December 4, 1731


     The Clemence House sits on the back corner of Town Road, a squat, ugly building first constructed when Josiah Clemence settled down in 1691.

     There is a foul air to the home, one that makes some people ill merely by standing in its doorway, and some far more delicate souls refuse to even set foot onto a single portion of the land it contaminates.

     Rumors, passed on from one generation of Cross resident to the next, speak of horrific acts carried out in the upper room, and of foul meals cooked in the hearth. Parents and children whisper the same stories: of indentured servants and Abenaki Indians vanishing in Josiah’s house; of sobs and screams that erupt from the earth whenever a shovel is thrust into it.

     Josiah Clemence was a tall, slim man, a hawk-nosed individual who would be cast as a cartoon villain in today’s society.

     But there was nothing cartoonish about the violence he visited upon others.

     He whipped a man to death in his yard for the theft of an apple, and strangled a young Abenaki woman for refusing to wed him.

     On December 4th, 1731, it is said that Josiah fell down in his own home and broke his neck, a sight witnessed by a trio of men from the Honorable William Shirley, King’s Governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony.

     Josiah’s body, however, was not found in his house, but rather it was outside in the pig sty.

     Only one resident of the town knows the truth of Josiah’s death, and Duncan Blood refuses to share the exact details. When pressed for information, and only when he’s had a drink or two too much, he’ll simply state, “I fed him to his pigs, but even they wouldn’t eat him.”

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Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

2 thoughts on “December 4, 1731”

  1. RamblingNomad – Midwestern United States – Aspiring writer who entered the blog world two years ago. I published a website with seven short stories and plenty of rambling thoughts. The blog fell a bit to the waste side as I closed in on the first draft of my first novel. Then some craziness happened with work. An employee felt wronged, which could be entirely my poor management skills. Lashing out he cost me my second job and incited a huge fear with my website. I froze on the writing front and have spent the last four months trying to get past the first 6,000 words of my rewrite. Unable to gain momentum I am now trying to get back to where it all began. Blogging, and connecting with other writers online for motivation. The start of my blog two years ago finally evolved into some semblance of a book. Unfortunately this one has to stay much more lonely, as I must stay anonymous. I won't have the luxury of texting a new story link to my friends for some positive encouragement. I must wait for the will of the internet to notice me, care, and feel the need to share encouraging words. I'm probably dreaming, but at this point I'm desperate to try anything. Most of what I say is rambling and pointless. My posts are mere bait thrown out into the ocean of our world during moments of complete block. I toss them in hopes of catching a slight distraction at the very least, and quite possibly a connection with the power to motivate even a single creative sentence out of my fingers.
    wanderingwriter32z says:

    Awesome story!

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