The Haunting of Appleton Hill

by Trinidad Giachino

  Thus, Henry Appleton threw all his resources into making the Appleton estate a place of reputation within the tobacco industry. But all of this came with a high price tag for the slaves employed to achieve said level of greatness. Excessive working hours, inadequate food and water, diverse physical punishments that even then were considered extreme—these were only a few of the abuses the enslaved men, women and children had to endure. Oral history records state with no doubt that to be bought by Henry Appleton was the equivalent of receiving a death sentence.

  After a while, his slave-trading activities increased significantly. Henry Appleton developed a specific taste―some even say a fetish―for the type of humans he wanted to own. They had to come straight from the Kingdom of Dahomey to his doorstep. Some say Appleton was obsessed with the all-female army of this African kingdom, claiming that such strong women only bred strong men.

  The article then veered towards the house and its historic value. It detailed the architectural style, the number of rooms, and so on. All of that I had already heard from Claire years before. In fact, this information was no longer accurate today, because the number of rooms had diminished over the years due to lack of proper maintenance. Like the house, the land had also shrunk, as this book stated Henry Appleton owned the hill and the surrounding terrain.

  “The family probably divided the fields and sold them when they stopped being profitable. That’s why it is only a hill today.”

  It was indeed surprising to find out how trimmed the foliage had been, at least at the beginning, giving room to work the land into tobacco fields. This business grew, attracting workers from other towns who came to Appleton Hill offering their services to its owner and looking for a new beginning. Eventually, this led to the town of Ashwell forming around the hill.

  It is interesting to point out that, although the town of Ashwell was born out of Henry Appleton’s brutal entrepreneurial force and genius, the town does not carry his name. It is possible to conjecture, based on anecdotal evidence, that Henry Appleton was not a loved man.

  The heat kept increasing, and I was regretting choosing that dress in the first place.

  “Ungrateful. They were all ungrateful―that’s all. Ungrateful. They still are…” I noticed the chess players glancing at me while I murmured these words to myself.

  Chapter 26

  I moved from that section of the book and carried on to one where Henry Appleton’s private life was discussed. I could still feel the chess players focusing on me, but I didn’t have any time to waste on their rude manners.

  Claire’s ancestor had four wives. The first three died of unidentified diseases. A general weakness was common to all three women to the point of being bedbound for months until their inevitable passing. The death certificates did not specify what caused the deaths of the young women, other than…

  An unidentified blood infection. The first wife died only a year after the wedding. Eliza Marshal was nineteen years old. His second wife, Louise O’Connor, was the daughter of one of the merchants who had settled in the up-and-coming town of Ashwell. They married six months after Henry Appleton became a widower. Louise had a longer run than Eliza as Appleton Manor’s mistress―she passed away three years into the marriage.

  Louise had a special footnote, as her death certificate did state a heart attack as the reason after a long, debilitating disease.

  “Three years dedicated to Appleton Hill and all she gets is a footnote?”

  My mouth felt dry. I was getting dehydrated inside this Babylonian library. I grabbed the edge of the table to stabilize myself and kept reading. Those chairs were far more uncomfortable than they seemed in the first place, and it was difficult for me to maintain my balance.

  Ten months after Louise was gone, Odette Darwin came into the picture. Once again, Henry Appleton took as a bride the daughter of one of his employees. Odette passed away four years after arriving at Appleton Hill.

  “Then, Jacinta came along.”

  Jacinta was Henry Appleton’s fourth wife and the one who would live the longest, as they enjoyed fifteen years of marriage.

  The book had portraits of all of Henry Appleton’s wives. I studied all four of them with care, trying to recognize their faces from the portraits hanging from Appleton Manor’s walls. Jacinta was different from the rest. You could tell from the pictures she was physically stronger and had a sturdier body-type than Eliza, Louise, and Odette. Jacinta was, without a doubt, the face I had seen carved in red stone at the garden of statues. The book also noted that none of them came from aristocratic families, which would have been the most logical step for Henry Appleton. After building his own fortune, he could afford to buy some blue blood and smear himself with it.

  “He seemed to choose his wives according to his heart’s desire and not their pockets, which was unusual for the time. This exposed Henry Appleton’s character―”

  “Ms. Gardner? Ms. Gardner?”

  I lifted my eyes from the book to see the librarian standing in front of me. It took me a second to be able to focus on her.

  “Yes?” I tried to restrain my irritation at her interruption.

  “This is a silent reading room. You can’t be reading out loud.”

  I hadn’t realized it, but I was so engrossed by this information that, at some point, I stopped reading it silently. I quickly apologized and promised not to do it again. I wanted her to go away so that I could get back to my book.

  “Also, the scratching has to stop as well. You are damaging public property.”

  Her eyes focused on my right hand. I followed her stare and found marks at the edge of the table. Some of my nails were broken. I stammered a new apology to the librarian, but this time I couldn’t take my eyes away from the scratched surface. When did I do that? Why hadn’t I noticed it?

