Blessed Are the Wicked

by Steven A. LaChance

We got together one time a few years ago, and went to lunch and did some other things with Marie. That night, Helen was taken away by an ambulance after we left. She thought she was having a heart attack, and when they gave her some medication for an upset stomach she aspirated on it and quickly developed pneumonia. They had to put her into a medically-induced coma to let her heal. The truth of it was, she almost died. It was a long time until she came around and showed improvement. She had to be on oxygen 24/7 and physical therapy was a must. After several months, she recovered, but now it is easy for her to contract pneumonia and when she does, it is severely life-threatening. She will never be normal again, and it has aged her way beyond her years.

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  Chapter 23

  March 2009

  It was late one night when Matthew called me. He had been at work at the local gas station, and he was asking if he could bring someone home with him. He was excited, and I had to ask him to slow down so I could understand him.

  “Dad, I have the story. I have the whole story,” he kept saying over and over again.

  “What story do you have?” I asked him, clearly not understanding where he was coming from.

  “I have the whole history of the land the Screaming House was built on, and I have the whole story of the family,” he said back to me, even more excited.

  “Where did you hear this?” I asked.

  “I got it from a Cromwell family member. Dad, they have pictures and everything,” he said once again, excitedly. “I am bringing them home to meet you. They want to meet you. They want to tell the whole history to you directly.”

  1874

  It was a stormy summer night. The windows of the large house were rattling with each rumble of thunder. The wind was howling as strange shadows were cast upon the walls. With each flash of light, the flicker of the flames from the oil lamps and candles danced in the darkness. The pounding on the front door sent a very large servant woman scrambling down the stairs to answer it. She had served the captain and his wife, Minerva, for many years, as a slave and servant. It was hard for her to consider herself as anything else, even though all of the slaves at the Cromwell homestead had been freed. Even with their freedom, they all had stayed on to serve the captain and his wife. Screams of agony came from the upstairs bedroom. The mistress was having a baby, and Ivy hurried even faster toward the door to let in Doc, who was waiting outside on the porch in the storm.

  “Where is she?” Doc asked as he entered. He handed his coat and hat to Ivy. “This way, Doc,” Ivy answered, setting his cane and hat aside. Another scream came shrieking down the steps. Both Doc and Ivy looked upward until the screaming subsided. “She is upstairs. Right this way,” Ivy said as she began to lead Doc up the long, grand staircase to the second floor. Doc could make out someone sitting in a chair outside the door, and he assumed it must be the captain, waiting for the birth. His assumptions proved to be correct, and as he moved closer, the captain stood to shake his hand.

  “Now, you don’t worry about anything. I will take really good care of everything,” Doc said as they exchanged handshakes. Ivy opened the bedroom door and another scream escaped out. Doc hurried into the room, with Ivy behind him, as the door was shut firmly, muffling the screams of birth.

  The captain sat in his chair outside the door, where he awaited the news about the birth of his new child. He sat there with his head in his hands to partially block out his wife’s screams. He assured himself she was in good hands with Doc. He knew the rumors about Doc and the whores from Moselle, but instead of doing abortions, tonight the doctor would be bringing life into the world. He hoped that life would be a son.

  All of a sudden, the night was pierced with the first cries of life and the baby was born. The bedroom door opened slowly, and Doc stepped outside, almost blocking the door. “Before you go in there, I think there is something I should tell you,” said Doc, looking at him with a seriousness that he had never seen before.

  “Everything is all right with the baby?” the captain asked, with a worried look on his face.

  “Everything is fine with the baby. There were no complications,” Doc said, still trying to block the door and the view behind it.

  “Well then, let me in there to see my wife and child.” The captain pushed his way past Doc, who was still trying to stop him. Once in the room, he could see the shock on Ivy’s face and he knew there was something wrong. He raced over to the bed, where his wife was lying with a bundle in her arms. There was a look of horror upon Minerva’s face. This was not the look of a new mother. As he got closer, he saw the baby that she was holding in her arms and he began to scream. He screamed, and then he screamed some more.

  These were screams of a broken heart. Minerva was holding a mixed child. The captain knew instantly that the baby did not belong to him, and that was the ultimate betrayal. The baby was a black man’s baby. Minerva began to sob violently at his reaction, trying to say she was sorry, but the words would not come out through her tears.

  “Ivy, take the baby away,” Doc said as he came back into the room. Minerva was crying and trying not to let the baby go, but Ivy got the child away from her and was out of the door.

  Doc looked at the captain and said, “Do you want me to clean up this mess?” The captain did not say a word, but nodded his head yes, and walked out of the room crying—a broken man. Doc, standing next to the bedside looking down at Minerva, immediately put a cloth soaked in chloroform over her face as Minerva tried to fight. She tried to scream for help, but the screams fell on deaf ears, because no white man would care about a woman who had slept with a black man and carried his child. She quickly passed out and Doc went to work. Both of her lungs were pierced with wires inserted into her sides, between her ribs. Her lungs collapsed and immediately began to fill with fluid. Minerva struggled, but she would not make it through the night.

