My life before all of this, uh, stuff happened, was near-perfect. Had its flaws, but I wouldn't change it for a thing. I lived in a small town called Barnwell in South Carolina. Barnwell County is near the border of Georgia – we had driven there a few times when I was young to vacation with my dad's family. He wasn't originally from Barnwell.
He also isn't with us anymore. He joined God when I was 8. I remember my little sister, Rebecca, was just a few months old. My dad had a massive heart attack at dinner. We thought he was choking on a thick piece of pork, but it was his heart. Gave out on him. We were scared to death, and the hospital couldn't save him.
My mom never remarried – she had to take an extra job, though. She made money at her full-time job as a manager at the grocery store, and then worked nights, too, to keep us afloat. Shortly after my dad's death, we got two dogs. Our whippet, we got within 3 months after his passing, was Scout. Then when I was 11, we got our beagle, Jack.
I always found it weird that we were white trash, pretty much, yet her family; well, extended family, was of old Southern money. She was related to one of Barnwell's most prominent families. All of the wealth belonged to a grumpy, crazy, misogynistic, sickeningly old-fashioned, 89-year old Christian fundamentalist in a wheelchair – my third cousin, Charles Loring.
I saw this man every Sunday. Every Sunday. My mom, sister and I were Christians, and went to church like pretty much everyone else in Barnwell. We had a Lutheran church, but we also had a fundamentalist one that Uncle Charlie (we 'affectionately' called him that) insisted we go to. Every Sunday was the same old, droning pastor giving sermons, expecting us to take it all in and literally to the tooth. I didn't believe EVERYTHING that was told to me, like the idea of the Earth being 2,000 years old or that women were made from the ribs of men.
My mom, sister and I only went to church to spend time with family, because the weekdays were really busy for us all. I had taken up a job as young as 13 doing manual labor. Family was more important than some guy blabbing about the fires of hell and the grace of God. Seeing Uncle Charlie, however, was literally the lowlight of the entire day.
We would head to his plantation, owned by my mother's family since the 1800s, after every service and have lunch. Uncle Charlie had maids as well as a live-in nurse to help him dress, bathe and what have you. I don't even want to know. What I do know, is that he had a stroke in the '90s, and it's prevented him from moving like normal. Hence the wheelchair. Rest is history.
He'd sit at the head of the table, literally a bag of wrinkles over a frail, thin, weak frame of bones and sinewy muscle, clad in a top-dollar suit and tie with his nurse sitting diagonally from him. I was toward the end; the more immediate you were related to Uncle Charlie, the closer you got to sit with him. Family rules. So I had some second-cousins and great-aunts and uncles sitting to my right, and younger extended family members to my left. This table in his dining room was massive, but even bigger was the sound of Uncle Charlie's non-rhotic, stammered drawl when he judged family members.
Before I left Barnwell, I remember our last family gathering. I remember what we ate, too – mashed potatoes, beef au-jus, and green peas.
"I think I'm getting' e'gaged soon," my first-cousin Josiah said as a part of casual conversation. While everyone was smiling with some older family members patting him on the back for congratulations, Uncle Charlie goes in and gives his (unwarranted) input.
"B-Better make sure she wholesome 'nd docile," he said strongly, his accent thick and nearly making my ears bleed. "Ephesians! Remember, ol' boy! As the church's s-subject to Christ, so also the wives oughta be t' the' husbands in everythin'!"
"Uh, Mr. Loring?" I heard his nurse ask, reaching for his plate, "would you like some more mashed potatoes?"
Slap! He hit her forearm pretty hard, and she was almost wearing his food.
"Woman! D-Don't you be touchin' my plate while I'm speakin'!" the old man snapped. "Didn't y-you learn any manners?!"
"Sir, I—"
"Uncle Charlie, please!" Lucas, my mother's brother, said as he stood and approached the patriarch's wheelchair at the head of the table, leaning over and touching his shoulder. "She's just tryin' to help. Don't be all angry at 'er."
"Don't be tellin' me what to do!" Uncle Charlie snapped.
"With all due respect," my uncle began softly, "we already went to church. There's a time 'nd place for the word o' God, and it is not at a peaceful family lunch."
"You're vile!" the old, rigid man said, pointing his finger and wagging it weakly. "God is always watchin', even when you're back is turned! Act in his name, or you'll be damned to burn in hell for all'o eternity!"
He just got louder. This is why I thought was I did about him. It got to the point where the nurse had to wheel him out. She also gave him a relaxant to calm him down. When he was like that, he could ramble off Bible verses until our ears fell off.
Well, that all ended shortly after. Within the next week, he had only gotten weaker, closer to the end. Not all of us in the family got to say goodbye – I was one of them who did. His nurse called my house, asking for me. Me, of all people.
