Aside from being a bedroom community for oil rig workers, the mill was the main reason for Kingston’s existence. Sitting on the edge of the water- a lake created when a nearby river was dammed a century earlier- was a massive sawmill. A quaint downtown was just down from the school, and it was surrounded by modest homes and pine trees. The high school sat on a hill in the middle of the island, like a modern day Acropolis where footballs were thrown about instead of philosophies. Only one road led into the town, and that same road was the only way out. Kingston sat on an island in a man-made lake in East Texas. The third thing it might have been famous for- but would most definitely soon be famous for- was its isolation. The bus was coming for the latter, as the former would not admit minors. It had two claims to fame- a little bar that served legendary cheese fries (Guy Fieri had been there once they say) and an amazing six-man football team. It was headed to the tiny town that lay just ahead, an unremarkable hamlet known as Kingston, Texas. The sun bounced brightly off the yellow roof of the bus as it wound through the trees into a clearing. He smiled, and for the first time, those dead eyes showed life. After a minute or so, the white letters began to wash in a blood-red shade. He read it again and again, a tiny bit of drool beginning to form and ooze from the corner of his mouth. The eyes ran back and forth over the simple words and numbers glowing white against a black background. Those blank eyes scanned over a simple message, while his fingers idly played with the object he had been crafting- a six-inch blade with sharp wings going in all directions for maximum carnage when inserted into a person. And that distinct ping told him that a particular friend had just sent a message. It was there he found.dare he say it? Friends. It had been in the recesses of the black pits of evil that he first dared share his dream of malice and mountains of blood. He moved over to the small monitor rigged up by his own hand, connected to a port that allowed him access to the blackest of black on the dark web. They were the eyes of a man who would kill you- if only the opportunity presented itself and his will was strong enough. But it also showed eyes that were dark and devoid of hope or joy or even life. No victim had experienced absolute terror as they breathed their last.Ī single ping made the shape turn its head, and the slight movement of the stark bulb momentarily illuminated a youthful face, the face of a man who was barely that. To make death art, and to make it prolifically.īut no blade had split flesh, no bullet had puckered skin, no bomb had charred and blasted bone from bone. Planned to bring forth a darkness that would shake people to their core. Planned death, destruction, murder, torture, and terror. Something that would be deadly and vile and monstrous. It was vaguely human, but contorted as it worked on something intently. Sweet emblems all that the blest shall riseĪs varied as the people, are the materials used for memorials, indicating the resources, the available materials and the life lived.The stark white light bulb swayed ever-so-slightly on its bare cord in the dark room, casting strange shadows on the shape bent over a workbench. Where lies my dust in its dreamless sleep That it's withering leaving each year may rest Unknown, he appeared, died,and Harnett people buriedin their soil: ![]() There is a memorial to a stranger, indicating the concern of Harnett settlers of their fellowmen. The name appears in what could be a capacity of a bondsman for David Kennedy of near Bunn Level. ![]() One John Brown is recorded on the Cumberland Tax List of 1755, and the name appears as a signer of a free holders petition to the governor with the date of 1757. A John Brown is recorded in Harnett History as a millwright, dealing with grist mills and sawmills, and a promoter of frame houses replacing log houses. The term,ESQ, was used to indicate a person of importance. Blanchard does not know where it was first erected. The first memorial.possibly misplaced, was found in a gravel pit at Linden, leaning against a tree, by Harnett County's Stanley Blanchard, a collector of history. Sometimes it has left crystal clear.at least for a moment of time.those indications of personalities important to those with whom they lived, or whose lives they touched in whatever way. Sometimes time has erased personalities from the monuments. ![]() No less important is the dating of the time as it has flown across and through the land. Harnett County has followed suit.perhaps a little of the character of its people can be traced in its markers, as well as elsewhere. These in time become markers of time and records of the past. Man has, since first history.perhaps even before recorded history.left memorials commemorating those near and dear.
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