Abigail Henley: A Southern Tragedy

By J. E. London

Abigail Henley, A Southern Tragedy, is a story about Faith Johnson, a corporate attorney, who is unintentionally drawn into an investigation of the murder of a seventeen years old girl named Abigail Henley when she receives an old journal written by the dead girl’s mother.

Set in the rural town of Reidsville, North Carolina, the suspense-driven story is a mystery laden with intrigue, romance and thirty years of secrets and lies. It’s a tragic tale of forbidden love affairs gone wrong, and how one family’s attempt to hide the truth ultimately destroys two families in the process. This story highlights the message that silence kills and delivers a deadly lesson that a lie strives to survive.

Faith’s journey for the truth takes her down several paths, which lead to danger, romance and self-awareness. She must find the courage to confront the antagonists determined to destroy and bury her with their secrets as well as the strength and humility to face the ghosts of her pasts. She has spent her entire life in Harold Johnson’s shadow hiding her own identity in plain sight while attempting to be someone else¬—someone besides a Johnson. A scarlet name synonymous with the most horrendous death in the county; the murder of Abigail Henley.

Her journey also reveals issues, lies and deceptions in her own family’s history that allows her to finally understand who she is and why love and relationships were so difficult for her to maneuver. She is forced to confront the anger and resentment of those who she believed had abandoned her and forced her to live without the love, support and attention she craved for most of her life. She learns to accept a new truth that not everything is as black and white as it may seem.

Through all the twists and turns of the past’s secrets and lies, danger and romance, what Faith ultimately discovers is that Abigail Henley’s death gave her the courage to live. Her hardest lesson learned is that sometimes we become victims of life’s circumstance, and we are forced to make desperate decisions. No one is immune to life’s tragedies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781546252108

J. E. London

J. E. London discovered her love for writing at an early age and published her first novel in 2006. Motivated by her passion, she continues to pursue a career as an author. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.

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© 2017 J. E. London. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    03/27/2025

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5211-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5209-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5210-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908498

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 Faith Irene Johnson

Chapter 2 Josephine Johnson

Chapter 3 Where There’s Smoke

Chapter 4 The Break-In

Chapter 5 Old Flames of Desire

Chapter 6 The Funeral

Chapter 7 Cracks in My Spirit

Chapter 8 Identity Crisis

Chapter 9 A Lie Strives to Survive

Chapter 10 The Sanctuary House

Chapter 11 Secrets and Lies Never Die

Chapter 12 A Man in the Dark

Chapter 13 Where There’s Smoke

Chapter 14 If Only for One Night

Chapter 15 A Desperate Decision

Chapter 16 A Victim of Circumstance

Epilogue

Prologue

Journal of Harold Johnson, 1985

There is something magical about nature and all its wonders. Those long, hot days in the North Carolina tobacco fields allowed me to experience most of them firsthand. Sometimes, when I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still smell the faint, delicate fragrance of those bright, colorful morning glories surrounding the fields each morning, dripping wet with that cool, fresh dew. I can still feel the sun’s warmth as it casts a bright orange hue across the brilliant blue sky, slowly dissipating the chill from the air. I can still hear those energetic young whippoorwills singing in unison, emitting a harmonious tune throughout the vast open fields. Often, I would lose myself in the magical powers of that clear melody as I plowed my way through the moist, sticky rows of tobacco.

Occasionally, I can still smell the damp freshness of the air just after a violent storm poured down its cleansing waters to wash away any impurities lingering in the atmosphere. I can still feel the mild, cool breeze from the wind as it gently blows across my face, providing just a hint of relief from the sun’s midday heat. My desire to be alone in nature’s comforting grasp began this long, tedious journey down North Carolina State’s death row.

There was only one place I could go to escape the rigors of my long, monotonous days in those dusty tobacco fields. Along the back side of the Henleys’ farm, just behind three old chicken houses, was an old trail. I used it as a shortcut to walk home from work at Gray’s tobacco farm during the summer. I also later discovered it was a shortcut to the old rock quarry, where I occasionally went to spy on the older white kids who went there to drink and make out on Friday and Saturday nights. Most field laborers rode in the truck’s bed, which shuttled workers back and forth to the local fields. However, the anticipation of exploring the trails gave me something to look forward to at the end of the day.

