle

By H.G. Ferguson

Antebellum beauty sweet,
All the beaus fell at her feet,
Raven hair, her bosom swelled,
Her name was Jezebelle.

Child of selfish jealousy,
Made a pact unholy,
Died in pain she thought was hell,
Poor murdered Jezebelle.

Over her death held no sway,
For from her grave she made him pay,
Haunts the land, the old ones tell,
Beware Dead Jezebelle.

When they took her Rachel fair,
They could not know nor would have cared,
They'll drink deep from her foul well,
The hate of Jezebelle.

North she'll go and will not rest,
Accursed thing, this beast unblessed,
She will ring their last death-knell,
The wrath of Jezebelle!

Antebellum beauty sweet,
All the beaus fell at her feet,
Damned lost soul, dark child of hell,
Her name is Jezebelle.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: PLS Bookworks
• Release date: Jan 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943688302

Book preview

PART 1

Chapter 1

April 30, 1861

If he laughs like that one more time, I swear to God I will kill him myself.

Deputy Ben Cunningham shuddered and opened his newspaper, trying to read in the flickering lamplight that undulated shadows across the walls of the Old Courthouse—now serving as the county jail as part of a renovation program in these newly formed Confederate States of America. A lanky man of serious disposition, Ben had volunteered for service in the First Alabama Division in the coming war, but hadn’t been called up yet.

He wished right now he were at the boot camp up in Amerton.

The prisoner’s laughter cackled right through the closed door leading into the lockup. Ben set down his paper and sighed. The trouble would soon be over.

Jim Curry would hang tomorrow.

And all his daddy’s money wouldn’t stop the inevitable, neither.

Ben tried very hard not to think of the events of the last three days. But as Jim Curry chortled again, they all flooded back.

All right, b’God, that’s enough.

Ben growled, then shot to his feet and flung open the lockup door. The lone prisoner lay on his bunkbed inside the cell, gazing at the ceiling. A little light from the lamp hanging in the front room wandered through the doorway.

Jim Curry laughed again.

That’s enough, Curry. Ben tried to keep his tone polite, but he tapped the hardwood stick in his hand against the bars. Just to get the man’s attention, mind you. You just need to be quiet now.

Jim Curry sat up. No smile creased the face that a hundred young ladies had lusted for, and his strong frame seemed to droop in the prison clothes. She’s dead, Ben. He ran a hand through his thick tan hair. My God, she’s dead. . .

Well, you ought to know, you’re the one that done it. Ben couldn’t stop the contempt in his voice.Jesus, there was barely enough of her left to bury.

Don’t you think I know that? Curry stood and staggered over to the bars, his calloused hands gripping impenetrable steel. Both of them gone, now. I’ll be happy to see the rope tomorrow. Really, Ben, I will. . .

Let me ask you something, and you be straight with me. Ben pointed his stick at the prisoner.Do you really believe she deserved what you done to her?

Oh, yes.

Curry's smile made the holy shivers dance jigs up and down Ben's back.

And the man’s next words were like a dagger to his heart.

"You, you should have heard the sounds she made, especially near the end. . .Jezebelle Beaumont never begged a man for anything in her life. . .but she begged to me, Ben. . .I made sure she begged. . ."

And then he laughed again.

Ben wanted to save everybody the trouble and just drive his stick right into the bastard’s head, but he turned and walked straight out and slammed the door behind.

t t t

In the darkness of the lockup, Jim Curry sat on his bunk. The smile vanished. Hanging his head in his hands, he sobbed like a sick girl.

Beyond the door, Ben Cunningham screamed.

Something heavy hit the floor.

Jim Curry stood, his knees shaking like a virgin’s in a whorehouse. The door opened inward. The lamp, now sputtering, etched a figure swishing into view.

Jim. . .honey. . .

No, noooooooooooooo! You’re dead, dead, DEAD!

Why’d you hurt me, Jim?

Get back, get back, Jesus God, keep away fr—

Honey . . .

No!

