The Spirits Told Me Their Story
The horrors they endured are still going.
When I was 12, my mom took a job on a plantation in Virginia. Dad was not sure about it, but they offered him a light handyman position, which suited him just fine.
I spent my days wandering around the place, fascinated with the history of it all, and there was so much to explore. The place was vast, and sat at the foot of the Appalachia mountains, out in the middle of what was, then, considered nowhere.
Bear in mind, I’ve always had a tenuous and weird relationship with the spirit world. We’ve come to an agreement over the years that I will tolerate being bothered, but only when it’s on my own terms. Back then, though, I was much more open, and had a lot of experiences that shaped the person I would eventually become.
One particular day, I wandered off on my bike to see if I could find something new… and boy-howdy, did I.
There was a large field, overgrown by weeds, that I assumed had, at one time in the past, been where planting took place. It was, however, not that way anymore; gone fallow, there was nothing remaining of what might have once been cotton or corn.
As I was biking through this field, I began feeling a heavy presence. I knew something was there, but I couldn’t quite place what…