Late in the afternoons, I would walk across the fields, cut across the Henley farm, and trot deep into the woods along the trail. Instantly, my imagination transported me anywhere I wanted to go, which was always far away from the one place I longed to escape. Rockingham County, North Carolina, was not big enough to contain my dreams. In fact, the earth’s outer space was the only part of this universe capable of satisfying my nagging desires to be more, see more, and do more with my life. In my heart, I knew I was born to be more than someone’s slave hand, working from sunup for nine to ten hours a day, often for less than minimum wage. My mind would not allow me to settle there because the books told me that my opportunities were endless and that an education would take me as far as my dreams were willing to go.

I yearned for the day that I would travel far beyond the county or state lines or even the world’s five ocean barriers. I dreamed of standing on the moon and looking down upon the earth’s surface. I wanted to float through outer space and cruise among the stars. The possibilities were endless in my fantasies along that trail, and my dreams were unlimited.

I often sat among the trees for hours, listening to nature’s whispers while contemplating my future plans. Some days, the whispers provided gusts of hope and encouragement, but most days, only clouds of doubt and fear lingered in the air. No one had ever looked at me and said, One day, you could be an astronaut. No one had ever looked at me and seen a doctor or lawyer or even a fireman or policeman. I worked in the fields daily, and no one ever saw a farmer. They only saw a great field hand or a criminal. Not even my mother ever spoke of my life beyond high school. Were her dreams for me limited, too? Was she unaware of my potential?

I often wondered if my dreams were too big for a young black boy in Rockingham County, North Carolina. Were my dreams too large for the box that society had built for me? Or was I a victim of my own skepticism and fear? Most days, I believed that trail would ultimately guide me to the truth. I believed that somewhere along that path, I would eventually find the answers to my questions and the courage to confront my fears. I believed that one day, I would boldly step outside my tailor-made box and become the man I desired to be.

I began my senior year of high school with a new, livelier energy. Everything I had worked so hard to achieve during the past three years was now a vivid reality and no longer just a dream. I could finally see the horizon just over the ridge of that vast mountaintop. I had climbed that steep academic mountainside of protruding math, English, and science rocks. No safety ropes were snuggly tied around my waist to provide support and break my fall. If I had slipped off the side of the enormous rock and become a statistical dropout, I would have plummeted helplessly to instant death. If I had not died, I surely would have been too broken and shattered to continue the dream. I would have been exactly what everyone expected me to be.

However, over the summer, I learned that I had made the Air Force Academy candidate status list, and I was well on my way to becoming an Air Force cadet. I was finally on that academic trail that would ultimately lead me to the moon.

I often think about that cool, gray autumn day on the trail that ultimately exterminated all my hopes, plans, and dreams. It had been raining all day. The muddy ground along the trail’s path was dotted with small puddles here and there, but I had decided it was worth the effort to relieve the stress of the tough, mind-boggling calculus exam I’d taken earlier that day.

As I stepped onto the trail, I breathed the damp, fresh scent of the air and allowed the breeze that slightly chilled the air to relax the stress from my body slowly. I listened to the song of the leaves that decorated the trees with the rich colors of autumn—vibrant orange and yellows and bold reds and browns—and their rustling eased the tension from my mind. Autumn has always been my favorite time of the year. Sometimes, I would walk to the top of Grady Hill. They called it that because Mr. Grady owned the land. I would sit down and look out across the vast, vibrant wooded area and admire the most picturesque scenes I had ever seen in my lifetime. Some days, I would sit there until it was dark enough to see the stars. Atop Grady Hill, I decided nothing, and no one would stop me from walking on the moon.

I was prancing into the woods along the muddy trail, my mind a thousand miles away, when a strange noise suddenly interrupted the peaceful wind song. I stopped in my tracks and carefully listened to the sound, trying to determine its direction. Then I heard it again. The noise most definitely had come from the right side of the trail. It sounded like a whimpering puppy.

I stood there for a few more seconds, trying to determine whether I wanted to tramp through the wet leaves and brush to investigate the source of the noise. Then tiny droplets of rain began dotting my face here and there, and I quickly decided it was not my problem. I zipped up my jacket and turned back toward home. The dark clouds had gathered overhead and were ready to release a violent downpour at any moment. I was unwilling to tramp through the woods in the rain for anything.

Suddenly, I heard a frightening shriek that sent a chill up my spine. I shuddered, and tiny bumps spread across my arms like a plague. For a moment, I was afraid to move. I slowly looked through the trees, but I did not see anything. However, I knew for sure that there had been no puppy. In fact, it sounded more like a human being. My heart pounded against my chest as I turned toward the noise. I did not remember lifting my feet to move, but I slowly progressed through the dense brush and trees, away from the trail and deeper into the woods. It was as if some unnatural force was propelling me in that direction. It was as if I could not turn back even if I wanted to.

