Seed of Evil

Upstairs in the attic of the house, hidden under a blanket of cobwebs and dust, was a trunk with a splitting top, dried out, and an ornate slightly rusty lock on it. It was among a handful of old trunks up there, like so many old houses had, but this one was slightly different.

When the war had broken out, the house was still a bright, cheery place, and it had had a small shed out back where maintenance was done, fixing little things like shutters or furniture.

Time had changed everything. From being a place where resident ladies walked in frilly, full ball gowns that brushed walls as they walked, and men strode down hallways in elegant top hats and fancy tail coats it had turned into a place of fear where eyes looked outside, not to enjoy the sight of the yard and the trees, but where they feared men in uniforms marching across the fields to aim rifles at each other and turn the fields of flowers into flat, blood stained stretches covered with men both alive and dead.

In time, a gloved hand knocked on the door and a uniformed man informed the occupants that the place was now a hospital for wounded soldiers.The once pleasant rooms were now filled with stained, damaged furniture that held men who had been shot or otherwise harmed, to have primitive surgeries performed on them, often times without pain stopping chemicals, and the rooms became filled with soldiers, some slowly agonizing through recuperation, others dying by inches, and others to be taken down stairs and readied for a trip home, or next door to lay in the cool Earth permanently.

Wesley Sterns liked to drink, and almost as a father, George Rogers barked at him angrily to sober up enough to perform his duties as a cavalry man. They routinely insulted each other, yelled back and forth, and only one time Wesley thought of drawing his gun, and he looked into George’s eyes as George told him “you go ahead and pull that, Wesley, I promise it will be the last time you do it!”

It was true, George was fast, very accurate with his 1861 Colt army revolver, and Wesley knew it would be over if he made a move in anger.

As much As George, five feet four inches, brown beard and long, curly hair, did not like that “boozing, womanizing, gambling idiot” he was still a gentleman.

It was the second battle of Darby Hill, and the Union army marched up the hill, set up their artillery and rained fire down on the Confederacy.

General Tillman Bryant, five feet eight inches, short black beard, had a special unit of men armed with fast loading rifles he had bought out of his own money. This line of men blocked the rebel army from its objective, and George rallied his cavalry to run as fast as they could to try and smash through.

They charged, with Wesley and George riding in front, side by side, and rifles blazed to life with three small canons. The rifles cut down the cavalry men before they could reach the enemy line, and one cannonball struck the ground, exploded, and smashed Wesley’s right leg up by the knee. George, himself wounded, managed to drag Wesley off the battlefield and they lay there till both men woke to find themselves in the house being patched together.

Wesley was told that his leg was too badly damaged and they would have to amputate. Wesley replied “I came into this world a whole drunkard, and I intend to leave the same. Leave it, live or die.” The doctor drilled into Wesley’s leg, put two screws in it to secure the bones, then told him “Those metal screws will either hold it together till you heal or kill you.”

Wesley thanked the doctor. Among the nurses was an older woman who rarely spoke, but could often be seen shaking her head or crying as men and boys passed in the night. Wesley called to her one night as the others slept and when she came over he confided in her.

“Chances are I am not walking out of here. I got a daughter I want to say goodbye to. I need something nice, like a doll, yeah, a doll of some kind, don’t need to be nothing special, just something to send her a little message from dad.”

The nurse responded with a little rag doll from town, and Wesley looked at it and smiled. “That’ll do just fine. Can I get you to send it to her?”

“Of course, captain.” She replied.

Wesley sat the doll next to him in the night and when no one was watching he scrawled a note, took his knife, cut the doll in the back, pushed the note into the doll, and hand stitched the hole as securely as he could. He then addressed a box the next day.

A number of soldiers had sent toys and other things home when they knew they would not live, and on top of one particular shelf sat several items waiting for the moment of transport.

But in war, sometimes keeping things organized is tricky business, especially when a house is converted to a field hospital and suddenly every place is filled with men, supplies and some things not so pleasant. The many doctors who came and went in the house had used what space they could find and put tools in them, and one in particular had made a section of the house his spot, taking down two access panels and arranging his tools in them, some for sawing bones, others for surgery, and in one space he had casually tossed aside damaged items to be used only if he needed them.

At some point in the fray of men coming in and going out things had been confused and Wesley’s doll had gotten lost. For a moment the nurse thought to look for it, but her thoughts were once again overwhelmed by men she did not have enough time or hands to care for, and the thought vanished, not to be considered again, and when it came time to clean the house up, a set of eyes saw the blood stained, broken tools, and with no thought, disposed of the hole with its wood, four screws, and it was forgotten like an attic.

Only the little doll, with it’s canvas face, button eyes, cloth hands, and soft body could tell the secret of how it had silently fallen to take up residence in a musty space while it’s owner recovered, and readied to leave the hospital. Wesley simply assumed his missing doll had been sent and returned to the business of living to either shoot at the enemy or to take whatever he could from him.

