House of Royals(7)

On the corner, right next to the Baptist church, I see a sign for a historic walking trail. With little else to do, and not in a hurry to go back to my prison house, I take it and eat my dinner while I walk.

Beautiful houses line the trail. It eventually cuts back toward the river, running right in front of it. Large, early-eighteen hundreds, late-seventeen hundreds houses are everywhere. Nothing compared to the Conrath Estate, but still beautiful.

The trail keeps cutting south, before finally making a loop and heading me back in the direction I came. I wonder how much further south the other Conrath house is.

It’s dark by the time I pop back out on Main Street. Lamps glow softly. The street is quiet now, completely empty, which seems weird. I check my phone for the time and find it’s just after ten o’clock. Just then, a text comes through.

Rath: Where are you?

I’m good and annoyed now. Like a spiteful teenager, I head back down the road, toward the river, the opposite way of home.

As I walk past a house mixed amongst the churches and businesses, a door opens and light floods the sidewalk.

“You got a death wish, girl?” a dark as night woman with a heavy accent shouts. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, my brows furrowing.

“Get your skinny little rear end inside where it’s safe.” She looks side to side, her eyes shifty and filled with fear.

And without another word, she slams the door, engulfing me in darkness again.

Weird.

My feet start walking forward again, but my eyes linger on the front door for a good ten steps.

Yeah, it’s late. But not that late. Trying to rationalize the woman’s warning away, that nothing bad could ever happen in this sleepy little town, I continue my walk down Main Street.

The street runs straight for the river, T-ing right up to it.

And at the end of the road, just before the ground drops down to the river, there is a tree.

Not a single blade of grass grows around it. Pure, uninterrupted dry dirt spreads from its base. A circle of stones, probably twenty feet across, wraps around it.

A heavy, dark feeling creeps into my chest as I look up at the tree. It’s enormous, with branches that hang wide and tall, the same as the ones on the Conrath property. But where those trees bare massive leaves, green and brilliant, this one is barren. Not a single sign of greenery to it.

It is completely dead.

But it sits here, the focal point of Main Street, set like a prized sculpture for all to see.

And there’s a feeling inside of me. Like bad things had happened here and are still coming. I swear I feel cold fingers working their way up my spine. Bumps flash across my skin.

Because I remember where I’ve just seen this same tree.

I pull the copy from my back pocket and unfold it. There’s the headline, “Double Fires.” Beneath that are two pictures. One of a house that looks similar to Henry’s. Flames lick out from the windows on one end. And the other picture is of this very same tree. It bears leaves, like it’s still alive. But hanging from its massive branches are four bodies.





MY EYES SLIDE FROM THE pictures to the body of the article.

Speculation has run wild following the fires at both Conrath plantations. One witness claims owner Elijah Conrath created an abomination that “had to be destroyed and him with it.” Reports show that John Jackson led an attack on the houses, setting fire to them, before dragging Elijah and three of his house members from their home and hanging them from the tree in town.

What followed was a tragedy for the record books.

A hand grabs me around the face, clamping over my mouth just as the scream tries to rip from my throat. The copy flies out of my hand, and as I try to twist away, I feel my phone fall from my pocket. And a fraction of a breath after, a searing pain explodes in my neck.

My body reacts in ways I can’t explain. My arms fall limp to my sides. My feet stop trying to run. Worst of all is the way my mind goes numb.

Strong arms hold me upright, holding tight to my upper arm and around my stomach.

This.

This.

What is this?

Logic frantically pounds through my brain, attempting to come up with an explanation that makes sense. But there isn’t one.

Someone has bitten me.

Someone is sucking something wet from my neck.

And I can feel it with every passing second—I am going to die.

Beneath a dead tree where four people were hanged. In a bizarre town who fears the night.

I understand the woman’s warning now. And Rath’s insistence.

I should have listened.

Just as everything starts going fuzzy and my eyelids flutter, I hear something.

A shout, a hiss. A wet thud, and a scream.

The attacker lets go of my neck and I collapse to the ground.

My eyes try to search my surroundings for answers. Anything to bring logic back into reality.