  My palms felt sweaty as I turned yet another page to carry on reading. It would be the fourth wife who proved capable of bearing Henry Appleton’s children. But this was not the only peculiarity setting her apart from the other three. Jacinta didn’t come from Ashwell like the rest, and it was rumored Henry had brought her from overseas. Other said she had native blood running through her veins. Yet this was all hearsay. Jacinta’s identity was just as obscure as his husband.

  After this, there was an asterisk indicating a new direction in my reading expedition.

  “See page 54. Subheading ‘Henry Appleton’s blood fixation’.”

  I moved on to the dreaded page 54. The first thing I encountered was a portrait of Henry Appleton. Just like Jacinta, this was the face carved in red I had laid eyes on the day before. Why were they only showing his image once? Why didn’t he show up at the beginning?

  They’re trying to make him look bad, that’s all. This is a town of unappreciative people, and they don’t like him. They’re painting him in a harsh light because they can’t stand to know Ashwell only exists because of him, but what do I care? I felt my blood pulsing in my temples. The question had popped into my head out of nowhere, forcing me to reconsider the path I was on. What did I care how Henry Appleton was viewed? Well, because I care about Mrs. Appleton and Claire’s legacy, and the Appleton family’s legacy… But why do I care?

  My mind was so jumbled, I couldn’t answer my own question. I refocused my waning energy on reading this new section. I tasted at the back of my throat the bitter anticipation of what was to come. One part of me wanted to find out. The other part wanted me to shut the damn book and run to the hill. Run to safety. But was I safe? This question spread like gangrene all over my body, forcing me to move restlessly in my seat and reminding me of my sore back. Yes, physical security was something I needed to start questioning. Why didn’t I do it before?

  Focus, Althea.

  Inhaling deeply, I gathered strength and continued reading.

  Throughout Ashwell’s early days, there were several reports of Henry Appleton’s profound―and disturbing―interest in blood. Some linked this to the lack of blue blood in the tobacco
empire he was building, but that doesn’t seem to add up with his other peculiarities, such as marrying women of unknown stock.

  Most of the accounts from that era concurred that Henry Appleton seemed obsessed with a procedure he became acquainted with while traveling through Asia, before buying Appleton Hill. Although it is not certain how he obtained the means for this traveling―and it’s unlikely he did it with the Army―this might prove he had obscured his own origins to hide a possible past as a mercenary. Once again, there were no records of him enlisting in the Army.

  Regardless, Henry Appleton was fascinated with a Chinese procedure called Lingchi, also known as “death by a thousand cuts.” This monstrous form of torture entailed strapping a person to a pole and then, for three days, they received countless wounds intended to bleed them out. This type of suffering was mostly inflicted upon men.

  Historical records of Lingchi differ on how many days it took to kill the victim. There are recollections that cuts were not the only injury inflicted upon the victim, but small pieces of flesh were also taken from the body.

  The throbbing in my head increased along with the heat of my body. My blood was bursting into flames, burning me from the inside out.

  It has been widely reported that Henry Appleton used this form of torture on slaves and employees he believed had betrayed him. If they tried to run away or if he suspected anyone had stolen from him, he applied this physical punishment on whoever was the object of his fixation.

  But Henry Appleton added a new twist to Lingchi. He ordered his servants to collect the blood of the victim. Once they had died, Appleton ordered slaves to paint the walls of Appleton Manor with the blood of the traitor.

  Chapter 27

  I shut the book loudly. I was sweating more than ever, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop shaking. It felt like I had a fever.

  “No… Th-this can’t be. He wasn’t a monster… A monster. It-it’s a lie.”

  I rubbed my face, trying to scratch what I had just read from my eyes. I felt even more confused than before. I stood up suddenly and accidentally knocked the chair over behind me.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” I rushed to say as I lifted a hand in the air, certain that the librarian was pinning me down with a death stare.

  I intended to pick the chair back up, but my head felt light. I was losing my footing, so I let myself drop in the nearest chair before I fainted.

  “Are you okay, child?” A raspy voice reached me from across the table.

  I lifted my head and saw one of the chess players studying me with a concerned look on his face. He had a gray beard that contrasted with his dark complexion. It gave him a warm appearance, like a grandpa one could confide in.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “Yeah, no, I’m fine. It’s just― It’s too hot in here. I’m flustered.” I stuttered my way through the only lame excuse I was able to fish out of the mess my mind was.

  “Flustered?” The other chess player intervened. “If anything, you look pale as a ghost. I think we should call a doctor,” he said to his companion while covering his nose and mouth with his flannel scarf.

  “I am fine!” I shouted. Their concern was nothing but irritating at that point.

  “SHHHH!” The librarian shut us up from the background.

  “Thank you for your concern,” I stated without even looking at them.

  I got to my feet, not without difficulty, and stretched out over the table to reach the oral history book. I don’t even know why I did it. I guess I needed the book to keep up the façade that I was all right. I knew I wasn’t. I knew something was making me feel off-kilter.

  The man with the gray beard looked down at the book I had in my hands, then moved his eyes to the one I had closed. I sensed he wanted to say something about them, but he apparently decided against it.

  “All right, then. But you have a little something here.” He pointed to a place under his own nose, so I would mimic him.

