Black Moss Hills

By Grayson McGraw

After a devastating event separates the family, a father and his son are forced to move to rural Louisiana. Their fate seems to turn around when after a series of circumstances, they are offered a historic Antebellum home to restore and reside in. But what secrets will this old mansion harbor? When strange occurrences begin to happen, the family decides to delve into its history for clues, but will it be too late? Can they uncover the secrets that have been locked away for so many years, or will the dark past of the property come back to alter their family forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grayson McGraw
• Release date: Oct 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005135584

Grayson McGraw

Raised in rural Louisiana, the U.S. Air Force brought Grayson W. McGraw to Colorado in the nineties, where he still resides today with his wife and three grown children. Left with questions after a childhood filled with paranormal experiences, Grayson has spent the last decade as an active paranormal researcher, investigating America’s most haunted locations with an emphasis on Civil War sites, plantations and Wild West saloons.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mitch Reynolds struggled to steer the two-man inflatable raft while attempting to simultaneously grip the oar and sip a beer. After weeks of planning, he couldn’t wait any longer. The beer had never been colder or tasted this sweet.

Sadie, Mitch’s girlfriend, had never been to the exclusive beach they were searching for and she was anxious since they were racing the sunset. Pay attention or we’ll go right past the spot.

I’ve been through here a hundred times with my daddy hunting. I know where I am. Don’t you worry, we’ll be there before you know it, Mitch replied.

But have you been to this beach though, Mitch?

Well, not exactly, but close.

Fabulous. That sounds solid. Sadie’s eyes momentarily glazed over as she lost confidence in Mitch’s navigational prowess and wondered if they would reach the spot before sundown.

We never docked the boats there because my crazy grandpa told my dad the land was cursed or something. To make him feel better, we just went along with it and stayed away from it. But the damn beach is beautiful...and we’re going tonight! Now, where is Terry at with the tent?

He’ll be meeting us shortly. That’s if we ever make it there, Sadie said.

As the raft made its way around a bend in the river, Mitch suddenly pointed with excitement.

Here we are! Didn’t I tell you it’s beautiful?

Sadie, as happy to get out of the flimsy raft as she was to find land, jumped out of the raft even before it reached shore and ran the rest of the way.

I love it! We need a fire, baby!

I’ll run around and find us some firewood. Maybe you should wait here with the raft for Terry? He should be here any minute. Guard the beer! Yell if a bear comes! Mitch cracked open another Busch beer and ran off laughing loudly.

Hurry up, Mitch Reynolds! It’s cold and creepy out here!

Even with the sunlight fading quickly, Mitch could see a path through the brush, so he decided to take it, figuring he would happen on some dead wood eventually.

After a short walk, the path opened into a large clearing. Mitch could make out many large trees, and in the distance saw a small shack with what appeared to be a woodpile next to it. He made his way to it but was disappointed to find the wood too damp and rotten to use for their fire. Figuring there might be dry wood inside the old shack, he tried the door and apparently absent of a lock, it opened right up.

Inside the shack was an old wood bed frame, some bottles on a shelf, and a few cans in a corner of the single room. He noticed that the bed frame was brittle and rotten, so he gave it a kick, reducing it to kindling. He chugged the beer, tossed the can in the corner with the others, gathered the wood, and began to make his way back to camp.

Exiting the cabin, he dropped one of his pieces of wood. As he picked it up, he noticed a white structure through the trees ahead in the distance.

Now what the hell is this out here in the middle of nowhere? Mitch wondered out loud.

Setting the wood down, he figured he had a few minutes to explore the structure in the daylight to see if there was anything they might be able to use at the campsite. If he found something, he could bring Terry back and grab a load once he arrived.

As he drew closer to the structure, Mitch was amazed at the enormity of the home in the middle of the thick woods. The white paint seemed to magnify what little sunlight remained in the humid Louisiana evening. Something deep down urged him to turn and get back to Sadie, who had to be wondering what was keeping him, but he had to get a good look at this house. After all, it might be his only chance; he was trespassing as it was. All those years hunting these woods and never had anyone mentioned this huge house. Why?

Reaching the front porch, his eyes quickly surveyed every inch of the front of the home looking for anything useful. Frustrated at not finding anything, he kicked a rusted paint can across the grass and it crashed into a tree.

He couldn’t turn back without at least trying the door. After all, if unlocked, how cool would it be to explore inside? Unfortunately, it was locked tight.

Just before turning back to leave, he inspected the large windows on the front of the home, of which there must have been a dozen. In the first few windows, there was nothing but sun-stained curtains and cobwebs, until his eyes made it to the top floor windows. There in a top corner window, Mitch could make out what appeared to be a dark figure on one side of the window. But it couldn’t be? Surely no one lived out here in the middle of these dense woods, no way in or out. With the waning sunlight, it was so hard to make out what he was seeing in the window from the front porch. Was it a trick of the lighting? Could it simply be the way the curtains fell in the window that caused it to appear that someone was standing there? Mitch decided to walk to the corner of the home for a vantage point to get a better look.