  The captain walked into the nursery where Ivy was with the baby. “You know what you need to do, Captain. You need to get rid of this bastard child, this unholy thing. You can’t have this running around. Send it back to hell, Captain. Send it back to hell.”

  He pushed Ivy aside to walk over to the bassinet that held the sleeping baby. “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s a bastard boy, Captain, and make no mistake, it is unholy. You need to kill it,” Ivy said, standing next to him.

  “I need to kill it?” the captain asked her, with tears in his eyes.

  “You must kill it. You have no choice. You cannot have this bastard ruining your life. Kill it.” With this, Ivy put a pistol in his hands. “Just point and pull the trigger. It is as easy as that,” she said as the captain pulled back the hammer on the gun. Doc walked into the room and the captain turned to him.

  “It is done. Won’t be long now,” Doc said, and immediately tears began to roll down the captain’s face. He turned to face the bassinet once more.

  “Do it,” Ivy said, and a loud bang rang out throughout the house.

  It was done.

  “Dress it in its christening gown,” said the captain as he left the room, dropping the pistol on the floor at the door.

  The baby was hung in a tree near the servants’ quarters for all to see. It was hung by its feet and it was dressed in a white christening gown. The dead baby was hung there as a warning to the servants and anyone who else might see it, to never cross the captain again. All of the male servants were gathered outside the quarters near the tree, lined up, and shot. The farmhands stood aside and watched. One of the servants tried to run and was shot in the back immediately upon trying to escape. On her deathbed, Minerva would not give the name of her lover, and so she sent many innocent men to their deaths. It was a death sentence for all, instead of just one.

  Some speculated that the servant who tried to escape was actually the one who deserved to die, but no one ever really knew for sure—no one except for Ivy. Of course she was happ
y to stand by and watch the sacrifices as they were made. She was a Voodoo high priestess, and was gratified to see the land washed in blood. This would make her djab happy. A djab is the personal spirit that Ivy had a magical contract with. Her djab was particularly powerful and aggressive, because it was one of the Loa, or angels. In Ivy’s case, her djab was one of the fallen, one of the angels cast out from heaven along with Lucifer. It would be very happy with the sacrifices that night, especially with the sacrifice of the baby hanging in the tree.

  Although pneumonia would be the official cause of death listed on Minerva’s death certificate, the actual cause of death was murder. The problem had been taken care of and the captain’s honor would never be tarnished by such debauchery by her ever again.

  “There is no God!” the captain screamed to the heavens. He dropped to his knees and frantically started clawing at the dirt. He clearly had gone insane. Behind him, in the darkness, stood a figure, faintly glowing, with something moving wildly in front of it. Again, the captain screamed out in extreme and utter agony, “Why have you deserted me?” Again, something started to move wildly in the darkness as the glowing figure began to slowly move forward. The captain sat up on his knees and began scratching his chest. Blood began to surface, as tears streamed down his expressionless face.

  “Because your God does not care,” a low, female voice murmured. It came from the glowing figure that waited in the darkness. Her words were deliberate, drawn out, and full of accentuation.

  “You have forsaken me,” the captain whispered into the air, with tears running down his face and bloody torso. The figure in the darkness began to move closer with something still moving wildly with it.

  From behind him, Ivy came into the light of the fire, dressed in all white, from head to toe. Her head was wrapped in white, and in her hand she held a chicken by its feet. The chicken’s wings were flapping wildly. In her other hand she held a knife. Holding the squirming chicken over the captain, she took the knife and cut the chicken’s throat. As the blood began to pour over the captain, she began to dance and her eyes rolled back into her head. She was now under possession. The captain began to rub the blood all over his face and body and he began to growl and scream. His eyes turned black. His soul no longer belonged to God. Ivy started to laugh because she knew she had made her djab proud. With all of the sacrifice and blood, it would stain the land and it would make her more powerful than she ever dreamed of being. Her life would become epic, and the sacrifices of that night would forever leave their mark on generations after, who would no longer worship anything but the fallen who now gave Ivy her strength.

  The captain took care of Ivy for the rest of her life. She never wanted for anything. She moved from Missouri to New Orleans, and no trace of her was ever heard of again. A short time before the death of the captain, he made a trip to New Orleans. Family members speculate it was to see Ivy for one last time, but no one ever knew for sure if that was actually the purpose of his trip. Shortly after returning home, the captain died. Some descendants of the captain debate whether he is actually buried in the grave under the small, understated tombstone that marks his grave today. Right next to his grave is Minerva’s. Her tombstone is large and ornate. It is the tombstone given to someone out of love. When you stand at the grave, you have this overwhelming sense of sadness and love. She was the love of the captain’s life. He loved her more than anything else ever put on this earth. He would not share her, and her betrayal was too much for him to handle. On the night of those tragic events, his heart was broken and he turned cold and distant; a man whose family described him as mean and heartless. It worked as a poison on the generations to follow. The Cromwells were known for being cruel and unforgiving. They also hid their secrets. They hid them well.

