The Madman of Thorne Hill House Ch 1

Thorne Hill House
The name brings chills to me; now, knowing what I know about its dark history. There were nights I woke in a cold sweat, and times when I doubted I'd ever sleep through the night again.

Chances are, unless you grew up along the south Georgia coast or you're a ghost hunter or an unsolved mystery aficionado- you've probably never heard of it. But Thorn Hill House was a part of our family’s history for as long as any of us could remember. It was never exactly clear how our family histories became intertwined until that night. The night of the fire. The night that I lay covered in someone else's blood and held the hand of the man I loved as he uttered his last words and broke my heart.  It was then that he told me the secrets that had been hidden away for so long. He had to try to make it right, he said before he stood before a Holy God and so I became his confessor.

That night I learned that there were some things that only God should know; some deeds were better left in the shadows. Since then, that knowledge has haunted my dreams and the shadows have stalked the farthest corners of my consciousness.  The knowledge of it is always there, and no matter how far I run, it follows me.  It has chased me from one corner of this state to the other and yet I have found no peace; no consolation in my in my soul. I know there were promises that I made that night, and have yet to keep.

And so I return. To this island where I know that every place my foot will trod will fall upon some place where he has also been. Every thing I touch has probably also been touched by him.  A place where I know his memory is more real, more alive than anywhere, kept in place by whatever magic that still exists on this island. Every time I turn I feel I might see him- though not him- the ghost of him, perhaps, but not him. I know full well that the one I love is gone. He lives only in the aching memory of my heart. As close as my next breath but just beyond the thin veil that separates our world from the next.

I lie to my family. I say I am well. I say it was no big deal. He was my friend, but nothing more. How can I tell them that my heart is buried in this sandy soil under the sweeping arms of that live oak? I cannot. I can never explain it, no matter how hard I try, because they don’t believe. I only tell them I want to return. Though that is only half the truth. I dread it as much as I miss it; I hate it as much as I love it. It gnaws a hole in my stomach and yet I am compelled to return.

My time is over, they tell me. A month is not long enough. It is summer. The fireworks will be next week and Helen can bring the twins and stay for a little while. I can stay home where I belong. I tell them not to worry. Its my responsibility to take care of Meemaw 's place. Everybody has their places and this is mine.  They try to talk me out of it. They don't understand. Well, perhaps only Meemaw does. This place has captured me. I am cursed by it- as was so many women in my family. I cannot stay away. I am drawn. I have to come back.

I was not here for the funeral so despite the feeling of dread lying in the pit of my stomach I go to his grave. It’s been weeks since the funeral and the dirt still looks fresh. There is no marker, and I know from granddaddy's funeral that it could take several weeks to be placed there. I content myself with touching the little placard, running my fingers over his name.  I brought wildflowers gathered along the way and apologize for not coming to the funeral. I was not well, I lie to him. How can I tell him I was sitting in a jail cell when strangers were investigating his death? So I lie to a dead man because its so much easier than the truth. I don’t know if where he is now- if he knows the truth or if he's watching like they say. Nonetheless, I lie to him and tell him I was sick during the funeral but i know i would not have been allowed. His family blamed me at first, so Meemaw stood to represent our family and i grieved from afar. It was after that service that she returned with a leather bound book and handed me a pen accompanied by a warning that I should not lock it inside.

Thunder rumbles in the distance and I know I have to leave. The storm is approaching and fat drops of rain spatter the fresh grave causing little plumes of dust to rise up from the dry sand. I don’t want to leave. I want to lie on this mound of dirt and cry until there are no more tears. Only the tears renew each morning that he is not there. Reluctantly, I wipe tears and tell him goodbye. Lightning strikes overhead and I run madly for shelter. I make it back to Meemaw 's house before the deluge and collapse on her porch drawing in ragged burning breaths.  I lie there and listen to the rain, thinking back over the last year of my life.  I think of the book Meemaw gave me and I know its time. The story must be told and I am the only one that can tell it now. But it must be told here, to soothe the restless spirits that haunt this place. I need to get started. I open my eyes.  Determined to keep my promises but there is a flash of lighting and for the first time I notice the familiar figure standing only a couple feet from the porch in the driving rain. My blood freezes and my heart almost stops as for several seconds as I do not know if he is a mere figment of my overactive imagination and my broken heart or if I am looking at a ghost.

Why are you still here? I wonder. The curse is broken, so what are you? I want to scream above the torrent but my voice is frozen in my raw throat. Ghost? Vampire? Demon sent to torment me? I don't know which, nor at that minute do I care as I rush into the blinding rain and reach out for him...