Arriving at the corner and with a clear view of the window, he could now see that nothing was there except the same sun-drenched curtains he had seen on the front porch. Laughing at himself, he was about to walk away when his eyes fell to the window directly in front of him. There stood a man dressed in a dark suit, large hat and boots. His eyes seemed to peer through Mitch’s very soul. Rage like he’d never seen permeated from this man’s eyes, as if he wanted to reach out and squeeze the life out of Mitch. With clenched jaw, he stared straight through Mitch, never flinching, never blinking. Mitch wanted to run away, but it was as if his legs weren’t getting the message from his brain. His feet felt stuck in the Louisiana mud as shock set in and fear took over. Finally, he managed to stumble backward, regain his footing, and start to trot toward what he hoped was the direction of the camp. In his haste, he completely forgot to grab the wood, but at this moment it was the last thing on his mind.

With every step, it felt like the terrifying man he’d seen at the house drew ever closer. He just knew that if he was to turn around the evil man would be on his heels. His legs felt heavier than they ever had. His chest seemed to hurt all over and he was short of breath. He could not wipe the sight of the man’s horrifying eyes from his memory no matter how hard he tried not to think about it. It was all he saw as the limbs and bushes slapped his face. Suddenly, he tripped over a limb across the path and struck the ground with such force that his nose was bloodied and his ears began to ring. Popping up as if nothing had happened, Mitch was running again.

When he finally arrived back at the beach, Terry and Sadie momentarily put down the tent they were assembling to acknowledge Mitch.

There you are! I thought a damn alligator got you. What kept you so long? Sadie asked.

Let’s go! Let’s go! I’ll explain later! We can’t stay here! Grab the shit. We’re getting the hell out of here!

Mitch, what are you talking about? What happened to your face? You’re bleeding.

Let’s go, damnit! Mitch quickly threw the tent and gear into the rafts. We never should have come here. Grandpa was right.

As they pushed away from the shore, Mitch cowered, shivering, as Sadie, confused, manned the oar.

Chapter 2

Lloyd McCallister took a long slow pull off of a cigar as he surveyed his acreage before him. From his balcony, he could take in much of the beauty his vast success as a sugarcane farmer had afforded him.

Mighty oak trees, with branches like arms that seemed to stretch for the sunlight snaked through the Louisiana skyline like a serpent through a still lake. Lined up as far as the eye could see, they were flanked by manicured sugarcane crops thriving in the rich soil of the Mississippi River Basin.

However, despite all his success and overwhelming wealth, the one thing he most longed for eluded him. His young daughter, Abigail, only 7, lay feet from him in a bed in his master suite with a deadly fever and a terrible stomach illness.

She had been sick for weeks now and her condition had grown progressively worse. He had sent for the best doctor money could buy from St. Louis, and he was in with her. If he didn’t have an answer, surely no one would.

Lloyd’s wife, Eleanor, died from complications after she had given birth to Abigail. Now Abigail was his only remaining tie to his loving wife, whom he missed dearly. If he would lose her, he had no remaining family, no one to enjoy the plantation’s success, no one to bequeath his estate to. Without someone to enjoy all that the plantation had to offer, what was the point of it all?

Sitting back in his chair with a firm grip of the wrought iron rail and an even firmer grip on a glass of whiskey with the other hand, Lloyd prepared himself for what Dr. Jacobson was going to say.

Well, Lloyd, like I said before I was able to see her, I’m not a miracle worker. I’ll do what I… stammered Dr. Jacobson.

Don’t mince words with me, Jacobson. Just give it to me straight. Do you know what the hell is going on? Lloyd interrupted.

To be completely honest, I don’t. Her symptoms are not consistent with yellow fever or malaria, nor cholera. She doesn’t seem to be responding positively to treatments either. I’m afraid, unless by a stroke of God, her health turns around and that fever breaks, I can only fear the worst.

Well, a lot of help you proved to be. Any two-bit doctor could have told me that. I didn’t need to pay all that damn money to be told the same crap.

Now wait a second, Lloyd. That’s not fair. I’m doing my damnedest to figure out the issue here. Let me ask you something. I’m just spitballin’ here now. Have the house servants had access to Abigail? I mean like what she eats and such?

What the hell are you saying, Jacobson? You think one of them poisoned my child?

Now I didn’t say that, Lloyd. I just know of a case of a plantation owner up in Natchitoches that got on the wrong side of one of his cooks. She put some seeds from a certain fruit in his tea and he fell into a coma and never regained consciousness. These things can happen. Some of these slaves have ancestors from Haiti and parts of Africa where voodoo is prevalent. But we can’t go jumping to conclusions.

Well, thanks for whatever the hell you did here today. I suppose you’ll be headed back to St. Louis now?

Yes, sir, I am. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, Lloyd, and I will be praying for Abigail. If I happen upon more of an accurate diagnosis in my research, I will certainly be in touch.

Lloyd McCallister sat stoically and didn’t bother to rise from his chair to see Dr. Jacobson out. Instead, he sat sipping his whiskey, staring into the distance…towards the slave shacks.

