DarkHeart of Hampton House

by Joy Redmond

  Goosebumps rose on her arms. She ran across the living room floor, out the front door and stood on the porch. “Lance!” she called out as loudly as she could. She heard her voice echoing through the pine trees. She walked to the car and looked inside. She turned in circles, yelling, “Lance! Lance!”

  She walked back to the porch and plopped down on the top step. She raised her head, looked toward the heavens and bellowed, “Oh, God, throw a lightning bolt and strike me dead. I thought Lance loved me. I thought he might marry me. All those years I waited and prayed for him was for nothing.”

  She felt her face becoming hot and her nostrils flared as her soul filled with anger, a feeling she wasn’t use to. “Lance Jackson, I’m glad you’re gone. You don’t know how to love. Poor Miss Hampton. All she wanted was to see you just one more time before she died. Now it’s too late. Lance Jackson, you’re a real shit-ass. I’ll never love ya another day of my life. Go to hell!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Six Months Later

  Lance parked his Harley, ran his hand through his hair, checked his reflection in the side mirror, blew himself a kiss and smiled. He looked around him. It was a beautiful November day. November in South Georgia was like summertime. It was eighty degrees, and the humidity was low.

  He strutted like a peacock as he made his way into the tavern. The jukebox was blaring, Merle Haggard singing, “Going Where the Lonely Go.” He slid onto the barstool, needing a strong drink. I’m being suffocated by Miss Sex Pot. Miss Rich Bitch.

  “Give me a shot of Black Jack, water back,” he yelled to the bartender. He hung his head, rubbed the back of his neck, and chuckled to himself.

  When he left North Carolina six months earlier, he had walked into a small bar in Hilton Head, South Carolina carrying his suitcase and briefcase. The jukebox was blaring. The small bar was full of backwoods-rednecks. He needed a few stiff drinks in order to get rid of Bonnie Sue’s whiney voice, which was still ringing in his ears. An image of Ruby Hampton’s twisted face was stuck in his mind.

  Lance had knocked back the shot and ignored the glass of water. He enjoyed the burn all the way to his stomach. “Give me another,” he had yelled, holding up the shot glass. His arm was still in the air when he felt a body brush against him. He caught the scent of perfume. A female voice asked, “Mind if I belly-up to the bar with you?”

  He didn’t turn his head. He pictured her in his mind, and he was in no mood for a fat, redneck girl, dressed in a mini skirt, exposing thunder-thighs, wearing cowgirl boots, smiling, showing a set of tobacco stained teeth, and wanting to belly-up to him at a bar.

  He looked her way, ready to tell her to piss-off. His eyes widened. He looked at her as if she were a road sign in some foreign language. She had shoulder length blonde hair and a wave fell over her right eye, Veronica Lake style. Her sapphire blue eyes glistened like a chlorine pool. She was five-foot-five, one hundred and ten pounds, and she was wearing tight fitting jeans and a white cashmere sweater which clung to ample breasts, large nipples protruding.

  Women’s liberation of burning bras is a pretty sight, right now. Bully for her. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, watching her round, firm bottom as it slid onto the stool.

  The lady held her hand toward the bartender. “Hey, Sam, bring my friend another round, and I’ll have my usual.” She sounded ladylike even when she yelled. Sam quickly placed another shot in front of Lance and placed vodka on the rocks in front of the lady. “Put it on my tab,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Lance uttered, more intrigued now. It was the first time a woman had bought him a drink. Usually the female barflies were hustling drinks from men.

  “What’s your name, big boy?” she asked, smiling, nudging closer.

  He could feel her breasts against his arm. “Lance Jackson,” he answered. I should have said Billy Joe Bob. Somebody might be tailing me. Or my paranoia is running amuck.

  “My name is Penny,” she said, smiling, tilting her drink.

  “Just Penny?” he asked, smiling. The woman had a mystique about her. Even more intriguing.

  “Just Penny, for now,” she said, looking Lance up and down. She rubbed his muscular arm, eyeing the bulge in the front of his jeans. “You have the darkest, sexiest eyes I’ve ever seen, and I love that set of pearly white teeth. The way your upper lip curls in the same way as Elvis, kinda gives me tingles. You’re unlike the other men who I’ve had the dubious pleasure of being brushed off by.”