I followed the sound of the noise, which had changed back into the soft whine of a whimpering puppy. With each step I took, the pitch of the sound became softer, and the frequency seemed to decrease. It seemed as if this thing or person knew that I was coming.

Fear suddenly overcame me as I realized I now stood in the middle of the forest, which had become much darker. My body turned tense and rigid. My legs refused to bend, and I stood frozen in my tracks. My temperature rose, and sweat streamed down my face. I immediately unzipped my jacket, hoping to release pressure from my chest. Tiny stars flickered before me like little lightning bugs on a summer’s night. A knot formed in the center of my stomach while I suddenly gasped for air. Please, calm down, Harold! I thought. I pleaded with myself to remain calm. I pleaded with myself to breathe. Finally, I inhaled and exhaled, slow and deep, until I had relaxed and breathed normally again.

Of course, I wanted to turn around and run back toward the trail, but something more profound than curiosity compelled me to move forward. I truly felt as if someone needed my help. I no longer heard the noise, but I felt this strange sense of sadness and pain, which told me that I was close to whatever was out there.

Then suddenly, an ominous, cold energy surrounded me. It felt as if the air temperature had suddenly dropped ten degrees. A thick cloud of fog rolled through the trees out of nowhere, like a scene from a horror movie. I slowed my pace and looked carefully through the looming cloud of mist just ahead of me, and then I saw her—the lifeless, naked woman lying on the ground just a few feet away.

At first, I stood perfectly still. In fact, everything stood still. The forest was as quiet as the graveyard at midnight. Thoughts raced through my head, one after the next. What do I do? Who is she? How did she get here? What if someone is watching me? I was anguished about who this woman was, why she was here, and what I should do next. First, I scanned the area to ensure that I was alone. Finally, I slowly walked toward the woman, careful not to startle her. Although she remained as still as a corpse, it was unclear to me whether she was unconscious. After all, she had made the noises that initially had drawn me to her position in the middle of the cold, dark forest.

As I progressed toward the woman, I wondered whether I knew her. There were few strangers in our small town. Then I gasped with horror when I finally stood over her naked, battered body. Her swollen, disfigured face and bruised black-and-blue body made it difficult to identify her. In fact, were it not for her exposed legs, it would have been difficult to determine her race. Undoubtedly, she was a white woman. Even her blood-soaked hair had matted to her head, like a large scab. It must have taken everything inside of her to release that awful shriek that had lured me into the woods.

As I looked down at her body, I noticed that someone had amputated her breasts and stabbed her so many times that I could not begin to count the puncture wounds. I could hardly believe she was still alive.

Tears stung my eyes as I reached to touch her tiny wrist for a pulse, but when I touched her skin, she flinched and whimpered again. I noticed that her body was cool to the touch, so I took off my jacket and placed it over her mutilated frame. When I stooped down and picked her up in my arms, her long, curly red hair cascaded down my arm and glowed in the dark like a fountain of fire. Immediately, I knew that she was Abigail Henley. Abigail was the only girl in town with fire-red hair. Personally, I had never met Abigail, but she had always been polite in passing. I took a deep breath and wondered what could compel someone to commit such a brutal crime against another human being. What could Abigail Henley have done to deserve this?

As I slowly walked back toward the trail, visions of Amy Saunders and Kathy Thompson came to mind. I remembered the agony those two white girls had caused every black boy in Reidsville after they got drunk at a party and claimed that two black boys had raped them in the woods. They had eventually told the truth, admitting that it was all a lie, but not before nearly every black boy in town had been harassed and interrogated by the sheriff for hours. Two of them had been beaten within inches of their lives by an angry mob, and one of them had remained paralyzed for the rest of his life. I was too young at the time to fit their age description, but I still remembered the fear that had haunted our community for weeks. Every black boy, regardless of age, had become a prisoner in his house.

Suddenly, my body again turned tense and rigid. My legs refused to bend, and I stood frozen in my tracks. Only one thought lingered in my mind: what if she died before she spoke the name of her attacker? If she died before she could tell the police what had happened to her, would I be the hero or the villain? The police would surely think that I had committed this horrible crime. How would I explain finding her body deep in the woods all alone? I could hardly believe it myself.

For several minutes of contemplation, I just stood there with her lifeless body in my arms, trying to summon the courage to move. I reasoned that taking her with me was the right thing to do and that God would protect me. After all, wouldn’t good triumph over evil? I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks and knew that my mind had already decided what my heart could not accept. There was no way I could walk out of those woods with Abigail Henley in my arms. In my heart, I knew that God would punish me for my decision to leave her in the cold, dark forest to die, but I had no choice. I had too much to lose. I would not gamble with my future in the hands of the white police Klan.