Don’t you. . .want me, Jim? Don’t you. . .love me?

"Don’t touch me."

Hold me. . .

"Keep away."

"You. . .hurt me, Jim. . .my sweet Jim. . .you laughed at me, you laughed at me while you were hurting me, killing me. Sweet Jim."

"Jezebelle!"

"Why did you kill me, Jim?"

Ben Cunningham picked himself up off the floor, his head whirling.

God in Heaven, it cain't be.

Snatching up the lamp, Ben stumbled into the lockup. Two seconds after that, the blackness took him once again, but for the rest of his life whenever he closed his eyes, the first thing he always saw was the bars bent back like they were made of tin and the loveliest girl in Shakaygee County in her lavender ball gown and the hat and the gloves and the choker round her fair dead neck, pulling apart what remained of Jim Curry like a piece of fried chicken.

Chapter 2

August 10, 1863

Dead.

Both dead.

Dead.

Sobbing, Susannah Beaumont turned toward the window, where the rain lashed its fury during a late-afternoon thunderstorm. Her reflection confirmed what she suspected: the situation had left her looking as poorly as she felt. Fear hardened her features until she resembled one of the stone statues in the cemetery, her lips pinched, her eyes dark holes in a pane of paleness.

With clouds so black that conditions outside approached near night, the storm required the burning of an oil lamp on the small table nearby.

But Susannah no longer cared whether it was day, or night, or anything in between. She simply stared at the window as the rain slammed against the glass, driven by powerful winds that shook the ancestral house to its foundations and threatened to strip the remnant of the crops and trees bare.

The door softly opened. Dear old Hannah stood at the threshold, carrying a tray of food and some tea. As though tea were the solution to every problem. Miss Susannah? The black woman set the tray on the table next to the lamp. I brought you some tea, I thought it might be—

They’re dead, Hannah. Susannah, still swathed in funereal dress, stared out the window. My boys are dead.

Yes, ma’am. Hannah poured tea into a china cup. Take some tea.

War took both my boys. Susannah rambled on, her body unmoving, in a voice cold and calm and hideous. Damned war. Damned Lee. War took my Johnny, took my Micah.

Yes, ma’am.

Hannah stopped pouring the tea and stood nearby. Susannah studied the last of the slaves on what remained of the once-prosperous Beaumont plantation, Hannah had refused to leave when Master Hiram freed everyone and sent them off. When asked why she stayed, she said she wasn’t too certain herself, except she wasn’t young enough to make a new life on her own and she loved this family too much—too much for her own good, the others warned before they lit out.

War took my boys.

Yes, ma’am. And I’m sorry.

The Confederate States of America sends its deepest regrets concerning the passing of Captain Jonathan Beaumont and Lieutenant Micah Beaumont on July 2, 1863, on the field of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. You may be assured that both men fought with the utmost bravery and gave their lives in the defense of their Country.

War took my Johnny. Susannah sobbed. War took my Micah. She stiffened, upright, her empty eyes flashing like a gunshot. "But Satan took that other one!"

Hannah patted Mrs. Beaumont’s shoulder. Now, now, ma’am, don’t you git yourself riled none, it ain’t good for your heart, Doc Watkins done told you that.

The rain slammed and raged against the roof. Darkness outside nearly as strong as night itself thrust shadows even into the very room.

The lamp wafted.

From the ballroom below rose the eerie sounds of the great harpsichord playing a familiar composition.

Susannah Beaumont sucked in her breath like the hiss of a monstrous snake, her heart hammering a drumbeat accompaniment to the haunting, sweet refrain now permeating the house.

You just sit still, Miss Susannah. Hannah pressed her mistress into a chair. I’ll go down and see.

Susannah Beaumont gave no answer, her face riveted to the shadowed window. But there was nothing to see.

Nothing but dark. And death.

###

Pulling a pistol from her apron’s spacious pocket, Hannah left the room and as quietly as possible for her hefty frame descended the stairs. A single oil lamp burning in the foyer cast fantastic shadows on the walls as she went down. By the time she stood before the open doors to the ballroom, the pistol in her hand shook like a happy puppy’s tail.

