Despite the bell warning their arrival, they stood alone in the store, and Elizabeth continued riffling through an array of items that crowded the counter. An elderly Asian man finally emerged from the back room with a television blasting.
“You going to buy that?” the man asked curtly, pointing to a small box in Elizabeth’s hand.
She looked at her hand and found that she was holding a box of tampons. “Uh, sure, yes, I want to buy this, but we’re still shopping.” She showed faux interest in a T-shirt that read “Homie” across the chest.
“It’d look good on you. You could wear it to work,” Camille said with a straight face.
“Only if you promise to wear this.” Elizabeth handed her a black baseball cap that said “BITCH.”
“You touch, you buy,” the cranky man snapped at them.
“Wow, customer service at its best,” Elizabeth said as she gathered the T-shirt, baseball cap, and box of tampons and set them on the counter.
“That will be forty-five dollars.”
“And a discount too,” she said, pulling out three twenties. The man’s surly disposition was wearing thin, and Elizabeth decided to cut to the chase. “Do you own this store?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Given that I asked the question, that would be me. I want to know.”
“Why?”
“An elderly woman who…” Elizabeth hesitated to choose her words. “Recently passed away, gave out the phone number to your store as a contact. I was hoping you could tell us who the woman was—a customer maybe?”
The man stared at her and shrugged. “Don’t know the woman.”
“Well, I haven’t even described her.”
The man puffed, but otherwise remained silent.
“She was in her seventies, Caucasian.”
“Don’t know the woman.”
“Are you sure?”
“No white women come here, except you.”
“Does the name White Demon have any meaning to you?”
“No. Now you go,” the man said in staccato.
“I think he likes you,” Camille whispered as she passed her heading for the door.
Elizabeth realized that she wasn’t going to find any answers in the cramped, overpriced mini market and followed behind Camille.
“Somehow, I don’t think that was what we were looking for,” Elizabeth said as they headed back to the car.
“What are you looking for, bitches?”
They stopped and turned to see three teenagers step out from a recessed doorway, tattoos heavily marking their arms and necks, which resembled those on Elizabeth’s friends back at the car. She assumed they were affiliated. Their pants sagged well below any level that could be deemed appropriate, leaving their underwear vividly on display. She didn’t consider herself a prude, but underwear, penises, and breasts all in one day, oh my.
“Hi there, we are art curators at the Metropolitan Museum, and we’re looking for some new pieces for display that depict the modern urban life and political strife of the inner-city male adolescent.” Even Elizabeth didn’t know what the hell she just said.
The three gang members stared at her. She realized that she still had the floor and continued. “We are particularly interested in that piece of work.” She pointed to the painted penis. “The upward brush stroke emphasizes the bold statement.” The teens made crude comments about the size of their own body parts.
Elizabeth continued the discussion, pointing out different writings and drawings on the walls and sidewalk as she moved the group toward Camille’s car. The teenagers seemed fascinated by her and engaged in a discussion about the artists and purpose of the graffiti. In a different circumstance, Elizabeth would have found the conversation fascinating because there was much more behind what she initially thought was simple scrawling. By the time they reached the vehicle, a camaraderie had been formed, and Elizabeth found that she actually liked the boys.
The teenagers saw them off before they joined the men loitering in front of the store. Had they been dealt a different hand, they would probably have a whole other existence. As much as she liked to curse her privileged upbringing, she was grateful for it.
They drove back reminiscing on their adventure, but Elizabeth felt a bit deflated. She was certain that WHITE DEMON was a phone number, but the cranky man’s market, as Elizabeth dubbed it, didn’t figure in the puzzle.
“What if it was a phone number?” Camille asked. “What if the number was an old number, got disconnected, and then recycled out again to the cranky man’s market?”
“That makes sense! It could have been a phone number from her past.”
Elizabeth pushed her foot on the imaginary gas pedal on the passenger floor in hopes of accelerating their return trip; however no matter how hard she pushed, the Civic remained at the speed limit. By the time they reached SILC, her foot was one large muscle cramp, and she gimped out of the car.
She didn’t wait for Camille, but left her to catch up. Wrapped in her thoughts, she barely heard the warning “Watch out!” that came from above. She covered her head, and a bucket crashed down to the sidewalk and thick paint splattered across the front of her.
Camille rushed to her side, the concern on her face replaced with a smirk, as blotches of paint dripped off her chin. “Well, at least you have a new T-shirt you can change into.”
“Are you okay, ma’am?” a concerned voice came from above.
Elizabeth looked up and gave a thumbs-up. “Doing great.” She wasn’t surprised to find one of her mother’s workmen on the roof.
* * *
“Turn right up ahead.” Danny leaned forward from the back seat and pointed, knocking the map out of Elizabeth’s hand. What they were searching for didn’t register on any modern navigation system.
“Danny, would you sit back,” she said as though talking to a child.
“That is the turn and your map is upside down,” he said.
