Chapter 2

She was an old house ... Civil War or before. A house with soul ... and personality ... a twenty-five hundred dollar house. In a time when two hundred and fifty dollars, gold, bought a two bedroom single story wood dwelling and five hundred, a two story four bedroom Texas single wall, she was B&M (that’s brick and mortar)and thick walled. A triple H ... Huge ... Hulking ... and Haunted. A survivor. A veritable mansion fallen on hard times. An uncle, two or three times removed, I had no idea I had, had owned her and I was the victim of the will.

To the survivor, I leave the house in Knoxville, Tennessee, along with such property as remains, the rest being sold to pay the exorbitant taxes charged by the county commission ... the bastards who owned the realestate development company.

Just the part of the will I remember ... that, a set of keys and the money ... one hundred dollars.

So ... I have a monstrosity of a house ... on a hill ... surrounded by suburbia ... wealthy suburbia ... acres and acres of homes ... the homes of executives, lawyers, doctors and law enforcement. (Tennessee has a saying... ‘An elected sheriff who can’t secure a good retirement in a single term in office, isn’t much of a sheriff.’

All those acres ... all that land ... was once part of a huge estate ... folks I didn’t know ... never met ... but I was the last survivor. I was young ... fresh out of college when I inherited it. Twenty five years ago.

“We had a dreadful time finding you,” said the man in the HASMAT gear.

“I’ve been here,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said. “When you weren’t infecting the countryside.”

The young woman said, “We need a sample of your blood.” She presented a paper ... a court order.

I read it ... rolled up my sleeve and said, “Have at it.”