Dr. Jacobson made his way down to his awaiting carriage, down the driveway and disappeared into the parade of oaks, pines and magnolias.

As Lloyd sat, tears began to well up in his eyes. Tears so large he couldn’t see through them. With that, the dams opened and tears of frustration, desperation and, most of all, rage flowed relentlessly. He rose from the chair blind with anger. The words of Dr. Jacobson rang in his head over and over. He tried to recall how much access the help had with Abigail prior to her falling ill. Indeed, the house slaves prepared most of the meals. Dr. Jacobson had to be right. He was the best doctor Lloyd could find, and he had no other theory. Dammit, someone poisoned his daughter and now they all had to pay. His head dizzy from the whiskey and fury, he stumbled into the master suite and kissed Abigail on the forehead.

Sleep well, princess.

Teardrops the size of peach seeds splashed on poor Abigail’s cheeks but solicited no reaction from her.

Sobbing and stomping mad, Lloyd made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, where he grabbed a large knife and stuck it in his waistband.

Exiting the rear door of the house, he then proceeded to the kerosene lamp fuel storage containers on the property.

Some months back, two slaves had escaped during a revolt over the quality of food they were being fed. For years, they’d been satisfied with cornmeal and pork but recently began to rebel and make demands for things such as beef, bread, and fresh vegetables.

To ensure this didn’t happen again, Lloyd had taken some precautions. One of which was for every slave to be shackled to the floor of their shack from sundown to sunup. The shackle and chain allowed for a couple of feet of movement in the shack, between the bed and a bedpan, but prevented another escape.

The other accommodation was to separate family members from the men during sundown to sunup so that if somehow one was to escape, he would be forced to leave behind his family, which usually discouraged them from doing so.

There was no time for a lengthy investigation into who was responsible. The truth would probably never come out anyway. This way he was sure that the perpetrator would pay.

Lloyd filled a gallon can with the kerosene and began to douse each of the wooden slave shacks with it. He waited until all the shacks were wet with the fluid before lighting the match to avoid one shack alerting the others.

With a quick flick of the match, he tossed it onto the roof of a shack and it immediately burst into flames. The fire quickly spread from shack to shack as the sounds of screams and chains echoed off the dense woods surrounding the plantation.

As the fires raged on, Lloyd walked slowly and peacefully to the center of the courtyard of his elaborate mansion, raised the large knife in the air, and thrust it into his chest, falling in a heap onto the ground.

Chapter 3

Cliff McDaniel backed his ‘75 Dodge Ramcharger 4X4 into the last space as close to the manicured hedges at Eagle Eye Engineering as humanly possible. These Neanderthals had dinged it before, and today she even had a fresh wax job.

He planned to bring his wife, Cindy, on a night out and everything needed to be right. Things had been rough around the house lately and he hoped that a weekend together for the two of them without their son, Dustin, would do wonders for the relationship.

Dustin was headed on a camping trip with friends and wouldn’t be back until Sunday evening. Cliff figured he and Cindy could head for the coast after he left work on Friday. Two days in the fresh air and sunshine can do wonders for the soul. It had been years since they had a date night, much less an entire weekend to themselves.

Cindy had seemed distant lately. It almost seemed at times that she made excuses to stay at work instead of being at home with Cliff and Dustin. She had a wonderful relationship with Dustin, so Cliff figured he must be the issue. It wasn’t as much that they argued as they seemed to be growing apart. His long hours at the office didn’t help matters. In his mind, he was making the sacrifices to provide the things for the family that he felt they deserved, and the job demanded that he work long hours.

Whatever the reason was that was causing the issue, Cliff hoped that this weekend away would be just what the doctor ordered to turn things around. She’d certainly be surprised at the planning and attention to detail that he’d dedicated to the weekend. He’d arranged for their stay at a beach house in Gulf Shores, spa time for both, and dinner each night on the beach.

Entering the office at Eagle Eye was always reminiscent of Cliff’s days playing high school football. Engineers had a tendency to be jocular and adolescent despite their advanced intellect. They never seemed to miss an opportunity to rib you or to put a pile of shaving cream in your desk drawer. Since it was a beautiful, spring Friday morning, Cliff expected today to be no different.

Head-eagle-in-charge was Brian Allen Jr. His father ran the firm for nearly two decades before suffering a massive heart attack while eating lunch in his office roughly nine months prior. Now they had the honor of working for Junior, who was a shadow of his old man.

He was the kind of guy that seemed to still have just a little of his breakfast somewhere on his shirt, tie or face until at least noon on most days. His shirt was tucked in a fashion that it wasn’t clear whether he could decide whether to tuck it or not. His attention span was one that left you wondering whether he just woke up or needed sleep.

Today, he approached with what appeared to be some sort of jelly-filled doughnut absent of a napkin or plate to catch the precariously dangling jelly. To his credit, he was concentrating harder on it than he should have been, leaning it in his hand to try to prevent a jelly disaster.

I thought you’re headed out to Gulf Shores? barked Brian with a mouthful of jelly and dough.

Right after work.

"Get out of here. Ain’t shit