A Civil War soldier is saved from certain death by the devil and must become the devil's hit man in return.
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Jeremiah Corday is mortally wounded in the battle of Trader's Hill, a Civil War conflict too obscure to be written into the history books. From this moment he becomes immortal. But he must pay a heavy price.
A hundred years later Ramsey Paxton,bored with his mundane existance. pulls up stakes and invests his life savings in a dilapidated Georgia timber mill that comes with an antebelum style mansion. As he works to restore the mansion he discovers an ancient light bulb which, when turned on, reveals a horrifying past.
Melba DeSoto returns from the big city to her hometown. She and Ramsay meet, fall in love and experience unbelievable terror together.
Murder, hatred, alligators and a mysterious swamp blend together in a riveting tale as violent death, both past and present, slithers through rural Georgia and pits good against evil.
Sheriff Huffstetler pulled the Colt .45 from its holster. "Stop right there, Quince, or I'll blow your head off."
Quince stopped with one foot still in the ditch, knife held point forward, thumb atop the handle. He stood motionless for a moment then leaped once more for the lawman. Huffstetler pulled the trigger.
The heavy slug tore through Quince's chest, expanded on the way through and made a crater in his back large enough to hold a softball. Quince fell face down in the dirt, quivered a few times and lay still. Huffstetler stepped forward and kicked the knife away then knelt and felt for a pulse. There was none. He stood and looked down on the corpse for a moment, then sighed sadly and started up the road to fetch his roadster. He needed to find somebody with a pickup truck that was willing to come down here at one in the morning and haul a corpse to the funeral home in Folkston.
The body of Henry Quince lay at the side of the road like something tossed from a passing wagon. The sound of the sheriff's footsteps receded and died. Eight minutes later a possum waddled from the brush and crossed the road to stop and sniff at the corpse before vanishing once more into the night. An owl called its mate and something rustled through the tall grass at the river's edge, perhaps searching for a late snack. Quince's left foot twitched slightly, tapped a brief staccato in the dirt and was still. Five minutes went by.
Henry Quince inhaled deeply, the air whistling along his trachea. Then he rolled onto his back and sat up. The owl fell silent. Quince hawked up a great gob of bloody phlegm, spat it out and stood, trying to remember how he had come to be face down on a gravel road in the middle of the night. There was some discomfort in his chest and back. He reached inside his shirt,fingered the bloody entry wound and remembered. Quince looked quickly around, found his bowie knife, picked it up and set off at a dead run after the sheriff.