The Collector

Chapter Two

The house was built in the 1820's. Old by today's standards, young compared to some of the plantations found throughout the countryside. The grounds were immaculate, but the building itself needed repairs, interior well worn. None of it really mattered, not to Sam. What mattered was down below.

The house was located on the edge of the Appalachians. Kentucky was known for it's old tobacco plantations, and in its heyday, the old place would have smelled of curing cigars, ripe for the old gentleman to plant between their yellowed teeth. The ladies of the house pretending to be all fine and sweetly good, sipping chilled mint juleps but knowing what went on in the slave pens, the rape and debauchery.

That was before his granddad's time, great grampy used to tell the stories. Now only the house along with a small parcel of land remained in Sam's hands.

He looked into the backseat one more time before opening the door and barely letting it click closed along with the locks. A while back, he'd removed the little nubs that allowed the locks to be released from the interior. Secure in the knowledge his newest addition would not wander away, he headed for the house. While his recent acquisition was sleeping off the drugs, he had last minute preparations to make. He'd learned the hard way not to count his chicks before the trap could be laid.

First things first, he took the steps two at a time and hurried to his bedroom. He changed out of his city clothes and back into the worn bibs. More comfortable for the next step in making sure she was as cozy and secure as possible. Or at least, that's the way he preferred to think of it. Cozy and secure. His gaze accidently landed on the mirror, and he unexpectedly caught a vision of himself in the bibs, but instead of his eyes staring back at him, it was his granddad's. Mean old bastard.

"Whatch're think you're doin' there, boy?"

His eyes cut away. "Nothin'."

"Come on now, boy. Don't lie to me. You got yourself another one, didn'tcha?"

"Never you mind. You're not really here anyway. Leave me alone."

"Think you're so smart, so fancy, so much better than me . . ." the drone went on.

Sam turned away and back to the stairs, rushing down them. In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and took out a sweaty pitcher filled to the brim. He sat it on the counter and pulled the brewing tea bags out of the mixture, letting them plop in the sink. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a mason jar. Sweet tea tasted the best straight from the jar, always had, always would.

He threw in a couple of ice chunks to rattle in the bottom of the jar and poured the tea over them. He lifted it to his lips, taking a big swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was hard work acquire items for his collection. Hard work. Not that he minded, no sir. Hard work was hard work, no matter what it entailed and idle hands were the devil's workshop. And, he had more of it to do. He finished his tea, disposed of the tea bags, put the pitcher back in the fridge, and rinsed his jar. He didn't want to leave a mess for later.

He made his way to the back of the house and to the basement. The paint-faded door opened without a squeak. A steep staircase led to a black room, he flicked on an electric light. Back in the day, it would have been called a cellar. It contained the ancient wringer washer his grandmother had used every day of her pitiful life, living with Granddad wasn't easy. Next to it sat a modern washer/dryer combo. Sam didn't mind hard work, but the wringer washer wasted time, and time was of the essence, precious.

There were some broken down boxes and crates filled with crap from another lifetime, he seldom even looked at them. He pushed past them like they weren't even there, flying by the wall chocked full of canned goods, Grandma was prolific. The store brought stuff rested on the lower three shelves. Enough to feed a family of ten for five years. Granddad was a survivalist certain after World War II, the bomb would be dropped on them any day. The cellar had long ago been reinforced with a foot of concrete on all sides save one, built to survive a nuclear blast. There was an escape hatch located in that wall as an emergency exit along with an underground well and what passed for an air filtration system, at least that's what Granddad called it.

That unreinforced wall was where Sam was headed, where he'd set up shop, so to speak. Back in the old days, what lay beyond that wall was held in the highest of secrets. Back when slaves worked the old tobacco plantation, back when the large room with its concrete reinforced walls had been a hand dug cellar.

Most days, he could still feel the ghosts of those slaves haunting the place, like a cold prickled against his flesh, almost enjoyable, especially when he was working on his collection. Their wrinkled and worn hands brushing up against his, making him work twice as hard as needed, as if trying to stop him. But Granddad, even with all the beatings, hadn't been able to stop him and neither would a bunch of dead folks.

Paneling covered that unreinforced wall. But, when the paneling was pushed aside, beneath it was a door that led deeper into the hidden place. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlock the recently installed door, it had once been a tunnel to the deepest, darkest secret held by his family. It was the holding pens he went to now, also hand dug by slaves, just like the cellar. 

Before the War Between the States and Lincoln, when a new bunch of slaves had been purchased from one of the black marketers, these holding pens served their purpose. Back then, the only light came from torches still hanging from the walls and a few animal-fat candles, the lingering scent of burnt beef still clung to the air. Now, a string of bulbs lit the way. At one time, slaves were broken here. By the time they were sold off, they all knew how to do their job and none were willing to fight with their masters. As far as family heritage goes, Sam wasn't always proud of his, but his collection was another story.

Sam had enlarged the room, expanding it beyond the entirety of the decrepit house. What once had been holding pens for slaves had become a large, clean space broken down into cells. He headed down the main hallway, leading to the big round room. It was that room that interested him. Inside the space, six steel doors led to six different centers. That's how he thought of them most of the time, his work centers.

On the other side of the room was another space, and it was from this place that a small bolt hole led to the surface for an emergency escape. This was where Sam had created resting spots for the broken parts of his collection, little rectangular holes covered the floor. The pieces that didn't fit anymore. He kept a memento from everyone of them so he'd never forget what each had given him. It was important to remember, though sometimes, he chose to forget. Forgetting was hard, because those pieces wanted to be remembered as much as the slaves did. Sometimes, they talked to him, reminding him, and sometimes, he talked back.