The doctor who made the wooden legs and splints had manufactured an odd assortment of leg braces, most of which he kept in a wooden trunk and issued to wounded men, and one of which supported Wesley the rest of his days. The ones he did not use went in the trunk, discarded into the attic and forgotten forever, as well as his wall spaces. Such was the way life went when war interrupts a neighborhood.

Wesley had no intention, as neither did George, in walking away poor, broke and destroyed if the war ended baldy for the south. Many times had they ridden against the Yankees, and many times they had found gold, cash, and valuables, and whilst they reported many of those items, others went in many hiding places, which became more numerous as the war went on.

Wesley survived the war, his memory a haze of days of fighting, battlefields, and desperately searching for trees, fields, rocks, and in some cases, cemeteries, where no one would tread for long periods and hidden articles could remain undisturbed for perhaps decades. Cemeteries were idea, places with crypts, urns, caskets, which frightened some and kept dark secrets hidden, including the secrets of the stashes of thieves, saved for retrieval later.

Some of the stashes were found later by treasure seekers, some were found by accident. Others sat and gathered rust and dust as insects crawled on them.

As the old house that hosted the spectral residents from the struggle stood in the dark embrace of night long past the memory of Wesley Sterns, a screwdriver pried the door and with the precision of a professional man of evil intent, Caleb Isogul pushed the door open, slowly entering into the darkness of the house.

Slowly, he made his way toward the bedroom and in the dim light of moon and star he could see the outline of his precious goal sitting in the room.

But alas, as the lonely night stretched on, in an adorned wooden casket a distance away lay the beautifully dressed form of Charlotte Long who’s restless spirit desired the companionship of her new found friend, and drifted gently through the night to the tall house and wafted like a sweet aroma of innocence through the halls in the hope of another night of friendship with the young lady in the wheel chair.

Charlotte had always been a gentle, friendly, and trusting person and in life she had been sought by men young and old alike, as her gentle soul and kind nature were well known.

She had doted on the wounded in the house till she had often been barely able to stand from exhaustion, and was a favorite nurse, known by many, with a reputation, hence her epitaph on her grave marker “Angel of Mercy”.

Charlotte drifted through the house gently and at first her gaze fell upon the small, frail figure of Gennae, stretched out on the settee with her wheelchair at the ready, and she entered the room silently…and her gaze then fell upon another apparition, a gangly, tall disgusting figure of a man whom she recognized as a shell of a human being who’s only concern was his personal gain, to the destruction of others.

Charlotte saw the glowing medallion on his chest, but she coursed with rage, and as Caleb Isolgul made his way through the room Charlotte could only imagine what his intentions were toward this fragile creature, and while the medallion’s energy restrained her, Charlotte’s rage became stronger, and she began to shriek angrily, and thrash and fade into view in the room. She could not touch Caleb, but she whirled around him in a shrieking cloud, knocking furniture over, dolls to the ground, and the curtains flailed into the room as the window flew open and Charlotte screamed at Caleb, who stopped, his eyes on the object of his desire, but the sudden commotion in the room causing enough noise to wake the entire household.

Finally Charlotte screamed, open mouth, into Caleb’s face, and although the ghost was not touching him, Caleb was aware not only of her frightening level of rage, but that Gennae was waking, as were her family.

Caleb spun without thinking and made for the door, and Paul appeared at the head of the stairs, seeing only a shadow going for the front door.

Realizing the shadow came from Gennae’s room, Paul launched himself down the stairs as Debra fetched a small pistol from her drawer, going to the bedroom window to look out. She beheld a shadow sprinting across the front lawn, and she could hear Paul below her yelling. Clearly the shadow was not Paul of John, much less Gennae, so she aimed the pistol and just began firing.

The bullets smacked the ground and as Caleb sailed over the fence, hastily getting in his truck, he reached for the key to start the engine, and a bullet smashed through his window. Caleb started his engine and also shifted gears, flooring his pedal to get away as an angry Paul crossed the yard like a watch dog, disregarding any issue but cornering the unknown intruder. John woke, sat up wide awake to see Debra shooting out the bedroom window. As the gun clicked emptily, Debra turned to him and said simply “intruder. Sorry.”

Paul jumped the fence, ran down the road and tasted dust from the dark vehicle, then gave up, panting back into the house to check Gennae’s wellbeing.

Gennae was wide awake, her light on, and she merely saw a figure run from her room, and Charlotte, for a brief moment, look at her, then vanish as the others came to the room.

Gennae felt herself embraced as the others assured themselves she was unharmed, clueless as to why an intruder would come to her room, and even the tiny mouse peeked from the wall and looked to see what the fuss was all about.