I will fear no evil. Hannah invoked the protection of the God she loved. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

She pushed open the ballroom doors. Lightning flashed through the long windows with their fine curtains drawn, revealing who sat at the harpsichord across the length of the room, her back to Hannah.

The playing stopped. The player slowly rose and turned round.

"Tell my mother I’ve come to see her."

A scream not much different than a stallion being castrated split the wood of the ceiling, followed by the reverberating thud of a body hurtling straight forward onto the floor. The pistol spun across the room and twirled like an obscene top.

And Hannah’s world went dark.

###

Upstairs Susannah Beaumont heard both sounds, but did not move. She also heard the swishing of elegant clothing ascending the stairs, followed by a couple of hesitant steps behind her.

Momma. . .

Mmmmmmmmnnnnh. Susannah Beaumont’s teeth would not open as if her jaw were wired shut. Nnnnnnnnnnnnnooooo.

Momma, Momma, it’s me. Please. . . Momma. Please turn around.

Susannah Beaumont shook her head.

Momma.

The black-shrouded woman of southern gentry—and once of southern beauty—rose out of the chair but did not turn.

Please look at me.

Susannah Beaumont turned around. Her hands gripped the back of the chair in which she had been sitting, as if to hang on to something, anything of this world.

"Momma, please. . . "

Susannah Beaumont shook her head. Her lips worked, but nothing beyond a mumbled gurgle came forth.

The shockingly lovely young woman just a few feet in front of her, in many ways her mirror image at nineteen, stood with her gloved hands outstretched. Dressed in a daring, low-cut lavender gown and flamboyant hat, the raven-haired beauty spread out her hands.

"Momma, I need you. I’m so alone, Momma. I’m so alone. I was told I had to stay here, Momma, and I’m all alone." That honeyed voice implored her again. Hold me, hold me, Momma.

Susannah Beaumont’s hands broke the chair she clutched into shards as though the solid oak was nothing more than kindling.

Momma, hold me. Tell me you still love me. Momma. Momma.

Arching her back, Susannah Beaumont clenched her hands into fists and screeched into the darkness surrounding what had been her daughter. She snatched the lamp from the table and hurled it straight at the apparition, which moved aside with unearthly speed.

The lamp smashed harmlessly against the wall, where fires instantly licked up.

"Mommmmmmmmmaaaaa!" The THING advanced, waving its entreating, bloody-gloved claws.

###

Riding his horse home through the thundering rain, Hiram Beaumont passed the front gates of what little he still owned and headed for the house. Returning from necessary business in Midian, which included selling off yet another parcel of land, Hiram caught a ghostly memory of his two sons proudly riding off to war out these very gates, but in the opposite direction.

Maybe it really was better. There wouldn’t be anything for them to come home to even if by some miracle the South won this hellspawn war. Micah was gone. Johnny was gone. Susannah’s soul was nearly gone from grief. The plantation was all but gone.

And Jezebelle.

She was gone, too.

The horse reared and hurled him off as if the beast were made of live coals. As he hit the ground, the animal dashed back up the lane toward the gates, making a sound no horse should.

Damnation. Hiram, shaken and sure to be black and blue on the morrow, picked himself up out of the mud. What is going on?

Something crashed out of their bedroom window on the second floor above him. Snapping his head up, he closed his eyes and threw his hands over his head to protect himself from the object coming straight at him. Frozen in place, he could not move.

When he opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat like an unchewed piece of meat.

Plastered against his wet face was the ruined one of his cherished Susannah. Although her eyes had been ripped out like Samson’s in the Bible, she still mumbled incoherently.

Hiram screamed and shoved his dying wife aside. Struggling to rise while keeping his breakfast from spewing over her body and adding further injury to insult, he looked up once more at quite a different sound.