  “Dubious,” Lance repeated and chuckled. “You do have an interesting vocabulary. Here’s to us!” Lance and Penny put booze away as fast as the bartender could serve them. Lance had never met a woman who could keep up with him, but Penny matched him drink for drink. They laughed, talked, and surprisingly, he was comfortable with her. He noticed she was wearing large diamonds on both hands. They were the real McCoys. He knew genuine “ice” when he saw it. He’d seen plenty of rocks on the rich bitches in California.

  Penny was also wearing a strand of genuine pearls around her neck which fell into her cleavage. She’s no average barfly. She’s a rich bitch looking for action. She’s found her man.

  “Say, Penny, ya ever done cocaine?” His words slurred.

  “Love it!” she exclaimed, her tongue thick, her body teetering on the stool.

  “Know where we can get some?” he asked, his interest piqued even more.

  “Sure. Lots of it. My place!” Penny said, fumbling in her handbag. She tossed a set of keys in Lance’s direction. “Savannah. ‘Bout an hour’s drive from here, depending on your speed,” she said, laughing.

  Lance caught the keys in midair. Then he picked up his cases that he had been using for a foot rest.

  “Red ‘Vette, right out front.” Penny threw money on the bar counter, looped her arm through his and they staggered across the floor.

  Lance set his cases on the floor, held the door open and stepped back. She’s a looker all right. A real knockout. Trouble is, I can’t seem to focus on any woman for long. But then I never wanted to.

  Lance picked up his cases and followed Penny outside, where he spied the red ‘Vette. “All aboard,” he said, as he unlocked the doors.

  He put his cases in the back, then managed to squeeze his body under the steering wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror, pushed the seat back, and stretched his long legs. He eyed Penny, wondering if she were a mirage. Not only did she have a knockout body, she had a movie star face, and a cute, sexy, southern drawl, which was half fake, he was sure.

  By the time they had reached Savannah, he felt as if he had known her forever. She was easy to talk with, intelligent and witty.

  Following Penny’s directions, he pulled in front of a Southern-style mansion. “This it?” he asked, trying not to let his voice show he was in awe of the place.

  “We’re home,” Penny said, stroking his large, muscular arm.

  Lance stepped from the Corvette, his long legs needing a good stretch. He surveyed his surroundings. He followed Penny toward the front door, turning his head in all directions. Is this Tara?

  Penny was about to insert a key into the front door when the door swung open.

  “Welcome home, ma’am,” said an old man who was tall, thin and wore thick glasses.

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning, but Hobbs, the butler, never sleeps until I’m in the house. A habit he’s had since I was a teenager, out with boys, some twelve years ago. A habit that drove me crazy!”

  As Penny gazed at Hobbs, she continued. “I remember mother telling me about him. Hobbs has been with the Winchester family for over fifty years. He was twenty years old when he was hired by my grandfather. And he’s loved me like a daughter since the day I was born.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lance said. He wasn’t interested in the family history. He wanted cocaine. But Penny went on.

  “After my parents were killed in an automobile accident three years ago, Hobbs says I’ve become very insolent with the house staff, and I seem to be on a self-d
estructive course. Maybe he’s right. But he gets on my nerves.”

  A lady entered the foyer. “Ah, and here’s Hilda,” Penny said with sarcasm.

  Lance eyed Hilda. She was a short, rotund, aging woman.

  “Hilda is the overseer of the house staff and was hired by grandfather Winchester, two days after Hobbs.”

  “May I get you something,” Hilda inquired, eyeing Lance. “I was about to retire.”

  Penny brushed passed Hilda and Hobbs as if they were statues. “Prying old buzzards,” she mumbled. “If I need anything, I’ll call. Go to bed,” she said, as she walked across the foyer, through the living room, and headed up a spiral staircase.

  Lance was on her heels, eager to snort. He felt his insides tremble, thinking of the wonderful snow. It had been a long time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Penny entered a bedroom-sitting room. “Shut and lock the door and kick off your shoes,” she commanded, as if Lance were a new puppy she had to train.

