The House Nevermore

“This house is known as Nevermore. But it wasn’t originally called that. That’s the nickname, the second name for this house. But the story goes back further, much further than perhaps should be possible. It’s like something out of a bad Stephen King rip-off--”

“Or the new Lich novel,” added her wife.

“Indeed,” said the officer. “But the story is real, at least the physical, provable part of it. The other parts? Just superstition. But you know how it can be out here in the country, with no one around, none of the hustle and drone of the city, the million people in their mass movements. Even with a few people around a woman could go stir crazy, or even madder.

“That is exactly what happened, or so I have gathered, from the start of this quaint countryside. The first house on this land, over which the foundation of your house is laid, was a small cottage. The owner was what Jefferson would have called a Yeoman farmer, an independent worker, and his wife.

“But, at that time, the wife was amorous of another man, and often snuck off to join with him in tryst.”

“When you put it like that,” said Officer Cox II, “it sounds like you’re trying to write a story by substituting the hardest word you can find in a thesaurus for the simplest word that tells the tale.”

The Coxs shot dirty looks at each other, then each smiled. The short Cox, who was telling the story, flashed small fangs. The other, taller Cox, Cox II, did not show her teeth, but did seem to wryly appreciate the argument.

“She means that the woman was having an affair,” said Cox II.

“Yes,” said Cox I, “and if you don’t mind, Llorena, I’ll finish telling the story.

“As is per usual in these sort of stories, the husband found out that his beautiful wife was indeed trys-- that is, cheating on him. He flew into a mad, possessed sort of rage, and with one of his farmer’s tools, though it is unclear which, he struck his wife and her lover dead. So possessed of anger was he that when he came to see what he had done, he spoke a simple, damning rhyme:

“‘The grave’s a fine and private place,’” he said, “‘and only there will such as you embrace.’ He later returned to cognizance, and when he realized that he had killed his beloved, his took what he thought was the only honourable way out and hung himself from a tree.. .that grew somewhere in the grove from which you have just emerged.” Here, Cox I pointed at me, and then indicated that strange circle of trees.

“But that’s only the prologue,” Cox II said. “For years passed and for a long time no one would live on or even pass this land, if they could help it. Even as the country grew up around it. No one dared tread on this ground, for fear of a feeling that something strange and evil had happened here, until the country became caught up in the Civil War.

“It was on this spot that a confederate general, supposedly Stonewall Jackson, made his camp one night.”

Here, it was Cox I’s turn to return fire by interrupting Cox II as she told her portion of the story.

“Any historian can tell you that Stonewall Jackson was both dead at the time of the supposed battle and never entered anywhere near this state during the campaign.”

“Nonetheless,” continued Cox II, “local legend says that it was Stonewall, who was already known to have prophetic dreams, that came here and established a small camp. Either way, the next day was a bloody battle. Some say that it was as bloody as Antietam or Gettysburg, though other than locally it is virtually unknown.

“At the time, as the land was long abandoned, the place was overrun by all the various pitfalls that nature could lay as a trap. Still, despite the variety of trees, there was the parcel that the farmer had originally civilized, had torn down and carved out from the forest primeval. It was a very foggy heath, it seems, which added to the usual fog of war. The camp that the confederates had set up was stumbled upon by a union scout, who led a small contingent into what was supposed to be an ambush.

“But Stonewall’s dreams once again provide fertile, as he imagined such a thing might happen. The union line walked straight into a trap, and man by man fell down. After the first attempt to take the Southern position failed, those left in the Union army managed to rally, and they received news that a larger detachment was soon to join them. Digging in, the Union may have created the very first trench. They fired at regular intervals, sometimes wounding a Confederate, sometimes becoming wounded by their enemy.

“This battle went on for three days, and it is not known how many lost their lives, as the Confederates and Union soon both left their positions as they were each needed for other, apparently more important battles. Chancellorsville was soon to follow, and Stonewall’s own ****. But, as for those lost on the fields surrounding the house, it is unknown how many perished and fell stinking, unattended, unaccounted for, into the field.

“For this reason,” Cox II said, as if reciting some long remembered fact from her schoolhouse days, “the area was renamed Evermoor, in reference to the open field in which so many perished, and because those who died, while not in name, in story are remembered ‘ever more’.”

“The story goes on, though,” Cox said.

“I suspected it might,” said Florez. “I have a keen sense of these things, and there is a strange shadow feeling to the house. Once a place is a place of **** and despair it tends to draw more people to that place. There is a dark heart to this house.”

“And what better than a toymaker to mold that darkness into the light?” asked Roman.

“I agree. Perhaps this story could serve my makings,” I said. I turned towards the Coxs. “This story does not end, then, with General Jackson?”