Richard wasted no time asserting his authority.
He hired a new overseer, a man named Silas Webb, who made Crenaw look merciful by comparison.
Webb was methodical in his cruelty, approaching punishment with the cold efficiency of a craftsman.
He kept detailed records of infractions, real or imagined, and meed out consequences with calculated precision.
Under his management, the plantation ran more smoothly, produced more cotton, generated more profit, and the slaves suffered more deeply than they had in years, but something had changed on the land itself.
It was subtle at first, easy to dismiss as coincidence or imagination.
Tools would go missing only to turn up in strange places buried in the cotton fields, hanging from tree branches, floating in the horse trough.
Livestock grew restless, refusing to graze in certain areas, their eyes rolling white with fear.
Workers in the fields would stop mid task, their faces distant, as if listening to a voice only they could hear.
The house began to show signs of disturbance as well.
Servants reported cold spots in certain rooms, places where the temperature would drop suddenly and without explanation, doors would open and close by themselves, their hinges creaking in empty hallways, the smell of river water would appear without source, permeating rooms that were nowhere near any body of water.
And at night there were sounds, footsteps on the stairs, a child’s laughter, the soft humming that Martha had heard in the quarters.
Constance was the first to truly notice.
She complained to Richard of nightmares, of a child’s voice calling to her from the well, of blue eyes watching her from dark corners.
Richard dismissed her concerns as nerves, as the adjustment to a new home, as female hysteria.
But Constance knew what she knew.
She had been raised to believe in the spiritual world, in angels and demons, in the battle between good and evil.
And she was certain that something evil had taken root in this place.
Martha watched these developments with a mixture of apprehension and dark satisfaction.
An Elise was keeping her promise.
She was holding people accountable, forcing them to see what they had chosen to ignore.
But Martha also worried about where this would lead, about how far the girl’s rage would carry her.
Because make no mistake, it was rage now.
Whatever Anelise had been in life, whatever gentleness or curiosity had existed in that strange child had been burned away.
What remained was judgment, pure and uncompromising.
The slaves began to experience visitations, not frightening ones mostly.
They would wake in the night to find small gifts, a piece of fruit, a flower, a smooth riverstone placed carefully on their pallets.
They would hear words of encouragement whispered in the darkness, reminding them of their worth, their humanity, their right to freedom.
And when they were sick or injured, they would sometimes feel a cool hand on their foreheads, soothing their pain, speeding their healing.
Ruth’s grandson, a boy of seven named Samuel, claimed he saw Anaise clearly.
He said she came to him one night glowing softly in the darkness and told him stories, not frightening stories, but tales of places far away, of cities where black people walked free, of schools where children learned to read without fear, of a future that seemed impossible, but that she promised would come.
Samuel spoke of these visions with such clarity and detail that even the skeptics found themselves halfbelieving.
But the manifestations in the big house grew darker.
Constance’s nightmares intensified.
She would wake screaming, claiming that the girl stood at the foot of her bed, staring with those terrible blue eyes, speaking truths that Constants did not want to hear.
The servants found her one morning collapsed in the hallway, her night gown soaked with sweat, babbling about judgment and damnation, and the sins of fathers visited upon children.
Richard remained stubbornly rational.
He was a man of the modern age, educated in Charleston, exposed to the latest scientific thinking.
He did not believe in ghosts or curses or supernatural phenomena.
There were, he insisted, logical explanations for everything.
Faulty construction causing the doors to swing.
Underground streams creating cold spots.
His wife’s delicate nerves causing her to imagine things.
He refused to acknowledge what everyone else could feel, that the plantation was changing, that something was waking up, that a reckoning was approaching.
One evening in late October, as the first frost touched the ground, a traveling preacher arrived at the plantation, his name was Josiah Crane, and he was a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and eyes that burned with fevered conviction.
He had heard stories, he said, stories of a cursed plantation, of a child who defied God’s law, of a house haunted by sin.
Richard dismissed him at first, but Constance begged her husband to let the man stay, to let him cleanse the house, to drive out whatever darkness lingered.
Richard agreed, if only to quiet his wife.
That Sunday, Crane held a service in the clearing near the quarters.
He preached about demons and damnation, about the wages of sin, and the power of righteous prayer.
His voice rose and fell in rhythmic cadence, his hands gesturing wildly.
The slaves attended because they were forced to, standing in the cold, their faces blank, their thoughts elsewhere.
Martha watched from the back, her arms crossed, her expressions skeptical.
She had seen preachers before, men who claimed to speak for God while ignoring the suffering all around them.
Crane was no different.
He ranted about evil spirits and unclean souls, about children born in sin who carried curses in their blood.
And Martha knew with cold certainty that he was talking about Anelise.
When the service ended, Crane approached Martha.
“I have heard of the child,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
The one with the devil’s eyes.
Martha said nothing.
“She must be found,” Crane continued.
She must be dealt with before her corruption spreads further.
Martha met his gaze, her own eyes hard.
She’s gone.
Gone where? Wherever she needs to be, Crane’s jaw tightened.
You protect a demon.
I protect a child, Martha said flatly.
Something you men never did.
That night, Crane insisted on spending hours in the master’s old study, praying and anointing the walls with oil.
Richard allowed it more to appease constants than out of any belief in the ritual.
The preacher lit candles, read scripture, and called upon the Lord to cast out any evil presence.
He moved through the room with ritualistic precision, marking doorways with oil, reciting verses in Latin and English, his voice growing with the effort.
At midnight, the candles went out, all of them, simultaneously.
The room plunged into darkness, and Crane felt the temperature drop, his breath misting in the sudden cold.
He fumbled for matches, his hands shaking, but before he could strike one, he heard it.
A voice, small, clear, unmistakably a child’s.
You do not belong here.
Crane spun, his heart hammering.
Who speaks? You know who I am.
Show yourself, demon.
Silence.
Then slowly, impossibly, the darkness shifted.
Not light exactly, but a presence, a shape that seemed to gather the shadows to itself.
And then, for just a moment, Crane saw them.
Blue eyes staring at him from across the room.
Not angry, not vengeful, just knowing.
You preach about sin, the voice [clears throat] continued.
Soft and terrible.
But you carry it like a cloak.
I see.
>> To the girl in Savannah, to the boy in Charleston, to all the ones you said you were saving.
Lies, Crane shouted, stumbling backward.
I serve the Lord.
The Lord sees what I see.
The voice was closer now, though the form had not moved.
You took children into your care and used them.
You spoke of salvation while committing damnation.
You hid behind scripture while destroying innocence, and you dare to come here and speak of demons.
No, no.
I I know your heart, Josiah Crane.
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