“Understood.” Janie nodded, and took a sip of wine.
Jacqueline motioned Janie to join her, and the girl rose to follow the woman over to the balcony rail. From this vantage, the entire area spread out below them. Janie gripped the rail and gazed out over the wooded neighborhood. It felt like surveying a kingdom. She wondered if she could really have the chance to be standing here tomorrow as well.
The older woman stared out from the balcony a moment, then began her tale.
“It happened a little over a century ago…”
***
“Back at the turn of the last century,” Jacqueline gazed out over the balcony rail, “Houston was much smaller and still about twenty miles to the south. This area was wooded farmland centered around a small town named Bradlow. The town would have been about where that little corner store and coffee shop is over there.
She indicated an area slightly to the south and east.
“There wasn’t much to it. Just a few stores, a bank, a lumberyard, a sawmill, and about four hundred people. It was a rural community, and I think it disappeared before they ever got around to paving any of the streets. There’s no trace left of it today…well, other than a graveyard at the back of that park over there, and I suppose Magnolia Rise, but that came later.
Anyway, it wasn’t much and in 1890 Solomon Danford moved into town. He had been an executive in one of the larger banks in Houston, and to this day nobody knows why he left. Knowing him, it probably wasn’t pretty. But he was already a man of moderate wealth when he arrived, and in a town like Bradlow that translated into rich.”
Jacqueline took a sip of her wine as she gazed out across the tree tops, and Janie got the sudden insight that the elder woman took history very seriously. She hadn’t merely heard the story and was passing it on. She must have done some research herself to understand the lay of the land back then, and the context within which her story happened.
“Solomon worked at the bank for a couple of years as the vice president, but his ambitions were much larger than that. In 1895 he left the bank and went into politics. He was sophisticated, intelligent, and had a distinguished bearing…things the simple people of Bradlow confused with being a man of high character. Later that year he ran for and achieved the office of judge.
And not long after that some members of the Bradlow community would learn they had made a terrible mistake.
The mid 1890s was a hard time, almost a depression, and many of the farmers in the area were hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Most were in debt to the bank and behind on their bills. But they were still scraping by, partly due to an understanding local judge who believed in giving them time to try and pull themselves out their hole.
That started to change when Solomon Danford took over the bench.
Oh, nothing dramatic at first. But over time he started to find for the bank more often and allow a foreclosure here or there that wouldn’t have happened before. Nobody thought much of it since the notes were actually owed, and Solomon had been perceived as a tougher judge from the start. But shrewder eyes would have noticed a pattern.
The farms being foreclosed on were the more desirable ones. And the people who ended up buying them for pennies on the dollar at auction, turned out to be some of Danford’s old cronies in Houston. What nobody knew at the time was Solomon had a partner judge doing the same thing over near Beaumont. He was buying up the land that judge was foreclosing on in the same way.
By 1900, Solomon Danford was a truly wealthy man”
Jacqueline Danford gazed at the spot where she indicated the old town to be as if she could see it. Then she turned to face Janie with a sad half smile.
“But sometimes,” she continued, “when people have everything going their way, they aren’t satisfied with just staying pat. Sometimes they think that’s when they should grab all the marbles, and risk pushing too far. And in 1900, that’s what Solomon Danford did.
He had been casting a covetous eye on a piece of high ground across Teller Creek from Bradlow. He was wealthy enough now he felt ready to build his ‘house on the hill’, so to speak, and this was the only ‘hill’ in the area. Unfortunately for him, the land was already in the possession of a Romanian farmer named Anton Puscasu.
Anton was a widower with a fourteen year old boy. He was a well known figure with his black bushy mustache and engineer’s cap he still wore from earlier days working for the railroad. The boy, Andre, was mentally handicapped in some fashion, although nobody back then seemed to think ill of him. He tended to follow his father everywhere and was almost always in his shadow when he came to town.
Anton was barely scraping by, but he did make enough to make payments on his note. So Solomon’s usual means of getting what he wanted wasn’t available. He tried making Puscasu an offer, but the farmer wasn’t interested in selling either. Anton Puscasu was a man who took pride in both the home he had built and his independence.
He just didn’t understand who he was dealing with, and how far a man like Solomon Danford would go to get what he wanted.”
“How far was that?” Janie looked over at the older woman.
“Murder.” Jacqueline Danford sipped her wine as she continued to stare off into the distance. “Murder most unfair and foul.”
“I doubt he set up the event that started it all,” she continued, “but I’m almost certain he saw the opportunity it created and acted on it. It seems that while Anton was in the town store to buy some supplies, the boy wandered over and somehow managed to upset a wagon drover who was shopping as well. The man cussed the boy and pushed him away, causing him to fall.
Anton was furious and a fight ensued. The brawl carried out into the street and it took the sheriff and several onlookers to separate the two men. Anton was still so enraged the sheriff had to threaten him with jail to get him to calm down. The drover said something to the effect that Anton should keep the boy locked up in a shed if he couldn’t get him to stay away from other people. That almost started the whole thing over again.