"Is Cole there?" she had asked.
"It's he," I replied.
"Mr. Lorin' wants to see you," the nurse said.
"Why me?" I asked.
"He didn't say anythin' as to why, but do hurry."
And we hung up. I got my jacket on, got into my truck, and drove there, walking the long way down to the actual mansion on the acres-wide plantation through the designated path to the grand front door. By the time I got in, I looked at the clock and saw it was close to 8 in the evening. The nurse caught sight of me and led me up to the master bedroom. She opened the door, and announced my presence. I noticed Uncle Charlie hooked to some kind of life support with some tubing in his nose and an IV line in his hand. I was still confused, why did he want me here?
"W-Woman...leave us," I heard the man say weakly. He never failed to treat women horribly, even on his deathbed. The nurse just obeyed, shutting the door behind her. I looked at the door as it closed, but I heard the shrill, weak voice of Uncle Charlie.
"C'mere, ol' boy," he said, bringing his hand up and gesturing me over.
I walked over slowly, and peered down at the sallow, wrinkled skin of the patriarch on my mother's side. His eyes were tired, the bags underneath them weighted his face, and the tubing in his nose seemed to move irregularly as he tried to breathe.
"Uh...Uncle Charlie, why am I here?" I questioned.
"Ah, Cole," he said, gathering enough breath to continue speaking. "You're a...w-wholesome fella. Y-You look like...m-my David."
"David?" I asked.
Then it donned on me – David was my fourth-cousin who died in a car crash during the '80s. Apparently he wasn't a saint, either. He spoke about him as if he were evil and depraved, whenever he came up in conversation. For all I knew, David was condemned just for being human. I had heard horror stories about David being abused when he was younger – Uncle Charlie would've used the Bible to justify it all, too, and get away with it like nothing ever happened. Sad. Darn shame.
"Look like 'im, too," the old man muttered, breathing in a wheezy breath. "Unlike you...h-he's burnin' in hell."
"Now, why do you keep saying that about your own son?" I asked defensively, crossing my arms over my chest. "What the hell did he do wrong?!"
"Don't curse!" he said as he mustered enough strength to yell.
I sighed. This old man could be scary when he wanted to be: "I-I'm sorry."
"Satan took his soul while still alive." Typical nonsense from this old man. "T-The devil in the form of a-a woman took 'im."
"I...I don't understand..." I hated when he was cryptic; I didn't believe all this for one second.
"Believe it," I heard him mutter. Then, well, he went on again like usual. "David was dumber 'n a doornail. Romans 13:14, you heard it. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires."
I just looked down at my worn tan work boots. Why was he telling me this? I was 23 and still a virgin. Not because the church told me to abstain, but because I wasn't really noticed by girls. I don't think it was my appearance. I have short, wavy dark blond hair, blue eyes, a big rugged with stubble, and I'm 6"2 and lanky. Pretty strong, too. You'd think I had a few girlfriends in high school. I was always too busy for it. I blame it on my demeanor – I was shy for the most part. Still am, too.
"Uncle Charlie, you ain't telling me anything I don't know," I told him.
"N-No, I ain't," he replied in a docile sort of way, taking a struggled breath. "Y-You right. But..."
He reached for something on the bedside table. I watched him slowly grab what looked to be a piece of paper and a silver-plated Parker pen. The room was only lit by two of three clicks of the bedside lamp, and when he looked to be passing the paper and pen to me, I saw that it actually was a form. I got the message to take the paper and pen from him, and I looked down at it with such shock. Then I saw Uncle Charlie's heavily-wrinkled, sickly face – he smiled with whatever was left of his teeth.
I was holding his last will and testament.
I was shocked. I was not his son. I was not any of the older relatives with more of a right to inherit Uncle Charlie's property. Hell, even my own mother would have had more of a right to inherit anything off of him, but knowing his old-world views on women, that wasn't going to happen.
"Read it, ol' boy," he instructed with a slight chuckle.
So I did.
"I, Charles Efriam Loring, of the city of Barnwell, county of Barnwell, in the state of South Carolina, being of full age and sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking any and all wills heretofore made."
I couldn't believe this. I continued.
"I give and bequeath to my kin, Collin James Paterson, all of my personal effects, clothing, automobiles, furniture, and other non-business personal property owned by me at my time of decease..."
I was still crazed at this idea.
"...if they survive me, otherwise to...Lucas David Loring."
This old man put my uncle, much older than me, beneath me in status on this will. I didn't understand.
"This is your will," I finally said. "Why?"
"Why?" the old man asked me, repeating me. "You're young, gotta settle down, get yo'self a wife, put some of my funds to use, go to school, get y' education."