Some kind of animal rolled across the roof and fell nearby, twisting and hissing. The thing hunched on its knees, then slammed its hands—no, they were claws—into the mud.

Hiram Beaumont sank to his knees and cradled his beloved wife’s eyeless head against his chest. No. No. Sweet Jesus, no.

"Poppa. . . Poppa. . . The horror rose to its feet. Why did Momma want to burn me, Poppa?"

Hiram Beaumont groaned. His head shook from side to side as he eased his Susannah down and snatched out a pistol from his belt.

That THING with his dead daughter's EYES.

"Poppa!"

As flames licked his house from the second floor down, Hiram Beaumont emptied all six rounds into what shuffled toward him, its arms held outward in entreaty. The creature cried and buckled with each bullet, and the scent of rotting graves mingled with the rain.

He was still clicking the empty weapon when the monstrosity—vaguely resembling a woman clothed in a mangled blood-drenched gown, bits of gore clinging to the soiled folds—snatched the pistol from his grasp, along with his arm, which she ripped clean out of its socket.

I hate you, Poppa. I hate you, I haaaaate yoooouuu!

Hiram Beaumont sank to his knees, his mind numb, his arm in the mud in front of him, his life’s liquid gushing like the rain.

Why, Poppa? His beautiful daughter cradled his head in her hands, as he had done to her mother’s just moments before. She caressed his face with loving gentleness. "Why?

She glanced back at the house. "Aren’t I all you had left? Poppa. Poppa."

When he didn’t answer, she repeated her question while she squeezed his gargling head until the bones split and popped like an overripe grape.

When she was done, she washed her hands in the rain and regarded their corpses. "Now I don’t have anyone left. She faced the house. Nobody at all except. . . Her mouth popped open in ecstatic glee as the rain smote her hat. Rachel! Oh, yes, yes, my Rachel!"

She ran toward the now-fully-engulfed house, colored and lit by flames that even this rain could not extinguish. Her joyous smile gaped into a maw of absolute panic.

Raaacchhhhellll!

Rushing up the steps, she drove her fists into the great house's front doors, splintering the oak slabs into kindling. Flaming debris from the second floor crashed round her. Through the smoke, something else now hissed up the stairs with unnatural speed, clawing at the fire that closed in around.

Bursting through a wall into a room left untouched for two years, the thing seized a wooden chest in its claws. Before the floor gave way, the bloody monstrosity plowed through a west window, protecting the chest with its own body, and landed back in the last vestige of a drought-stricken peach orchard.

The roof of the Beaumont mansion tumbled into ruin with a crack that carried for miles. The creature in the rain snapped its face toward the sound, shuddering at the flames that now cavorted through the ballroom, hissing in both terror and loathing.

Oh, Rachel, I saved you, I saved you, I saved you. The raven-haired beauty stroked the doll’s chest. I saved you because you’re all I have left. Not Momma, not Poppa, not Johnny, not Micah. Just you. Oh, Rachel, my sweet Rachel, I will protect you always. You will always be mine, Rachel, my Rachel.

Kissing the chest tenderly as a lover would, dead Jezebelle Beaumont melted into the dying storm.

Chapter 3

January 7, 1865

There ain’t no moon tonight, so we got a chance, boys. Captain Rufus Lemoine gazed out through a gap in the wreckage surrounding them. Scanning the road past the naked trees, he shivered and drew his dirty coat closer in. A slim chance, maybe, but better’n no chance at all.

For an hour, there’d been no shots, but he knew good and damn well those Home Guard bastards were out there, hiding in what was left of the outbuildings and rotted hayricks.

Rufus crept back and shouldered his shotgun. The rest of his men, now numbering only eight, didn’t seem very relieved. Like him, they were a motley gang, clad in ragged Confederate uniforms and whatever they could steal. But he’d managed to make a reputation for himself and they performed well enough, so that the whole region now trembled at the mere mention of his name. Most bands of Confederate deserters—and there were many now that the Cause was lost—had disappeared into hills and swamps.

But not Lemoine.