  Lance didn’t take orders from anybody, especially a woman, but he was in no position to let his feathers ruffle. He kicked off his shoes, and his feet sunk into white carpet, thick and soft. It feels like I’m walking on a giant marshmallow.

  Penny motioned him to sit on a king size waterbed with a red velvet spread and red velvet throw pillows. She pulled out the bottom drawer of the bedside table, withdrew a mirror, a razor, and a bag of cocaine. She placed the mirror on the bedside table, poured and cut two lines.

  Lance sat on the bedside watching her, his legs jumping as if he were keeping time with music. He grabbed both legs, pushed down hard, and tried to make his legs stay still. The sight of cocaine made his entire body tremble, and made him want to snatch the bag and snort until he was soaring higher than the heavens.

  “You first,” Penny said, smiling, holding out a small straw.

  Lance bent, and pressing one nostril shut, he quickly inhaled. Straws are for sissies. He flopped backward on the bed, his face flushing, his blood rushing, and his heart pounding. Damn, I love this shit!

  He opened his eyes and peered upward. He stared, then laughed, hard. “Well kiss my horny ass. I haven’t seen a mirror on the ceiling since—since last time.”

  Penny pounced on the bed. “When was the last time?” she asked, purring, unzipping his jeans, loosening his belt buckle, and pulling out his shirttail. Then she straddled him, bringing her face to his. Her tongue trailed the edges of his lips, clockwise, then counterclockwise.

  Lance parted his lips and caught her tongue, sucking it into his mouth. He kissed her with a savage passion that had been pent up for a long time.

  Lance was having a new experience with Penny. She was like a tigress, clawing his back with her long nails until he felt blood ooze.

  “Talk dirty to Daddy.”

  Penny spewed vulgarities. She yelled loudly when she reached an orgasm, and Lance wondered if he would ever hear out of his left ear again.

  Lance blew the exact moment Penny did. Perfect sync. That’s a first. He looked at her strangely. Is she real or is she a dream? If I’m dreaming, I hope I never wake up.

  For the past six months, Lance had all the wild sex he could handle. He had all the drugs he wanted: barbiturates, amphetamines, morphine, and opium derivatives. He was living in a drug-haven with his personal whore who was very generous. She had bought him the Harley, his greatest treasure. He had a closet filled with designer clothes, down to his briefs and socks.

  What a life. He twisted on the barstool and scanned the room. There’s nothing interesting in this joint today. He hurried outside and straddled his Harley.

  Lance could tell that Penny was in a snit when he arrived back at the manor. She ran down the front steps just as he turned off the engine.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she yelled.

  “Don’t start any shit with me! I’ll get back on that bike and you’ll never see me again. I mean it!”

  “You wouldn’t dare! I keep you—”

  “You don’t keep me. You don’t own me. And you will not push me around!”

  “Damn, Lance. Don’t look at me like that. Shit, man, you look like the devil is about to jump out of your eyes. Calm down.” She slipped her arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the lips. “I was mad and I made you mad. Sorry.” She smiled sweetly. “Come on in and we’ll have make-up sex. The best kind, you know.”

  “No, not the best. Come with me. I’ll show you the best. I have a surprise for you.”

  “It better be a good one,” she said as she took his strong hand.

  Once in the bedroom, Lance undressed her. “Now lay down on the bed and be prepared for the greatest orgasm you’ve ever had.”

  “How about you explain what you’ve got in mind. I’m not sure I like the look in your eyes.”

  “It’s called autoerotic asphyxiation. I was taught by the master. We make love and you let me know when you’re about to blow. I’ll put pressure on your Adam’s Apple. You’ll be in that place between conscience and unconscious. Trust me. There’s no place like it. Euphoria that’s indescribable. You’ll love it!”

  “It sounds crazy to me. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Yes, I do!”

  Penny agreed to give it a try.

  “Now!” Penny yelled.

  Lance placed his thumbs on her throat. He pushed slightly. She didn’t blink. He pushed harder. She didn’t blink. He pushed harder. He watched her eyes roll upward. He released.