"Why put me above my uncle?!" I exclaimed, still shocked and holding out the paper faced to him. "I don't get it. Don't you got other relatives you'd rather give all this stuff o' yours to?"
"Lucas is secon' 'cause h-he already got assets o' h-his own," the man said, coughing throatily. "I don't raise up no gluttons in m' family. And David is dead."
I cringed inside. He sounded so casual about the death of his only son.
"But..."
"Ol' boy, you got your whole life ahead o'ya," the old man said, taking the hand that held the Parker pen. "Sign it. Now."
"I can't accept this," I said. "I'm sorry, but-"
He cut me off, again: "Remember that s-sermon from Sunday? T-Timothy 5:8, this what he said. He said, 'he who does not provide for his relatives, especially his own household, has denied the faith and is worse than a non-believer."'
"I work, Uncle Charlie," I said, putting my hand to my abdomen, feeling like it was about to explode from my anxiety. "My mom is workin' 2 jobs, and since my dad died. I do provide. I don't need the entire Loring fortune."
"Lucas ain't fit!" the old man exclaimed, coughing afterwards. "Timothy also p-proclaimed, in the Bible. Read it! Timothy 6:9, he says that those who want to get rich fall into temptation! Lucas got the brain of a bastard rat with the stuff he already got! My fortune would be a trap to him, and lead him to temptation. Leavin' it just to him, is a...d-disservice to God."
I sighed, I looked down at the paper and shook my head. I thought to myself, maybe I could sign this and make it official, that I be the executor of his will. Make the old man happy for once in his mostly miserable life. I actually felt pity for him.
"Uncle Charlie," I said calmly. "A-Are you sure? Are you sure you don't want to talk this over with Uncle Lucas?"
"No, ol' boy. It's all yours," he told me weakly, taking a deep breath. "S-Sign it, I say... s-sign it. Now."
I did. On the bottom, I signed my name as sole executor in my best cursive – Collin Paterson.
I didn't think how much shit would actually hit the fan, but it did. Uncle Charlie died 2 days later in his sleep. We had a funeral, which I ultimately needed help arranging. Uncle Lucas and his wife stepped in, along with my own mom. Picked the flowers, the casket, everything. We kept the coffin closed. A pastor who was in close cahoots with Uncle Charlie conducted the service at our church, we buried him, and headed back to the plantation, now my plantation, for a small family reception.
The entire time, I was silent. Didn't initiate conversation. Uncle Lucas was talking to everyone but me. I was given the silent treatment. Did they all know I was the executor of the old man's will? Was it in the plan?
Well, Uncle Lucas knew. And he was as angry as a bull provoked by a red cape.
He ended up pulling me aside. I knew he was mad.
"Cole," he said, his hands to the sides of my arms. "Let me ask you somethin', if that's okay."
"Shoot," I said casually.
He hesitated for a moment, but said to me: "did Uncle Charlie say anythin' about 'nother executor to his will?"
I was caught like a deer in headlights. I shook my head. "No."
"C'mon," he persisted, "you know damn well he must've said somethin' about another heir to all his...his..." He looked around at the well-done architectural interior of the plantation house, "assets."
I sighed, making the biggest mistake I could at that moment.
"U-Uncle Charlie said you were unfit," I recalled.
His eyes, blue as sky, widened at me and he neared me enough to grab the collar of my dress shirt. I felt a bit nervous. There were children in the other room.
"What the hell did you just say?" he grunted. "Unfit?!"
"Y-You were the secondary...I signed it as primary executor, and you...I...I..."
"God in heaven! You're too young 'nd stupid to deal with all these assets!" he grunted as I felt his spit gnash through his teeth at me. His breath reeked of cigars and the light scent of cognac.
"I know! I know I'm young, I didn't want to sign it!" I cowered. I never was one to handle this kind of confrontation well. "Let me go!"
"No, I want to know why the hell-"
"Get your mitts off'a him!"
I looked and saw my mother come in along with Aunt Jennifer, Lucas' wife, and pull him off of me. I fell to the elaborate red Persian carpet in the process. I felt rug burn start to form through my cheaply-made slacks.
"Why the hell are you torturin' him?!" I heard Jennifer shout shrilly. "Leave 'im be!"
"This lil' bastard stole our fortune!" Lucas shouted.
I looked to the doorway of the room Uncle Lucas pulled me aside in. One of my younger girl cousins had a frown on her face with a lollipop in her hand. My sister, Rebecca, just stood there with a scowl, her arms crossed over her chest. Everyone else just had a look on their face that said 'what the hell is going on?' I was so embarrassed.
"I didn't steal nothin'!" I shouted. I never shouted, but at that moment, he really pissed me off. "I swear to God! I didn't wanna sign anythin'!"