Slowly, I bent down and placed her back onto the cool, wet leaves that covered the forest floor. She must have sensed that something was wrong because, for the first time since I had found her bruised and broken body, she half-opened one eye and looked at me. I immediately looked away, reasoning that if I hurried home, I could call for help, but I could not take her. I would not carry Abigail Henley from these woods in my arms.

As I stood up, she reached out and grabbed my arm. Her fingers clamped down with a viselike grip and dug into my flesh. The harder I pulled away, the deeper her nails embedded into my skin. I looked at her once more. I needed her to understand why I could not take her with me, but I only saw a solemn plea for help. Finally, I pried her tiny, cold fingers away from my arm, stood up, and quickly walked away. I knew there was nothing I could do or say to make either of us understand my desperate decision to leave her alone in that cold, dark forest.

I heard her whimpers as I ran back toward the trail. The rain pounded hard against the leaves, but I still heard her whimpering pleas for help. The farther I ran, the louder her pleas echoed through the trees. Now, the rain pounded harder against the leaves, with such force that many fell directly to the ground, yet her cries for help still followed me.

Then, a sudden downpour of rain flowed through the trees without ceasing. I knew they were God’s tears of disappointment and sadness for me. I had been sent there to represent his goodness and mercy for Abigail Henley but had allowed my fear to deceive me. I had allowed it to corrupt the humanity in my heart. Everything was a blur as the water ran down my forehead, and the tears streamed from my eyes. I finally realized there had been no whimpering pleas echoing through the trees. My guilt and sorrow chased after me.

As I stepped onto the trail, several lightning bolts flashed across the dark sky, followed by a frightening burst of thunder, which shook the ground beneath my feet. Strong gusts of wind rustled the trees, forcing them to sway and bend. Suddenly, chills spread up my arms, followed by an intense sense of fear that seemed to travel up my spine, wrap around my neck like a noose, and choke the life out of me. I gasped for air, and my chest burned with each breath I took. My legs quivered, and I fell to the ground on my knees. I wept as I realized I had left my jacket in my haste to leave Abigail in the woods. Briefly, I debated whether to go back and look for her again, but then the limbs crackled, and the leaves rustled, and again, I ran with fear.

The raindrops stung like tiny mosquito bites on my face while I raced down the muddy path toward home. I noticed the little bits of hail pounding the ground before me, but I would not stop for cover. I had to get help for Abigail Henley. I had failed her once. I would not fail her again.

When I reached the back of the yard, the rain had slowed to a mild drizzle. It was dark, but as usual, the porch light was on, so I quickly saw the mud covering my shoes and jeans from the hems to my knees. My heart still raced, my chest burned, and my head ached as I struggled to control my breath. I hurried to the back of the house. I reached for the back door and realized my key was in my jacket pocket.

Immediately, I took off my shirt, pants, and shoes, placed them on the ground behind the steps, and knocked on the door. When my mother opened it, I quickly pushed past her and ran through the house toward my room. I heard the faint echo of each question as I grabbed the phone, pulled the extended cord through my bedroom doorway, closed it, and locked it behind me. Then, I quickly dialed the operator, followed by the sheriff’s office, and reported the location of Abigail Henley’s body. The dispatcher confirmed that the sheriff and the entire police department had searched for Abigail for hours. Finally, she requested my name and telephone number, and I abruptly hung up.

I immediately chastised myself. I had nothing to hide. After all, I had found Abigail in the woods and reported her location to the police. I placed the phone on the table by the door while contemplating what to do next. I shivered as I stared at my half-naked body in the mirror on the back of the closet door. Then I flinched as my mother banged on the door and shouted my name over and over, as loud as she could scream. I finally grabbed a towel from my closet door, wrapped it around my waist, and unlocked the door.

I quickly opened the door, brushed past her, and briskly walked down the hallway to the bathroom. Again, she followed me, hurling one question after another until I slammed the bathroom door and locked it. Her voice squeaked in my ears like nails on a chalkboard, and I just needed her to be quiet.

As the warm water cascaded down my back, I closed my eyes and imagined I was anywhere but there. I wanted to start the day over. I tried to escape the visions of Abigail Henley in my head and the sound of my mother’s squeaky voice in my ears. Briefly, the fresh, sweet aroma of the lavender soap calmed my mind and