Cleansed Now

CONTENT WARNING: Some portions of this story may upset sensitive people or trigger bad memories.

Liza occasionally took a glance out the window, giving her hands and eyes a quick rest from clothes ironing. Her hand ached from holding the heavy iron, and she wiped her brow with her apron. White round tufts on branches spread for acres, and she knew her children's hands would need loving care tonight from picking crops.

"What are you doing?" Mrs. Johnson demanded from the doorway. "I told you the ironing must be done before the preparations for the dinner meal begin. Hurry up!" She glared at Liza as she pulled a five-inch key from her skirt pocket.

"Ma'am," Liza began, but it was too late. She heard the lock click and knew there would be no water or sweet tea to stave off her thirst as she sweated over the hot iron. All the white shirts were crisp and wrinkle-free as she hung them on wire hangers. It gave her a sense of accomplishment to have the finished product displayed next to her. Liza wasn't good with numbers, but she had finished fifty of the male Johnson shirts. Now for the petticoats and sheets.

As Liza finished using the slop bucket, the door unlocked with a click, startling her. She stood up quickly, straightening her heavy skirt. She saw him enter but decided to continue with her work, hoping he would get what he wanted and leave. Instead, his huge hand closed on her wrist. She tried to free herself from him, and he slapped her so hard she was dazed and came to on a pile of the linens she was going to iron, his breath in her face, hands on her shoulders, holding her down.

"No, no, I have to finish my work," she whimpered as he covered her mouth and ripped her blouse open.

"Shut up and I'll be quick, Girly." Liza bit her lip, turned her head away from his stinking breath, and pictured herself outside by the river playing with her children. Five minutes later, he walked out, leaving the door open. She arose and realized that because he had sullied the clean linens, she would have to rewash them all tomorrow. One tear rolled down her cheek.

~~~~

I read Gram's diary entry for that day. Numbers hadn't been her strong suit, but she printed neatly, taught by a missionary. The diary was hidden under the floorboards beneath the bed where she died. Whenever I visited her while she was bedridden, the squeaky floor distracted me. A month after we buried her in the family plot, I dismantled her iron bed, shoving it to the far wall for its disposal. Some of the floorboards were loose, and using her silver scissors, I loosened one enough to yank it up. A beautiful leather embossed diary was hidden here, along with a silver hair comb and a photo of her mother, Edith, my great-grandmother.

~~~~

Grams warned me never to go up that road - the road that ended at the giant white house with a wrap-around porch supported by pillars. She had been a slave there and was adamant that I never venture near it.

Walking down an overgrown road, I came to the dilapidated white mansion. The pillars were blotchy from humid weather and had not been painted in over fifty years. The front door opened when I turned the knob. It must have been exquisite when the slave owners resided there in their symbol of power. Of course, because the slaves, like Grams, kept it shining and pristine.

A wide staircase faced me, so I crossed the two-foot entry and climbed it. A family photo hung at the top, showing Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, their toddler daughter, Rebecca, and their teenage son, Martin. The second-floor U-shaped hallway had closed doors facing each other across the stairwell. I flung the third door open.

This is the one. An ironing board leaned against the wall next to ten-foot windows. Through the windows, the overgrown farm fields could be seen, cotton plants still blooming amid the yellow of canola.

My neck hairs raised as I moved through the room. A presence was there with me, an evil, hard phantom, menacing me. Whipping around, from the corner of my eye, I saw the haint of Martin Johnson, the boy who had raped my grandmother, a ghostly reminder of the violence and cruelty inflicted upon my family. Raising my fist at it didn't scare it as it moved closer to me. "I'm not my grandmother, Martin. You need to leave this house. You're dead. You died before my Grams did."

"It's MY house," I felt the words slam into me like objects, not spoken.

I saw moth-eaten linens lying in a pile in a corner of the room and kicked them. I felt a tug, pulling me from them, but I was strong and started stomping on them. "Is this where you did your dirty deeds, you little bastard?" I picked some up and ripped them, while I stomped and stomped, dragging the floor with them. "Is it, Martin? You are dead! You should be in hell with your parents. GET OUT!" I stared at his haint, the disfigured ghostly image, ripping the linens and a man's shirt to shreds.

Panting, I turned to leave, only to have an object in the closet catch my eye. Slowly approaching in wonder, I saw what it was. There it is; it was here the entire time, but Grams forbade us from coming here. On a nail in the closet corner was a tiny wooden cross painted blue.

Gram's diary entry ended with: I hated going into that room, but they made me. I had to iron. At least dead Martin didn't make any more visits. I'm not sorry that I was happy when the horse kicked him in the head. To be certain I was protected, I made a wooden cross and painted it blue, which in our culture, keeps the haints away. Then I nailed it to a corner of the closet. I never saw Martin again.

I took the cross into my hand and turned back to the room, crossing to the window. Slowly walking in circles, smaller and smaller, traipsing the entire room gave me a sense of peace. Next, I walked from corner to corner, forming an X in each direction. Finally, I made a cross with my footsteps in two different patterns.

There, Martin. It's done, and so are you and your family.  I no longer felt his presence.

That night, I returned and walked around the entire white mansion, leaving a trail no one would see. I placed bundles of feathers and cotton from the plants onto the porch and the corners of the house. Inside, I placed bundles of sage mixed with tiny red-tipped sticks in the kitchen, at the top and bottom of the stairs, and at the back door.

The white votive candle had the essence of Palo Santo. I lit it, the fragrance tickling my nostrils, filling me with peace. I left the house, closing the door softly, and sat under the large oak left standing in the now overgrown cotton field.

Hours later, I awoke to a golden glow, the slave house an inferno filling the air with scents of sage and woodsmoke. Firelight reflected in my eyes, and the blue wooden cross tingled in my palm.

Copyright © 12/3/2025 by Andrea O. Corwin

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