"Son, you made your point," my mom said, helping me to my feet.
"You want the plantation so bad," I said, a bit more calmed down, "take it! I'll sign it over to you."
"No, I want everythin'!" Lucas said greedily, pointing his thumb to himself.
That just started up another shit-storm. Later that day at the funeral reception, I made it clear to all the other adults that, being the executor, I would distribute things of Uncle Charlie's as evenly as I could. Lucas didn't like this. I knew because the next day, I drove to his house after work and had everything on me – the will, deeds, bills of sale, anything like that. He was a...sorry for my language, a motherfucker.
"I want everythin'," Uncle Lucas said.
"You have no say. You're just another name on this document," I reminded him. I took out a pen in case we needed it, and we went over things that belonged to the old man while he was alive. He had millions in cars, suits, furnishings for the home, and even the actual property, but that didn't even include the some $2 million total he had in 19 different bank accounts. He also had nearly $400,000 in total debts. I nearly shit my pants at all this.
"How in the hell..." I began, "did he get all this junk?"
"It ain't junk," my uncle sneered. "It's value. Some of it over a hunn'd years old." I heard him scoff, taking a drag of his cigar. "If you was a true Loring, you'd know the story of Grant Herbert Loring."
I just looked at him.
"We're of old money, kiddo," he said. "1856, Grant came from Scotland with his wife and 5 littl'ns to make a better life here in the states. It's a wonder they could survive the Civil War."
I didn't care really. I just shrugged it off. We came to an agreement. I signed over the plantation to Uncle Lucas, who was due to move in the following month (July), and I put all the debts in his name to pay them forth. I gave his part of our family a few hundred thousand to pay off the debts as well as some left over for whatever else. He also got to keep 2 cars, antiques from the 1970s. A lot of the other older relatives were given huge chunks of the money we found in Uncle Charlie's possession, and at the end of the day, I had only $250,000 – a chunk of that went to sending my sister to college, another chunk to my mom, and even one of the newer cars of his to give to my sister when she started to drive.
Then I realized, there was more to life than Barnwell. I had pretty much given away everything of Uncle Charlie's within a month. There was barely anything left for me here.
I felt compelled to travel, to move away. I remembered Uncle Charlie's words, crazy as they sounded: "find yo'self a wife, settle down."
I wanted to settle on my own first. I was looking to the state north of my own. My mom was hesitant to let me go, but my sister wished me well. They were still thankful I thought of them both when distributing the old wealth of my family. I put in my two week's notice, found an appealing job doing lumber that paid more than my own job in Barnwell. It was right near the ocean, but also full of the most gorgeous native forests. It was so quiet and wonderful and calm...and frankly, I knew I'd be uncomfortable in a city. I'm a country boy, born and raised.
The house I drove 7 hours to (with my dogs) was a beautiful old farm house. Three bedrooms, two stories, and a basement. I was told it was built in 1792. I felt like the universe wanted me there, at that given point in time. Even during the auction, which consisted of me, three old hillbilly-looking guys, and an interracial couple, I was determined to get it.
"Opening bid is $21,000," the auctioneer announced. "Including all ten acres of forest around it. But you can't build on it."
"Why?" I asked.
"It's protected," the man replied.
"It's a bit cheap, don't you think?" I asked. "Is somethin' wrong with the property?" Other than the fact that the exterior siding looked to be decaying and the landscaping was horrible.
"Hurricanes," one of the old hillbillies said rudely. "You don't want this house."
You don't look like you could afford it, I thought to myself. He was dressed in practically rags and wore a dirty bucket hat, smelling of onion BO and fish bait. I felt sick to my stomach.
"We bid $25,000," the interracial couple said. I was by no means a racist, but seeing a white woman with a black man made me uncomfortable. What could I say? I was a product of my environment.
"$26,000," a hillbilly called out.
"Do I hear 27?" the auctioneer said to me. Then I thought to myself, remembering I had way more to my name from the inheritance.
"$75,000." That was almost everything I had at that point.
I was bold. I couldn't believe what I did.
"Going once....twice..."
BANG! He smacked his small hammer to a spot on his podium. "SOLD!"
The interracial couple seemed a bit let-down, and the hillbilly fellas were certainly mad. I was happy, and when I was given a tour of the house, I was actually a bit shocked that it was grand on the inside in comparison to the run-down exterior. There was a huge spiral staircase, but aside from that one major feature, the rooms needed a paint job. The dining room had cobwebs up in the corners. Nothing a trip on a ladder couldn't fix. The furnishings needed updating, but again, nothing I couldn't fix.
However, all this aside – the moment I stepped into the house, I felt a reluctance within. A dark pull. I didn't know what, but it was there.