  The Screaming House was built upon the grounds that used to be the Cromwell slave quarters. It was said, by some family members, that one of the basement walls was actually one of the walls preserved from that original building. If you went into the basement of the Screaming House, you would notice the majority of the walls were built from normal concrete, but one of the walls was built from an older, almost sandlike concrete material. The tree still stands outside where the dead baby was hung for show. The baby is still sometimes seen hanging there, at three in the morning, and you can still hear the captain’s screams breaking the silence of the night. His screams of grief, heartache, and despair.

  This is the story that was told to me in 2009 by a Cromwell family member. I was sworn to never reveal the source. In a way, it this source will go down in history as the “deep throat” of the supernatural. The Cromwell family member told me someone might kill them, if others knew they had told the story. That was made clear to me, and even though I was given permission to tell the story, I was made to promise to never give away the source. During our conversation, I found the dichotomous worship of Catholicism and Voodoo quite intriguing. I had to wonder if the rituals Ivy once practiced were still practiced by the Cromwells today, imbedded within the families that practiced the ceremonies. Were they raised with the mixture of Catholicism and the worship of the fallen, in the same way I would be a Protestant or someone might be Jewish? This would make it nearly impossible to break the cycle. The fallen, demons, ghosts, Voodoo, Catholicism . . . the final story was just the same, when you consider it. It was all just a matter of semantics.

  I think back to Mr. Winters, the landlord of the Screaming House, and it all makes sense. He is feeding demons, sacrificing families for his twisted beliefs. And more importantly, he is sacrificing children, much in the same way that Ivy orchestrated the sacrifice of the baby, many years before. A spiritual sacrifice. But let’s face it, a sacrifice is still a sacrifice, by body or spirit.

  Here again I will include the last e-mail contact I had with Mr. Winters. This time I think it will be crystal clear to you what his intentions were and are:

  Last e-mail contact with Mr. Winters, landlord of the Screaming House

  November 2005

  The new children are having fun running around upstairs and “screaming” as children do when they’re having fun . . . but the parents will stop that soon, when they finish moving in and getting unpacked. When the kids first got there, they immediately ran up the stairs, as little tykes do. They began running in and out of rooms, screaming and laughing with joy . . . It was so nice to hear “little angel screams” . . . I hope their guardian angels will watch over them tonight.

  Little angel screams. Those words and the way they were emphasized tell the whole story, now that I know the complete history. They clearly demonstrate the evil intentions of this evil man. It is enough to make your blood run cold.

  [contents]

  Chapter 24

  Flashback, Autumn 1979

  My grandfather was dying. My grandfather was dying of cancer––brain cancer to be exact. There comes a time in a young boy’s life when he ceases being a boy and begins to be a man, and this was that moment for me.

  Grandpa Joe was everything in the world to me. He was a dapper fellow in his day, with a lanky walk and a fedora perched on his head—a hat I would later make the mistake of filling with water as a practical joke as a boy. This was the only time I ever remember my grandfather getting really mad at me. All in all, he was my buddy. Grandpa Joe was my partner in whatever we did. He was full of old wives’ tales, superstitions, and sometimes mischief. Many nights, I can remember him telling me old ghost stories. There were times I actually believed he thought they were true. Now, looking back, I have to wonder if somewhere there was some truth to them. Maybe there was some shard of truth there. Maybe he had actually lived these things.

  I know there were times throughout my life when I wished he was there. He used to send me birthday cards, and the age on the card was always a few years older than I actually was. I imagine he did this on purpose to make me feel much older, more mature. My grandmother used to get so mad at him for that. I
can still hear her telling me that he bought the card, and she didn’t—because she would have gotten the age just right. I loved those cards.

  My grandfather was a permanent fixture on what was called the “Liars Bench” in Potosi, Missouri. The Liars Bench was where the old men in the town used to gather and try to one-up each other with their stories. Old Frenchmen had a penchant for stories. I often wish I could remember just a portion of them today. I used to sit there and listen to them go on for hours. It is a practice long gone, but I wish the Liars Bench was still there, because I have a story to tell them and my story is true. I wonder what my grandfather would have thought of all of this. I wonder what kind of advice he would have for me, to get through it. The superstitions of an old Frenchman might come in handy.

  I had spent the summer of that year helping my grandmother care for him. I was witness to the loss of dignity that comes with cancer. I had shared with him those moments, when you thought that it was maybe just possible that he could have beat this thing, but in the end, it got the best of him. He lay in a hospital bed, down the hall, dying. I had already gone in to say my last goodbyes. He was there, lying under a mass of wires and tubes. There is that part of you that wants to cry out, “Please, Grandpa, don’t leave me.” But deep down, the reality is there in your face, the notion that we all must go. This was his end. I suddenly had a fear that my father, who was standing beside me, would pass as well. “Please, Daddy, don’t you ever go.” Sometimes I think that I want to die before everyone else that I love. The loss would be too much for me to handle. The grief would eat me alive.

  I had dealt with the death of my other grandfather at the age of nine. However, we were sheltered from his death because of our ages. I remember going to my grandmother’s house after school that day. I remember my mother, in all her wisdom and caring, looking at me as she said one sentence, “Bad day, buddy.” There was nothing else more to be said, “Bad day, buddy.” I can still see her face. The ugliness of it all had been hidden, but the grief was impossible to hide.