Down the road, Caleb Isogul’s heart was racing, terrified his truck might be recognized, hoping it was too dark, and then realizing he was in pain.

He went down the shadowy tree choked realm that was his road, pulled into his driveway, and got out of his car, only then realizing his driver window was shot out, and he was missing his ring finger from his right hand, sheared off by a bullet.

In his house, Caleb made fierce noise, alone, angry, scared, and in pain as he doctored the hand. The finger had been shot cleanly, and the pain was tremendous through the night, but Caleb knew he could not risk going to a doctor to have his shot finger give him away if a burglary was reported.

Caleb slammed down on his old, worn out couch and cursed. He ripped the medallion off and flung it. She could not touch him, but she had been most affective in raising enough of a fuss to do major damage to his plans.

Caleb sat for a while as his hand throbbed. It occurred to him that logically, the family would get all worked up, call the cops, make a report, and then beef up security. He would face possibly a dog, maybe an alarm, improved locks, but they would suspect him without a doubt. Oh yes, they would ask who might come around, and he would be a suspect.

Caleb found a bottle of pills from his last dental visit and down two of them. The pain in his hand became bearable, and he realized. Twice he had failed, now it was time to get it done, for real. He thought for a moment. One crippled girl, three adults, and a ghost. One very aggressive ghost. Caleb had to hand it to that spook, she was a handful even in death. But now he had lost a finger.He was going to get back in that house, one more time, and this time………

The police came, filled out a report, and calmed the atmosphere down in the house, and Debra slept in Gennae’s room the rest of the night.

The next morning Gennae shrugged a little at breakfast.

“I’m not going to live in terror of a burglar who broke in and was looking for, who knows what. It doesn’t worry me that much, I’m going to move along.”

John sat back in his chair. “Well, I will do some lock work on the place, but I think that little round of bullets out the upstairs window convinced whoever it was that sneaking in here is a bad idea. You woke up and made a lot of noise.”

Gennae was about to say that she woke up too late and did not make the noise, that a misty figure did, but she stopped herself. Everyone thought she had started shouting, and that was fine with her. Gennae knew that Charlotte had interrupted whoever was in her room.

“Nice shooting, Deb.” Paul said. Deb smiled. John shivered. “What if you would have hit Paul?”

Deb took a bite. “He started out under me, so the dark shadow in the yard wasn’t him. I’m not going to shoot the kid who just got his first car.’

John nodded. “If the hearse had been shot you all would have felt worse.”

The disturbance settled away, John changed the locks in the house, and began to work on his new job in town.

Paul and Gennae prepared for the last time they would spend in a local school and Debra found herself rising from bed that Friday night to see the cloudy figure of the beautiful young nurse clinging to Gennae, who was lowly walking through the house. They faded away, and came back later, and Debra remained as silent as she could as she observed. She watched the girl put Gennae back to bed, and she went to the kitchen, ate a few chips, and was putting them back. She turned to find the ghostly nurse standing in her path. Debra froze, slightly scared but unsure of what to do.

Charlotte seemed to be thoughtful, not talking as much to Debra as her own self as she said “that evil man, that evil evil man, so full of greed. He hurt people. He killed granny…that evil man!”

Debra stood and looked at Charlotte as the ghost stared past her. She wondered who Charlotte was talking about and how she seemed to know who was in the house. She was about to speak to Charlotte when charlotte began to fade away.

“Watch Genny. Watch her.” Charlotte echoed. “I’m sure that evil man is not done.”

Debra stepped forward, but Charlotte was gone. What evil man? Who? Killed Granny? What is this poor soul talking about? She wondered.

Debra went back to the bedroom and sat for a while. Charlotte seemed disconnected. She knew who was in their house, and so why had she not told her? Was the fact she was a ghost a problem? Debra wondered. John woke up Saturday morning to find Debra brushing her hair by the window.

“Ahhhh, Saturday, I have a decent job, the wings are leveling on the plane. I want to explore the rest of our house.”

Debra smiled. “We have a ghostly nurse who takes Gennae for late night walks.” She said.

“Gennae has a deformed spine and can’t walk without surgery in the hundreds of thousands.” John replied.

“The ghost isn’t worried about that. She is a pretty little nurse who takes Gennae for walks. She also knows who was in our house. The slug who killed your grandmother.”

“My grandmother died because…” John started, then stopped, thinking. “Because she was old and sick, so they told me, I don’t really know. A ghost talking to Gennae, wow.”

Debra smiled. “Well we aren’t going to interfere, because this ghost can make Gennae walk, and she seems like her friend. She hasn’t done any harm, I’ve actually seen her twice.”

“Gotcha.” John replied. "Of course. Ghosts do that. Doesn't matter anyhow because if we didn't have a ghost here, everyone would be disappointed. In fact methinks we have a nice collection of them.