wheat and tobacco plantations of the deep South. So Barrow masters held onto their slaves, but when they found themselves unsuccessful in handling an incorrigible one, they sold that slave to Billy Bonns. And Billy Bonns beat that slave until he could barely walk. Barely. Just enough to serve. Just enough for the excruciating pain to register for some time to come. And in 1837 his wife Azalea died in her bedroom when it caught on fire. The only room in the house to burn. The only person in the fire to die. Just enough damage for the pain to register with old Billy. Karma I’d say. He spent three weeks trying to beat out of every slave he owned just who set that fire, but he never found out and rumor had it that seven slaves died in those weeks. Local legend says you can still hear them moaning in the ice house on the Bonns property. He used to beat them there because the colder temperature kept the blood from flowing as readily and they’d hold up a little longer.”
“Oh, really, Twynne!” Crossett said with disgust. “That’s nothing but an old ghost story!”
“Then you do remember it!”
“Not quite so embellished a version!”
“It’s local lore, Crossett! An important part of our history here. Don’t you find it fascinating that there are so many of such stories in this region? Doesn’t it make you wonder why there are so many stories like that around here? I’ve looked into the histories of adjacent areas and not found the plethora of such stories as there are here. I’ll tell you what you should do,” he continued leaning forward. “You should go home and look though the family records and see what you can find. I’m serious,” he said waving his hand at Crossett as he blew through his mouth and turned his face from Twynne. “Have you ever looked through all that stuff in the cellar there? I know you have drawers full of it. I watched you stuff it all down there in cast-off furniture when your father died. You’re lucky your father was so interested in family history and his father before him and his before him, or you wouldn’t have all those records now. Take a look, Crossett. If you think you have a ghost at Winterhurst, you’ll find her in those records somewhere.”
“Oh, come now, Twynne. If May Wetherton couldn’t turn up anything, I doubt if I can.”
Twynne shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t sensational enough for May.”
“You mean, maybe it’s a little ghost.”
“Your sarcasm is showing again.”
“I wear it like a petticoat.”
Chapter 3
In the dusk Crossett’s stocky frame was a black shadow gliding through the white snow on the back south tobacco field that joined Twynne’s. The front south field would have made a shorter trek from house to house, but the spear-headed stubble of the corn hidden by the thick layer of snow would have made the walk deadly. Lost, kernelless cobs lying toothless in the rows, if caught by the rubber heelless boot, would roll beneath the cover of the snow until the wayfarer lay flat on his back. In his youth such spills brought forth from him no more than a chortle, but now the hapless fall could leave him aching and wrenched for days. His dark figure hunched forward in the back field, huddling against the light snow blowing across the widely open space. In the distance the underbelly of the white, snow-filled sky reflected the glow along the horizon, the lights of the city of Washington. Further in the distance to the north a fainter light hovered along the tree tops, all that could be seen of the lights of Baltimore.
Crossett passed the huge, looming, ebony figure of the tobacco barn, the light wind passing through its empty slats, turning one aside now and again with a muffled creak, the flap of the tarp in the stripping room like a page turning in the night. He stopped a moment to stand before it in defiance of its sourceless sounds, its mimicked assurance that some human hand had knocked gently along the graying boards of the barn,
“Oh, really, Twynne!” Crossett said with disgust. “That’s nothing but an old ghost story!”
“Then you do remember it!”
“Not quite so embellished a version!”
“It’s local lore, Crossett! An important part of our history here. Don’t you find it fascinating that there are so many of such stories in this region? Doesn’t it make you wonder why there are so many stories like that around here? I’ve looked into the histories of adjacent areas and not found the plethora of such stories as there are here. I’ll tell you what you should do,” he continued leaning forward. “You should go home and look though the family records and see what you can find. I’m serious,” he said waving his hand at Crossett as he blew through his mouth and turned his face from Twynne. “Have you ever looked through all that stuff in the cellar there? I know you have drawers full of it. I watched you stuff it all down there in cast-off furniture when your father died. You’re lucky your father was so interested in family history and his father before him and his before him, or you wouldn’t have all those records now. Take a look, Crossett. If you think you have a ghost at Winterhurst, you’ll find her in those records somewhere.”
“Oh, come now, Twynne. If May Wetherton couldn’t turn up anything, I doubt if I can.”
Twynne shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t sensational enough for May.”
“You mean, maybe it’s a little ghost.”
“Your sarcasm is showing again.”
“I wear it like a petticoat.”
Chapter 3
In the dusk Crossett’s stocky frame was a black shadow gliding through the white snow on the back south tobacco field that joined Twynne’s. The front south field would have made a shorter trek from house to house, but the spear-headed stubble of the corn hidden by the thick layer of snow would have made the walk deadly. Lost, kernelless cobs lying toothless in the rows, if caught by the rubber heelless boot, would roll beneath the cover of the snow until the wayfarer lay flat on his back. In his youth such spills brought forth from him no more than a chortle, but now the hapless fall could leave him aching and wrenched for days. His dark figure hunched forward in the back field, huddling against the light snow blowing across the widely open space. In the distance the underbelly of the white, snow-filled sky reflected the glow along the horizon, the lights of the city of Washington. Further in the distance to the north a fainter light hovered along the tree tops, all that could be seen of the lights of Baltimore.
Crossett passed the huge, looming, ebony figure of the tobacco barn, the light wind passing through its empty slats, turning one aside now and again with a muffled creak, the flap of the tarp in the stripping room like a page turning in the night. He stopped a moment to stand before it in defiance of its sourceless sounds, its mimicked assurance that some human hand had knocked gently along the graying boards of the barn,
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