  When I did, I touched a warm substance that was reaching my upper lip. I looked down at my hand and found I was bleeding from my nose. I grabbed my satchel, frantically searching for a tissue. Somehow, all my movements seemed too slow and too exaggerated at the same time. Before I could find anything, a male hand held out a gray and blue handkerchief to me.

  “You can keep it,” Chess player #2 offered, and I grabbed it.

  I gave them a muffled “Thank you” and then they slowly walked away. Occasionally, on their way to the door, they stared over their shoulders to check up on me. I had not convinced them that nothing was wrong with me―how could I, with a bloody cloth under my nose?―but they left me alone. I saw them exchange a few words with the librarian at the entrance, and then they exited the library.

  I looked down at the book I had so desperately claimed a few seconds before. My hands felt numb and my legs were a pair of ice sticks as I had locked my knees to be able to hold myself while trying to put on a front of strength I did not have. This time I was more careful to find the way back to my seat.

  I stared at the book as if it were an alien object. Something I did not wish to interact with, but I had no choice. Was I looking for confirmation on the lips of others? Confirmation of what? That I was right, and Henry Appleton was ill-portrayed on purpose in that history book? Or that I was wrong? My mind was so far removed from the place where I had initially started this investigation, I couldn’t define with certainty where I wanted to go. Was I on or off the path? And who exactly was making that call?

  Dulled by utter confusion, I lifted the cover and sifted through the different tales recorded in black and white to avoid the dust of forgetfulness settling upon them. Like a compass’s needle, whenever I found the name Appleton, I stopped. That name was my north, and finding it was not difficult. Stories about Henry Appleton and his reign of doom practically dripped off the pages. And they all belonged in a horror movie.

  It was not hard to spot a pattern. Most stories were told by the descendants of those who had been enslaved by or worked for Henry Appleton. In a few cases, the children who were connected to Appleton Hill told their stories when they had become elderly men and women.

  “They were terrified of him.”

  I had no choice but to admit it. I understood the transatlantic slave trade involved all sorts of horrors, and Henry Appleton was not the only person profiting from it, but he made a conscious effort to inflict pain and suffering upon others. According to the dates I found in the first book about Appleton’s death, all these people started telling their stories many years―if not decades―after he was gone.

  “It also means the people who knew the most about what was going on inside Appleton Hill were his slaves.”

  The first piece that called my attention was one told by a woman who heard the following story from her grandmother:

  Appleton was a loose cannon. That’s the expression my grandmother used to describe him. She said his mood swings would vary tremendously. He could congratulate one of his slaves on cooking a good meal and force her to sit at the table with him to share it. Then, as soon as the meal was over, he could slap her for not removing the dirty dishes quickly enough. Appleton did that with men, too, and not only to slaves. White people as well.

  He was the master of everything. He owned everything and everyone who came in contact with Appleton Hill.

  According to my grandma, there was no way of winning. He never drank. He never smoked. He was strong as an ox. He was a tall man, too. Some say he was six feet tall; others say he was six feet four, which I believe to be an exaggeration, but it was evident he had an imposing presence.

  They say he was insane, but that’s not how my grandma characterized him. She always said he was the opposite. “There was a macabre method to his madness, Jocelyn,” she told me. From what I understood about her time at Appleton Hill, it seems that Henry Appleton was a cunningly brilliant man who knew you have to strike first if you want to win the fight. And that’s what he did with those who serv
ed him. His entire life was an endless fight to show who was in charge.

  When Appleton bought a new slave, he would make everyone go out to the gardens to greet them. He grabbed the hand of this poor man or woman, took his knife out and slashed the palm open. Then, Appleton dragged them to the closest wall of the mansion and ordered them to wipe the blood on the wall. Many were dumbfounded by the request. They didn’t speak English, which made the situation even more bizarre.

  Once the new slave had done as they were told, Appleton slashed the palm of his own hand and smeared his blood on the face of the slave.

  “This house owns you now. Respect it.” He always said the same thing, according to my grandma. He didn’t care if they understood him. Appleton made sure they did. He was a tyrant. A bloodthirsty tyrant.

  “A bloodthirsty tyrant,” I mumbled, trying to wrap my mind around that horrifying idea.

  The bleeding from my nose hadn’t stopped, so I threw my head back. I needed some breathing room. I wanted to stop reading, but I needed to keep absorbing information. Something was wrong with the way my mind was split. No, not quite… That wasn’t exactly what I was experiencing either. It was more like my mind forced me to keep on reading―and was regaining power over my body. Up to that moment, I had navigated the life on the hill from my guts. I was slowly turning into a puppet, a mindless body that only wanted to return to the hill.

  He baptized us, one of the following anecdotes started. When Henry Appleton smeared your face with his blood, he would give you a name. Then he would claim your life and body for his property. The intention behind his action was evident, the man telling the story concluded. Clearly, he had been a slave himself. First of all, he wanted to scare you into obedience. But that was the dressing on the plate. When I arrived, I became “Joseph.” You only existed from the moment Mr. Appleton gave you a name. Before that, you did not exist in any noticeable way to the world. And from that moment on, you only breathed to be owned by the hill.