In the end, the sheriff sent the drover on his way and Anton back into the store, still swearing in Romanian. It was a high bit of excitement for the sleepy little town and a crowd had gathered, but the sheriff dispersed them as well with the announcement that the show was over. And it was…
Until they found the drover’s body in a ditch two days later with a hatchet buried in his head.”
“And everybody thought that Anton Puscasu did it,” Janie concluded.
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t.”
Jacqueline shook her head and looked out at the park across the creek.
“The only thing Anton Puscasu was guilty of was telling Solomon Danford, ‘No.’ But he had no way of proving that.
On the other hand, the evidence against him mounted quickly. A day laborer named Angus, who worked for many of the farms in the area, identified the hatchet as belonging to Anton. A farmer who lived across the creek from Anton swore he saw him walking across the creek bridge before dawn without a lantern on the morning of the murder while he was out getting some wood for his stove. And to top it off, a German drover who claimed to speak some Romanian testified that Anton was threatening to kill the victim after the fight in the store earlier.”
“Wow,” Janie breathed, “that sounds pretty open and shut.”
“I suppose it was. Of course, after the trial Angus got a good job at the sawmill. The farmer had his note with the bank restructured to much more favorable terms, and the German drover was never seen again. But that was all later, and if anybody noticed they chose to keep their suspicions to themselves—probably a wise decision, considering the forces involved.
Nevertheless, the trial was a really big event for Bradlow and they had to move it to the Lutheran church so there would be enough room for all the onlookers. They even sent a reporter up from the Houston paper. It was quite the spectacle. It only took two days and the verdict was never in doubt. Guilty, of premeditated murder.
”
“He never had a chance,” Janie murmured.
“No, dear. People like Solomon Danford don’t give chances. He sentenced Anton Puscasu to hang by the neck until dead, and even had the audacity to add ‘may God have mercy on your soul.’ They wasted little time, and the execution was scheduled for that very Saturday.”
“What about the boy?” Janie interrupted. “What happened to him?”
“At the time, he vanished. He was spotted a couple of times, rummaging through some garbage piles, but he would run off into the woods before anybody could catch him. People were keeping an eye out for him and hoping he would come in when the weather turned bad. But there were also lots of hobo camps and migrant workers back then, and many thought he would eventually just hook up and drift off with one of them.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That was the times.” The elder woman shrugged. “Mercy and compassion existed, but they were rationed for situations deemed practical. Death and misery were everybody’s next door neighbor and people were much more comfortable in their proximity back then. For instance, at least half the town showed up for Anton Puscasu’s execution.
It was a sunny afternoon, and people brought blankets and picnic baskets. Somewhere down in the library there’s a faded old newspaper picture of the event. It’s actually the only surviving picture of Bradlow in existence, assuming there were any others.
They had a tree right outside of town, near the graveyard, they used for hangings. It was a massive old live oak, and if you’ll look over there you’ll see it still exists.”
Jacqueline tilted her wine glass in the direction of a huge tree that dominated a clearing in the nearby park.
“That’s where they brought Anton that afternoon, while everybody got comfortable and socialized. They drove him up in the back of a lumber wagon, with the church choir singing hymns from a nearby spot under the same tree. It was all very decorous, and everybody wore their best…even Anton. But it was when they asked Anton if he had any last words that the show hit its climax.
Instead of any last pleas for mercy or forgiveness, he stood straight in the back of the wagon and called Solomon Danford out by name. He labeled him a thief, a fraud, and a murderer, and swore a curse on him and all his descendents. Anton thundered that if Solomon was willing to kill for his land, then he could have it and choke on it. He said that blood would answer for blood, no matter how cold, until no descendent of the judge remained to take ownership of the land that he had bought with innocent men’s lives. And when that day came, and no Danford came to take possession of the legacy, then the entire Danford fortune would fail and the last miserable vestiges of his clan would scatter penniless to the winds.”
“And what happened next?” Janie followed the story with rapt attention.
“They hung him.” Jacqueline took another sip of her drink. “The sheriff and crew carted the body over to the nearby graveyard where the hole was already dug, and everybody else got on with their picnic and had a glorious social outing. Solomon shrugged off the curse as the vengeful ravings of a murderer against an officer of the court, and the townsfolk remarked on his poise in the face of invective that true gentlemen of justice sometimes have to face from the criminal element.”
“And that was that, huh?”
“Well, almost.” The elder woman frowned at the park across the creek. “About ten days later, some kids were playing tag under the tree when they were startled by a loud crash and thump. Something had fallen out of the branches above. And when they went over to look at it, it turned out to be the dead body of Andre Puscasu.”
“What? How did that happen?”
“It seems that the boy had crawled high up into branches of the tree and found a place he could wedge himself into. Judging by the condition of the body, the doctor said he must have been up there the day of the hanging and most likely saw the whole thing. Then, probably realizing he was alone in the world and not knowing what to do, he just sat where he was until he died of exposure.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Janie shook her head. “That’s awful!”