He would not slink off to the backwoods.

There wasn’t much by way of money to be found in hills and swamps.

But there was a fortune hid here somewhere, all the tales had told—a fortune no robber had yet unearthed, and mostly because of fear.

For some strange reason folks in Shakaygee County wouldn’t delve too deep in the ruins of the Beaumont Plantation House.

Until tonight.

And Lemoine wasn’t from Shakaygee County anyway.

But it hadn’t exactly been the plan to loot the burned-out buildings just yet—Rufus and his men had been driven here earlier this day after a run-in with the Home Guard forced the gang to dig in worse than Vicksburg. But Rufus knew the Home Guard’s numbers must be as thin as everything else in the dying South now, so that much was in his favor.

Find anything yet?

Rufus tossed the question toward his second-in-command, Slick Burns, who rummaged through the debris. A fire had gutted the place years ago, leaving behind little more than shapeless hulks of chairs, tables. The remnant of something like a pi-anny littered the mostly bare spaces between the broken walls.

Rufus wished this was a real plantation house, like the last one they’d come across in Georgia just before sneaking over the line into Alabama. Prized hidden pigs, prized Irish whiskey, and two very prized daughters of a foolish man who dared resist.

You bastards, worse than the damnyankees, how kin you hurt y’own. . .

Sixteen and fourteen, and never been kissed. . .Rufus repressed a chuckle through his matted brown beard.

I’ll be damned. Slick whistled. Rufus, take a look at this.

Slick was over near the back wall where, by itself in the rapidly fading twilight, a small ornate cabinet—showing some signs of fire damage but relatively intact—sat. The piece was totally unlike anything else in the place.

Rufus sidled over. Now that’s damn peculiar.

Slick lifted the piece. Dust underneath it, as thick as the rest of the dirt and soot everywhere.

Rufus grunted. Well, open ‘er up.

Slick set his hand upon the cabinet’s door.

A voice near the door spoke with authority. "Stop."

Rufus brought his shotgun to the ready. What the hell?

Slick whipped out both pistols, and the others, nervously awatch with fowling pieces, shotguns, and a couple of gleaned rifled muskets, all spun to face the speaker.

Cold and captivating, like icy music, the voice spoke again. There is no treasure here. Please go.

A shape arose from the shadows not three feet from where Rufus and Slick stood. Even in this gloom, the outline of a woman wearing a rich lady’s hat jutted against one of the gaps in the walls.

Rufus’s heart pounded like the steam engine on a paddleboat. How the hell’d you git in here, and who the hell are you anyway?

This was my home, sir. Please leave it.

Sighing with disgust, Rufus shouldered the shotgun. Seems you need a lesson in manners.

Holy hell. Slick whistled. "Whose little girl are you?"

The mind-numbing, lovely young thang spoke again. "Go."

This child didn’t know who she was messing with. Rufus cocked his gun. Or whut?

The night air plunged colder than a well-digger’s be-hind. The chill swept through the house, spooking their horses who were uncouthly but conveniently tethered together in what was originally part of the drawing room. The beasts whinnied and stamped in unsettled unison.

A voice rang out in the night beyond the ruins. Lemoine! Rufus Lemoine! This is Home Guard Captain Joshua Rawlings! You’re surrounded! Surrender or we’re comin’ in!

Shit! Rufus snarled. I thought we outran them.

He grabbed the girl by the arm and wrapped his forearm around her neck from behind, then thrust her in front of him as a barrier if by chance they could see. Her arm was like some kind of ice that penetrated his gloved hand.

She twisted in his grip. Unhand me, sir.

Rufus glared at her. She was bold and stupid. Both might get her killed. Shut up. He cupped his other hand to his mouth and hollered through the window to the men surrounding the house. Now you just hold your horses, Captain Rawlings! I got me a hostage and I swear to God I’ll blow her head clean off if you or any o’ your men step one foot towards me.

An awkward silence hung for a long moment. The only sound Rufus identified was the heavy breathing of his men, hissing like wheezing bellows in the ruins.

