Chapter 2: No One Escapes the Gallows

1.

The governor’s order had arrived.

Father was sentenced to a slow, public execution—death by a thousand cuts, they whispered, like something out of a nightmare; mother would be hanged in public at noon the next day.

Word traveled fast in Savannah’s sticky heat, passing through servants’ whispers and the clanging of the town’s courthouse bell. 'A thousand cuts'—an old expression, sure, but here it meant a kind of slow, torturous execution that the papers called 'death by degrees.'

The uncle’s heinous crime of selling military rifles was now pinned solely on Father.

To keep us under control, the old matriarch had long refused to let Father split from the family. Yet, just a few days ago, she hurriedly separated him.

From that moment, there were two Foster households in the city of Savannah.

Everyone knew the one who sold military rifles was the mistress-born son of the Foster family.

The governor was punishing the separated second branch, not Judge Foster himself.

When I heard this news, I was locked in the woodshed of the old house, learning of it only from the servants’ gossip.

The Foster estate’s woodshed always smelled of sawdust and moldy apples. I pressed my ear to the knotty pine wall, catching scraps of news from kitchen girls and farmhands on their way to the smokehouse. Stories of the gallows drifted in with the scent of hickory.

But when had the order been issued?

Though I have yet to become a vengeful ghost, as a malevolent spirit, I’ve witnessed countless tragedies.

What haven’t I endured?

Yet my heart throbbed with pain.

In the past, all those torments were aimed at me.

But why does it hurt so much this time?

The day my uncle came, he didn’t even bother with threats. He just gave me a look, and my parents caved.

I heard Father say:

“I can take the blame. But you must register Clara under your name. From now on, she is not my child—she has nothing to do with me...”

Mother, suppressing her trembling, threatened:

“You let me live, and I’ll haunt your steps to your grave. That’s a promise.”

Maybe this body has experienced too little. Incredibly, I cried.

By the time I realized, the tears wouldn’t stop.

Silly mother.

It’s not so easy to become a vengeful ghost. You have to wander the earth a thousand times, still clinging to obsession, to even have a chance.

Maybe I’ve gone mad.

Clearly, I’m not truly a thirteen-year-old child, yet I clung to Mother, refusing to let go, until I realized she was in pain.

Father coaxed me:

“Dad’s just going to stay with Mom for a few days. After some time, I’ll come get you.”

He said it with a smile that trembled at the edges, the way folks do when they’re lying to a child but wishing desperately to believe it themselves. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the calluses on his thumb rough, the gesture heartbreakingly gentle.

I knew it was a lie, but still turned my head and was forced to drink a bowl of sweet soup laced with sedative.

Father’s tears fell onto me:

“Clara, if you have a chance, go find Mrs. Lee at the tailor shop on the west side of town.”

Mrs. Lee, who made my Easter dress last spring. I could still see her smiling eyes, her gentle Southern drawl as she measured my hem. A lifeline, thin as sewing thread, tossed to me in the storm.

That was the last thing I heard. When I woke again, I was already locked in the woodshed.

A few stale rolls were tossed in, but I didn’t care, devouring them in big bites.

The bread was tough, crust gone hard as a brick in the damp Georgia air, but I tore at it with my teeth, determined to fight off the ache in my belly and the even sharper ache in my chest.

I don’t believe it.

I couldn’t have slept for three days straight. If I go out now, maybe there’s still a chance.

I heard Father say, the current governor is fair and often listens to the people’s grievances. Maybe he would hear me out.

I pictured the governor in his starched white shirt, sitting behind a polished desk at the statehouse, surrounded by piles of petitions and angry townsfolk. Maybe if I could reach him, he’d see the truth in my eyes. Or maybe I was just desperate for hope.

So what if the Smith family suffers then?

I’d rather see everyone pay—let not a single one escape.

At least Father would be spared the torment of a thousand cuts, and Mother would have company.