“If a wind hadn’t shaken the limbs when it did, there is no telling how long his body would have been up there,” Jacqueline continued. “But the townsfolk dutifully buried him by his father, and Judge Danford declared him an innocent victim of the whole affair. He said it just went to show how the simple and pure could remain true to even the worst of people. He even went so far as to buy a little tombstone for the boy’s grave. The move was very popular and I’m sure if he had run for reelection he would have won by a landslide.”
“Ugh! And this guy is my ancestor?”
“Almost assuredly. That’s why you are here, my dear.”
“Lovely.” Janie rubbed her arms with a sudden chill, “I feel dirty just knowing I’m related to him. Is that the whole story?”
“Nearly all. Life went on and after a suitable amount of time Judge Danford retired. Then he bought the land that the bank had been holding since the execution. He built the original part of the mansion you see today and called it Magnolia Rise. At about the same time, they struck oil at Spindletop over near Beaumont where Solomon had been buying up all that land. Overnight, he went from being wealthy to becoming one of the richest men in the country.
The Danfords became a family of tycoons, socialites and world travelers. Everything they touched seemed to turn to gold. They had hit the big time. The biggest. But while the rest of the family indulged in their newfound wealth and power, Solomon Danford retreated into the life of a hermit at his manor.
He was seldom seen outside the house, and almost never off the grounds.
Then the railroad spur that supported Bradlow was discontinued, and the town seemed to wither overnight. The sawmill went out of business, and the lumberyard followed. With no paved roads due for another fifteen or twenty years, the community dried up fast. By 1910 it had shrunk down to a post office run out of the back of the single remaining store in the area, a few farms, and one largely forgotten mansion on a low hill.”
The dignified woman raised her glass, as if toasting the vanished town. Then she continued her tale.
“Then one day Solomon left the estate with a package under his arm and rode for the post office. He never made it. His servants found him drowned in the creek, with his horse still standing nearby. The package lay close at hand and they went ahead and mailed it to his son, along with news of his death. That package turned out to be his journal.
His son, Barnabas, didn’t say much about the journal other than to say his father believed the curse to be real, and had stayed at Magnolia Rise to preserve the family fortune. He stated he was a man of the twentieth century, and had little use for such twaddle. Barnabas then shut the place down, and sent the servants home.
Within six months a combination of misfortune, bad investments, and deals gone sour had halved the family fortune. In a fit of desperation, Barnabas took the journal and returned to Magnolia Rise. Things soon turned around, and since then the Danfords have always made sure a descendent of Solomon Danford lives at Magnolia Rise.”
Jacqueline now rested an elbow on the railing and turned to face Janie full on.
“So,” she summed up. “That’s the story. This is the first time since that original gap that the house has sat empty. And the results have been too alarming to take as mere coincidence. Superstition or not, the family has decided that no further chances should be taken. Magnolia Rise must be occupied at once. Since Diane has abdicated her role as an heir, we were forced to cast our net much wider than normal.”
“And so here I am,” Janie finished.
“And so here you are.”
Janie studied the older woman, hunting for any hint of deception.
Nothing.
She glanced over at the table where the blonde had been watching the pair of them. Rosaline smiled back at her with an elegant shrug and ate another truffle.
My god, they’re serious!
; Janie looked down at her feet, thinking furiously.
They’re actually willing to hand over a hundred and forty million dollars just because I share a bit of genetics with some unbelievable asshole who died a century ago! There has to be some kind of mass guilt complex at work here, or something. They don’t feel they’ve earned their wealth, or they can’t stomach its origin, so they’ve created this family curse that they have to appease in order to live with themselves while spending it. Only now they’ve run out of “legitimate” heirs. But they’ve bought so much into their own story over all this time that they’re willing to bring in an outsider just to fulfill its demands.
And so here I am.
Janie took a deep breath, and raised her eyes to meet the elder woman’s again.
“Okay,” she exhaled, “What do you need me to do.”
“Very little,” Jacqueline answered. “To fulfill the requirements of your inheritance, you simply need to exit the east gate and follow the footpath to a small bridge across the creek and on into the park on the other side. Then proceed to that large live oak tree in the clearing.”
“The hanging tree.”
“Yes…the hanging tree. Then you need to spend the rest of the afternoon beneath its branches.”
Basically, Janie thought to herself, sending the sacrifice to the family demon’s altar. This whole thing is so Freudian it hurts.
“Basically,” she answered aloud, “making Puscasu aware I exist and that I’m moving in so he’ll know who to haunt and to let things return to normal.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“And then,” Rosaline drawled while picking up another truffle, “you come back up here to your new house and tell these workmen where you want your new big screen TV’s installed. I recommend talking to the assistant foreman. He is scrumptious!”
The senior Danford woman cast an exasperated glance at the blonde before continuing.
Shades: Eight Tales of Terror Page 13