Lemoine, now you listen to me. Rawlings’ words sounded bold, but his voice quaked like a Grannie's. "Git outta there. Just walk out right now and I swear we’ll hold our fire. Leave that woman be. In the Name of Jesus, you leave that woman be."

You should listen to Captain Rawlings. . . The woman’s voice sang in Rufus’ ear, sweet but menacing, hanging in the frozen air like icicles from an eave. If you know what’s good for you.

Rufus released her arm, wiggling a half-frozen, stiffening hand.

Somethin’ wasn’t right.

Then he heard it.

Nine anxious men breathed like they were suffocating, but not a single wisp of air passed the lips of the calm, spectral beauty next to him.

With a single cry, downstairs the horses broke tether and bolted like demons, thundering through the ruins in a mad survival instinct to escape. Screams from two of Rufus’ boys guarding the beasts pierced the air.

Slick cursed to do a sailor proud. Rufus brought down his shotgun again as sparks flashed in the hayricks and trees. Bullets slammed through the damaged walls. Boots rushed up on all sides. Shotguns, fowling pieces, and pistols erupted as a hail of destruction from both parties turned the ruins into a miniature Antietam. The nose-pinching stench of gunpowder filled the remnant of the room, threatening to suffocate him.

Figures hopped through the holes in the walls and gaps in the wreckage. In the hail of mutual gunfire, Rufus glimpsed Slick in a corner, his gut bloody, still methodically and heroically aiming and firing off round after round. Strangers with Home Guard badges cried out and dropped, but many more poured into the house.

And there she stood, right in front of that cabinet like she was trying to protect it with her own body. In the intermittent flashes, Rufus wondered about the fancy purple gown. A face to haunt a man's lustful dreams forever stared back at him midst the flashes of gunfire.

I told you to leave my home. The girl’s mouth curled into a delicious smile. I even let you accost me. I gave you your chance. For the sake of my Rachel.

Shaking his head at this crazy girl's declaration, death all around him, Rufus flung out his left hand to seize her. "You're comin' with me!"

"No, I most certainly am not."

The creature lunged at him, its smell charnel, its blood-drenched lavender tatters sticking close to its foul flesh.

In the last glare of somebody else’s shotgun, Rufus Lemoine received a very up close and personal look at what ripped into his own belly and extracted his insides with more than a little satisfaction on its flayed countenance before hurling his carcass through the nearest wall.

###

I reckon thar ain’t much else, Captain. Lieutenant Frank Griffin snapped his notebook shut. You can see for yourself what I mean.

In the light of the lanterns they’d brought up, the men carried out the last body, that of Slick, with more holes in him than a sieve.

Rawlings nodded. He arched his back, his lanky frame stretching toward the sky. This had been a long day. Too long. Lemoine?

Out here, Cap’n. One of his men pointed to a massive hole that gaped in the remnant of the walls, much larger than anything their weapons could have caused. Leastways, I think it’s him.

Rawlings picked his way over the wreckage, taking care not to slip in a puddle of blood. His man brought the lantern close to what lay on the ground nearby. Sweet Jesus.

Never seen a shotgun do that, and I seen a lot. Frank stood at his side. No gun we got, anyways.

No shotgun killed Rufus Lemoine. Rawlings locked solemn eyes with his lieutenant. You know that as well as I do, Frank.

"I seen her." Frank shuddered. When we come in on ‘em. I seen her in the flash o’ gunfire. I seen her ‘n I tried to tell myself I didn’t. But I did. Then I had to take care o’ business, and when I looked agin, there was just that there hole in the wall she made when she took Lemoine. He drew a deep breath. I seen her, as God is my witness, Cap’n. I know what Jezebelle Beaumont looked like and I’m a-tellin’ you I seen her.

I wouldn't go spreadin' that, Frank.

No, sir. I ain't.

You boys git on, I’ll be down in a minute. Rawlings turned to Frank and lowered his voice. Gimme that lantern.

