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At the Tubman Museum in Macon, Georgia
Yesterday, during the Juneteenth observance at the Tubman African American Museum in Macon, Georgia, I discussed the historical context of freedom in Middle Georgia. To highlight African Americans’ resilience, I drew a compelling comparison with the Juneteenth celebrations in Galveston, Texas, in 1865.
In an age when Black History is vanishing, I’m on a mission to preserve the legacy of the first five Blacks elected to the Macon, Georgia City Council. Click the Q-Code for ways to support the celebration of this historical event.
If Black History Matters and is worth preserving, share some of your resources to honor those who carried the torch in difficult times.
“I tried to warn you,” the reflection murmurs. “But you didn’t listen.”
Janelle’s pulse thunders in her ears. Pounding like a drum beat out of an African jungle, or a native war camp in the late 1800s.
“No. This isn’t right,” Janelle can hear herself say.
She squares her shoulders, forcing her breath into something steady, controlled.
Janelle stiffens. She knows this voice. She shouldn’t. How could she know this voice? But she knows the flow of the words rolling off the stranger’s tongue.
The floor shifts beneath her, tilting ever so slightly—not enough to move her, just enough to remind her that nothing is solid anymore.
Her fingers tighten around the key, but it is gone. And the door behind her? It is no longer there. The light flickers again, stronger this time, revealing the silhouette of a figure—not the stranger, but someone else, someone waiting.
The basement stretches longer than she remembers, the darkness pressing in thicker now, hungrier. The stranger does not follow, yet she can feel his presence wrapping around her like a lingering shadow.
She stops before the door. Something about it is different now. The wood cracks open like veins, pulsing with something deeper beneath its surface. The doorknob is no longer brass; it gleams silver, smooth, expectant, waiting. Her heartbeat hammers against her ribs.
The basement air hangs thick with an unsettling quiet, pressing against Janelle’s skin like a living thing. The dark stranger’s words, twisted in half-truths and veiled warnings, still cling to her like cobwebs.
She swallows hard, forcing herself to steady her voice.
“What do you mean, it was never about me?”
She forced herself to hold her ground.
“Who else?” she pressed.
The stranger’s gaze flickered to the journal still clutched in her hands.
“You already have your answers,” he murmured.
“You just don’t know how to read them yet.”
The pages in her grip fluttered open, but not to blank parchment. Not to Evelyn’s last words.
Janelle planted her feet, pulse hammering. Fear was clawing at her, but she wouldn’t let it control her. Not this time.
She squared her shoulders and held the stranger’s gaze.
“You’re telling me to leave like you have some authority over this place. But you’re still
Janelle steadied her breath, the whisper curling through the air like a thread of smoke.
“Janelle.”
It wasn’t her imagination. Someone was here.
She tightened her grip on the key, its cool metal grounding her, and stepped into the stone corridor. The walls were ancient, rough-hewn, not part of the modern mansion above. As she moved deeper, the light behind her faded, swallowed by the narrowing passage.
Janelle stood on the lawn, her breath slowing, but her heart racing. Every rational part of her screamed to walk away, to leave the house and never look back. But that wasn’t who she was.
She had escaped, but escaped from what?
And more importantly, why had it let her go?
Tugging the sleeves of her jacket tighter, she strode back toward the house. The grand entrance loomed before her, unchanged, as if it hadn’t just tried to trap her. She stepped inside, every creak of the wooden floors a reminder that she was stepping into the unknown, willingly this time.