“It is not.”
“Well, either north suddenly faces down or you’re holding the map upside down.”
“Am not.”
“Children, don’t make me stop this car,” Camille interjected. She had remained wordless through much of their drive, but it was clear that their bickering was getting the better of her.
After the revelation that WHITE DEMON was an old phone number, Elizabeth solicited the services of her old friend Rich Porter, who was the knower of all, at least where public records were concerned. He had access to information well beyond the county recorder’s office where he worked through his network of acquaintances and had proven himself indispensable in the Raymond Miller case. He seemed to have a soft spot for her and was always willing to help.
Between Rich’s access to information and Danny’s prowess on the internet, they were able to obtain the former owner of WHITE DEMON, the phone number anyway. Danny insisted on joining them on their adventure as they drove to the location. He was more like a stubborn dog that insisted on going on a car ride, whether the owner approved or not. As soon as Camille unlocked her car, he dove into the back seat, and there was no pulling him out.
Camille slowed and turned on the unmarked dirt road that Danny indicated, and he sat back with smug self-satisfaction.
“My map was not upside down,” Elizabeth said, not willing to admit defeat.
“And Santa’s in the South Pole and birds fly north for the winter.”
The car bounced as it hit a sizeable dip; one Camille could have possibly navigated around. Elizabeth and Danny peered outside at their surroundings. The rustic road seemed to be swallowed by overgrown trees, and Camille slowed to more carefully plot out their course. “Definitely the road less traveled.”
Near the entrance of the private road, two decaying statues of powerful white horses stood guard, time eroding away parts of their faces, limbs, and tails, but what prominently remained were the large testicles that proudly hung. Those were built to last.
The trees above were
once an artistically crafted archway, but with the passage of time and lack of care, became a twisted canopy of mangled branches. After crossing through nature’s tunnel, they found themselves on the other side of Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole. There was an expanse of open land with a large estate prominently displayed in the middle. For a moment, it felt as though they had transported back into time, and their vehicle seemed an interloper.
Camille continued their slow pace and directed them to the structure, parking her car in what appeared to have once been a circular drive. In the middle, stood another white horse that was equally well endowed, clearly related to the others.
They exited and stood silently before what was once a dignified antebellum mansion, but time had not proven kind. Its foundation and structure were intact, but its trimmings were broken and faded. It was clear that its architecture meant for it to stand the test of time, and it would have made its creators proud.
“She must have been beautiful at one time,” Danny observed as he unfolded himself from the back seat and approached a majestic column. He knocked on it as though verifying its authenticity.
“So what do we know about this place?” Camille asked.
“According to Rich, it was built by Frederick Lawton in 1840 during the height of slavery. The Lawton Plantation, also known as the White Horse Plantation,” she said gesturing to the statue, “was a cotton plantation that once housed over fifty slaves.” The smeared lipstick words, “horse plant” confirmed in Elizabeth’s mind that the woman was trying to provide an address to the estate.
“Who owns it now?”
“Rich is looking into that. It looks like it has been passed down from generation to generation, but seems abandoned now.”
“Ya think?” Danny said, and she opted to ignore his sarcasm.
“I’m surprised vandals haven’t gotten to it,” Camille said.
“I don’t think many people know it’s here.” Elizabeth gestured to the overgrown tree tunnel through which they entered.
Danny had already taken off to explore the property, and Camille began to walk around the side of the massive home. Elizabeth was taken by a set of smaller structures that were efficiently lined up in the distance and decided to head in that direction.
When she reached the buildings, she noted that their construction was nowhere near the craftsmanship of the main house. The buildings were crude wooden structures with sheets of corrugated iron interspersed for extra support where the wood rotted and offered little, if any, insulation from the summer’s heat or winter’s frost. It was apparent that these desolate structures once housed the slaves that were forced to live on the plantation. She approached the first small home and slowly walked up the two steps that led to the petite, open porch. The wood creaked under her feet, and she treaded lightly. She wasn’t sure why she had to look inside, but she knew she just did. She pushed open the wood plank door, and it squealed, clearly not used to such exercise in a long while.
The home consisted of one room with rope lines that ran across the ceiling, which she assumed once held drapes to partition the quarters into smaller areas for privacy. There were no windows to offer light, and it was nothing more than a wooden box. A fine layer of dirt covered the space, and a small dark patch scarred the floor where a cooking fire once sat, but now the room was barren, but for a decrepit chair in the corner that balanced itself on three legs.