Yes, sir. Frank handed over the light then shuffled off with the rest as they dragged Lemoine's mangled mass away.

Rawlings waited until they were some distance before he entered the ruins. He stepped over to the cabinet, which remained miraculously free of gunshot holes. This piece of furniture was the only thing left of what had once been a large home filled with many objects of value and beauty.

Keeping his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear, he tossed a casual salute in the general direction of the cabinet. Thank you.

Sir?

He froze. His hand drifted to the pistol in his belt, his fingers caressing the wood-grain butt.

Sir, I can see you are a good man.

Rawlings closed his eyes briefly then opened them again. I try to be, ma’am.

Then please do me this kindness. Her gown rustled as she walked over to the cabinet, which she opened with a gloved hand. I thought I could protect her. She is all I have left to. . . to cherish, sir. I saved her from the fire and kept her here where I thought she would be safe. But I might have lost her tonight.

She retrieved a porcelain doll dressed in a gown similar to the one she wore, except in red, as was her hat.

She clasped the doll lovingly to her breast. As she looked into Rawlings’ eyes, tears fell like dewy pearls down her pale cheeks. Please, sir, take my Rachel. Take her and keep her safe. All I ask is that you keep her safe.

Yes, ma’am.

The woman’s features contorted as she sobbed. Promise me.

I do solemnly promise, Miss Jezebelle.

Oh, thank you. I will hold you to that promise, Captain Rawlings.

Her lips brushed the doll’s face.

The cold hands placed Rachel into his own.

Dead Jezebelle Beaumont turned and walked away, vanishing as she left the lantern’s glow, but the ghostly grief of her sobbing haunted him all the way back to his anxious men.

PART 2

Chapter 1

July 27, 1900

"It’s almost more than I can bear." Emma Rawlings blew long and theatrically through her handkerchief. To lose so much, so quickly. The heavy-set spinster, clad in the most cheerless shade of mourning black west of Atlanta, watched as the sturdy workmen of color file out one by one with what used to be her belongings, even down to the last stick of furniture. I don’t know how I will go on.

Your father was the finest of men and a pillar of our community. Cyrus Tull, her loyal business manager, stood beside her in this most trying of times. Her father would turn over in his grave. Tall, thin, and bespectacled, he spoke with the smooth inflection of a senator. This would be a sad day for him, too.

But he wasn’t so fine with business, huh, Tull? Matthew Durant, overseeing the general removal of everything in the house, was a beefy, red-faced man of obvious Yankee extraction whose family had come south after the war and cleaned up as carpetbaggers. For which I will be eternally grateful.

Tull shuffled his feet. There is no need to gloat.

Durant’s smile widened. Oh, there’s every reason.

Emma glared at the cause of all her problems. You hated my father, and he hated you.

But I’m the winner. Durant smiled again. And winner takes all.

Bitter and offended on behalf of this dear lady, Tull could not argue with the man. Not her fault her father’s health and business failed at the same time.

Durant shrugged. Not my fault he borrowed money he couldn’t repay from my bank, either.

Emma honked again into her handkerchief. Where else could he borrow? You control all the money in this county.

And now I control your house and almost all your property. He picked at a front tooth, flicking a miniscule speck of his previous meal onto the floor. It won’t be long before I own it all.

She tucked the hankie into a sleeve. If only the economy hadn’t collapsed.

Durant turned on his heel, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. Just get your belongings out before I change the locks and you walk away with less than nothing.

Tull stepped between Emma and Durant. You said your piece. Now leave the woman to herself. Give her some dignity. He patted Emma’s shoulder. Come, I’ll help you carry out your things. He glared at Durant. "Your personal belongings. Nothing else. Then we’ll go to my house. My wife is waiting for you there to show you your rooms."

Two workmen lugged a cabinet down the stairs.

Emma’s face paled. No, not that! She stood. My God, I forgot, stop, stop!

She shuffled toward the stairs as the two men paused halfway down, their eyes rolling with exasperation.