  Penny closed her eyes.

  Lance waited for her to come around.

  Minutes passed.

  Penny fluttered her glaze eyes. She rubbed her throat. She reached up and pulled Lance’s face down to hers. She tenderly kissed his lips. In a barely audible whispered, she managed to say. “That was freakin’ fantastic. I’ve never—”

  Lance didn’t let her finish. “Don’t ever say you can’t be taught new tricks. Daddy knows a lot of them.” And I passed the test. I didn’t kill you. This time.

  Lance rolled off the bed. “I’m hungry. Let’s go see what Cook has fixed for us. I hope it’s fried chicken.”

  “I hope I can swallow.”

  Lance grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Five more months passed. Lance had had everything he wanted at his fingertips for almost a year now. But he was restless. He was tired of Hobbs and Hilda hovering around like a couple of old crows. They were going to cause him to snap.

  One day he locked himself in the den and opened a red spiral notebook he had purchased the day before. He had a strong urge to write about his life, starting with his first memory, from when he was four-years-old. As he wrote, he began to feel his soul purging. After a few pages, he reread what he wrote and he seemed to empty even more. Suddenly, he remembered the letters he had taken from Ruby’s desk.

  “She never mailed them. Maybe letter writing was her way of cleansing her evil soul. Maybe I should read them. I might find a lot of skeletons of Hampton House. I already know she birthed my half- brother.” He scratched his head. “Where the hell did I put them?”

  He remembered stuffing the letters in the side pocket of his old suitcase. “Where is that suitcase?” he mumbled as he shoved his notebook into the top desk drawer and locked it, slipping the key into his jeans pocket. He had vague memories of unpacking his belongings in the bedroom across the hall from Penny’s master bedroom.

  As he hurried upstairs, he hoped the ‘houseflies’ hadn’t tossed the tattered suitcase or found the letters. Once he had climbed the stairs he realized his heart was pounding and he was profusely sweating. I need a downer, but I want to find the letters first. He felt his knees weaken as he entered the bedroom. What the hell is wrong with me?

  He entered the bedroom and headed for the walk-in closet. There was nothing on the floor. He looked upward. “There you are. Sitting high up there on that shelf, huh?” He chuckled. “We’ve both been sitting high here at the manor.�
� He pulled the suitcase down. There in the side pocket were the letters. He heaved a sigh and took them out. He put the suitcase back on the shelf, then headed back downstairs.

  He could hear the staff in the kitchen, talking and rattling pots and pans. Good. They wouldn’t be snooping to find his whereabouts. He walked into the den, locked the door, then went over to the desk. He pulled the chair out, and as he sat staring at the stack of letters he felt his stomach quiver. It was then that he noticed the letters had been numbered.

  He hesitated, then opened number one. “Jeez. These things start back as far as 1917.” He started reading. “Boring!” he said. He was about to fold it and forget about reading the rest. Then, some words caught his attention. He couldn’t stop reading until he was down to the last letter.

  Lance propped his arm on the desk top, cupped his chin in his palm, and shook his head. “Damn and double damn. What a life ole Ruby!” He felt his throat constrict, picturing things he had read. “No woman, not even you should have had to go to the woods, squat beside a tree and give birth, and bury your dead baby so nobody would ever know. Ole Earl, made you the way you were. I’m glad I finally know his name. Now I can stop referring to him as Father. You actually did love me and you thought the harsh treatment was for my own good.”

  He placed his left hand on the letters, and mumbled. “Writing was your cleansing. Just as it will be mine, I hope. I feel so dirty. There’s so much in me that needs to be released.” He drew a deep breath, smiled, then continued talking as if he thought Ruby Hampton could hear him.

  “I remember the first time you took the whip to me. It was also the first time I got off. I didn’t know what was happening, but I sure remember the mixture of pleasure and pain. There were times when I wanted you to take the whip to me. I did all I could to get your dander up. But you decided to use other ways of punishing me. And I got angrier and meaner because you didn’t whip me. I was a bad boy. I’m still a bad boy. I need to be punished.”