Without much thought, she sat in front of the black ring and ran her hand across the coarse floor. She couldn’t imagine the lives of the men, women, and children that once called this shack home. A deep sense of sadness blanketed her, and she felt the need to escape, a luxury she knew the prior occupants didn’t have. She struggled to gain her footing and lift herself up, but an oppressive weight seemed to be holding her down. A moment of panic coursed through her, an illogical fear that an unseen force was holding her hostage in the confined wooden room. She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath, surrendering to the space that seemed to possess a wisdom or perhaps it was only a rich history, and she absorbed it. She pushed herself up again and was able to stand with ease and dismissed the event a moment earlier as an overactive imagination triggered by the repressive setting. She moved to the door and looked once more at the small room before she made her exit and pulled the door closed behind her. She started down the steps and was startled when she nearly ran into someone. Expecting Camille or Danny, she blurted out, “This is so sad, I—” She stopped short when she realized that she was looking into the eyes of a stranger.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” a melodic voice washed over her. An African-American man held out his hands as though to catch her if she lost her balance. He was dressed in a red checked flannel shirt, sleeves efficiently rolled up, black suspenders supporting his dark brown trousers, and a straw hat to hide his cropped hair.
“Who are you?” Elizabeth asked, although she knew he should probably be the one asking that question.
“My name is Samuel Harris. I guess you can call me the caretaker of this here place.” He possessed a gentle demeanor that put her at ease. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m sorry to intrude. I thought the place was abandoned. I’m Elizabeth Campbell, and my friends and I are doing a little research on this place, and I just wanted to take a look around.”
“She sure is abandoned. Has been for fifty-some years.”
“How much do you know about this place?”
“My family has been part of this land for the last three generations. I’d say this place has been standing for a good hundred and seventy-five years. Not many places can say that. She started as a cotton plantation. Those there were the slave quarters.” He gestured to the structure that Elizabeth just vacated, and she was struck by how at ease he was as he spoke of the history of the place, but she guessed he had long come to peace with the land.
“After the Great War, the plantation didn’t survive, with no one to work the land and all.” Elizabeth surmised that the Great War was the Civil War. “The place fell into disarray, but some members of the Lawton family continued living on the land and kept it in the family, but many believed her to be haunted, and it seems no one stayed too long. Josiah Webb returned about sixty years ago with thoughts of bringing her back to her grandeur, but that too ended when he died. Now she sits once again alone. Maybe she’s best left alone.”
She moved down a step, and the board beneath her feet made a loud squeak in protest.
“Ah, you found the lucky stair.”
Elizabeth stared at him, trying to decipher where the conversation just went. He pointed to the stair. “My grandmother used to say that a squeaking stair is a lucky stair, and you should make a wish.”
She realized that he was serious, so she closed her eyes, and as silly as it seemed, wished for things between Grace and her to improve, before resuming the prior conversation. “And what’s down there?” She turned and pointed to a large wooden structure beyond the row of shacks.
“That was the stable. It once housed some of the country’s finest horses, but be careful. It’s not very safe now. I’m afraid it’s been neglected, and the beams have rotted and part of the roof has collapsed. There haven’t been horses on this property since the end of the war. Mr. Josiah Webb saw no need to bring any back because he hated them. Said he was allergic.” Samuel scoffed.
“Do you think it’s haunted?”
Samuel offered a smile. “Perhaps. The walls hold many secrets.”
“Secrets?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What kind of secrets?”
“Oh, if she wants you to know, she’ll let you know. There were many souls lost on this land in its day.”
Elizabeth wanted to ask many more questions, but she was cut off before she could speak.
“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid I must get going. I have to get home to my Olivia. If I am so much as a split hair late for dinner, she will have my hide
. You are welcome to look around.” He turned toward the main house. “You’ll find her open. The lock doesn’t quite work anymore, and I haven’t gotten ’round to fixing it. I just ask that you close her up tight before you leave.” Samuel removed the hat from his head, revealing his dark curly hair, and offered a slight bow.
“Thank you, Samuel. It was a pleasure meeting you, and I’ll be sure to close her up tight.” She couldn’t help but refer to the property in the feminine after talking with him.
“Just remember to follow the setting sun,” he said, looking back again at the home where the sun was beginning to dip, and he once again gave a slight bow and returned his hat to his head before turning and departing toward the fields. She figured that there was a back road offering a shortcut to the main road, and she watched him leave. When he was no longer in sight, she turned and headed back to the main house in search of her friends.
“Where have you been?” Camille asked as she stood on the porch of the main house. Her arms were crossed and she was glaring at Elizabeth as she approached. Danny stood at her side with a look of concern and relief crossing his face. “We were getting worried. You shouldn’t wander off like that.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to be gone so long,” Elizabeth said. “I went to look at the living quarters down there.” She pointed to the direction where she met Samuel. “I met the caretaker of this place.”
“Caretaker?” Danny asked.
“Yeah, he said he looks after this place.”
Danny looked around the overgrown fields and dilapidated trimmings on the home. “Not sure they’re getting their money’s worth.”
“He confirmed that the property is still owned by the same family, but has been abandoned for at least fifty years after one of the last family members to live here died. They thought it might be haunted. He gave us permission to look around as long as we close her up when we leave.”
Secrets of the Last Castle Page 6