Now you just hold it right there! Durant barked, jumping in front of her. That cabinet and everything in it is legally mine —

You can have the cabinet. I don’t care about the cabinet! Emma’s voice took on a different tone. Gone was the woman afraid of her own shadow or what the next day would bring. In its stead was the Emma of old—proud, defiant, strong. My father left me what’s in it. Just let me take it, and I won’t stand in your way.

Durant impatiently sighed. All right, all right, haul that damned thing down here.

The two men completed their interrupted journey and set the cabinet on a table in the foyer, awaiting Durant’s next instruction.

Emma produced a key from a pocket and unlocked the cabinet. The hinges squeaked from years of disuse.

Durant peered over her shoulder. Bet that hasn't been opened since the war.

Replacing the key, Emma reached in and pulled out an object wrapped in thick cloth. Thank you, and good day to you. The new, fearful Emma had returned. You may carry on as you were.

Not so fast. Durant barred her way. Legally, that’s still mine. Show me what it is, and I will decide whether it goes with you or to the auction. He waved his hand like a Caesar. Unwrap it.

Emma looked to Tull, who nodded.

Emma’s fingers, shaking with a curious nervous fit, pulled back the cloth. The material seemed to catch in something, twisting, refusing to yield its treasure.

Her fingers lost their grip.

The object slipped and went straight to the floor where it hit with a thump.

Emma’s round face whitened to milk.

Oh, hell. Durant’s half-laugh rang hollow in the near-empty house. He snatched up the still-wrapped object. What’s in here? The family jewels?

Emma? Tull’s heart raced at the sight of Emma standing like a marble statue, barely breathing. What is it?

Daddy said never let anything happen to it. That’s why he always kept it in the cabinet. Locked.

Durant flung off the cloth and held up a porcelain doll dressed in a faded red antebellum gown and hat. Christ. His coarse words bespoke his true Yankee heritage. "Is this all it is? Here."

He tossed the doll through the air with a contemptuous laugh. Tull lunged out, catching the doll before it hit the floor. Returning her to Emma’s stony hands, he glared at Durant with fury.

And now if you both don’t mind. Durant pointed to the front door. "Get the hell out of my house."

He snapped his fingers and gestured. The two workmen lugged the cabinet toward the door.

Tull put an arm around Emma and guided her into step behind the workmen. Come on, let’s go home.

Durant, standing alone now at the foot of the stairs, gazed about him. This was still a grand house and the added land would bring a tidy sum. Too bad for the old maid Emma Rawlings—and and all that fuss over a damned doll!

He turned to leave.

A lovely but frowning black-haired young woman in a lavender gown and hat barred his way. She seized him with a single gloved hand. Before he could get a scream past his lips, she propelled him straight up into the ceiling where his head shattered like a thrown watermelon, splattering red gore and viscous grey in an almost sunflower-like pattern where he struck.

###

The buggy ride home was quiet as neither Tull nor Emma spoke. Twilight crept across the pecan trees, and the crickets were warming up. The way Emma clutched the doll bothered him more than the loss of his former employer—and friend’s—belongings.

Emma stroked the doll’s hair, whispering to herself. Daddy said never to let anything happen to her. She looked at the road ahead. When I asked him why, he wouldn’t say, just to never let anything happen to it. Even on his deathbed, he kept wheezing about this doll. He made me promise not to ever let anything happen to it. I dropped it. My God, what if it had broken?

Trying to change the subject, Tull smiled at her. We’ll be home soon. Poor thing had been through just too much lately. He turned toward her. I reckon Myra’ll have supper ready when we—

The buggy stopped suddenly, and the driver cursed.

Tull leaned out the window. What’s going on?

Damned horse just dropped dead.

Tull whipped his head forward. In the growing shadows, something materialized and grabbed him by the throat, hurling him out of his seat and into the bushes on the other side. Losing his spectacles and striking hard, he struggled to get up.

"You dropped my Rachel." An unholy voice, guttural as a