The White Children of Henderson Plantation
They woke to the sound of babies crying—but no one had borne them.
Clara Jenkins had always known what it was to be invisible.
Thin, sharp-eyed, and quiet, she worked from dawn to dusk under the relentless sun, harvesting cotton that left her fingers raw and bleeding.
She was poor, disregarded, dismissed as a whisper in the hum of the plantation.
Silas Thornton, the owner of Henderson Plantation, rarely even glanced her way unless there was trouble—or when he wanted to lash someone with words sharper than any whip.
Spring of 1851 arrived like an omen.
One morning, Clara awoke in her cabin to find an infant swaddled neatly on her cot, eyes wide and pale as the clouds.
She froze.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and for a terrifying moment, she thought she was losing her mind.
By the next morning, another infant appeared.
Then another.
Twelve children in as many nights, each left with no explanation, no note, no trace of who could have placed them there.
Silas was livid when he found out.
“This is madness!” he thundered, his voice like a whip cracking through the yard.
“Do you mean to tell me that these—these things—just…appear?!” He gestured at the tiny, fragile bodies, his hands shaking with a mixture of rage and fear.
“You are responsible for them, Jenkins! Do you understand me?”
Clara’s throat went dry.
“I… I don’t know, sir. I swear, I haven’t—”
“Silence!” he snapped.
His gold rings glinted cruelly in the morning sun.
“You will find out, or I will.”
Even as Silas raged, the children seemed to thrive.
Their skin was pale, but healthy.
Their cries were soft, almost melodic.
And there was something about their eyes—too knowing, too old for their age.
Among the enslaved people, a hush fell over whispers.
Some claimed magic.
Others whispered curses.
And then there was Eli, a frail boy with coughs that shook his ribs and cheeks sunken beyond his years.
No one paid much attention to him.
But he watched, always watching.
His gaze lingered on the infants longer than anyone dared, and he hummed to them softly, a melody that seemed to soothe not just the babies but the fear in the adults’ hearts.
One night, Clara lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine how any of this could be real.
The wind rattled the window frames, carrying the smell of wet earth and cotton blooms.
She thought of Silas, pacing in his office, gold rings flashing as he ranted at the empty walls, trying to control something that could not be controlled.
And she thought of Eli, curled in the corner, small and shivering, his eyes brighter than the candlelight.
It was then she heard it: a lullaby, soft and strange, coming from the shadows.
Not Eli’s, not hers, but something else entirely.
The candle flickered, and she caught movement—a pale figure, tall and impossibly still, holding a baby whose eyes glimmered like molten silver in the darkness.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The next day, Silas insisted on inspecting the cabins himself.
Clara led him, hands trembling, heart racing.
The first infant they encountered cooed softly.
Silas knelt, his face twisted in confusion.
“It’s… it’s alive. It’s—what is this? How—?”
Before Clara could answer, Eli stepped forward, pale and trembling.
“They… they need us,” he whispered.
“They come because they are lost.”
“Lost?” Silas scoffed, but there was a note of fear beneath his voice.
Clara decided she had to understand.
Nights turned into weeks as she observed the infants.
She noticed patterns: the children appeared after storms, always in the cabins of those considered weak, invisible, or forgotten.
And each child seemed drawn to Eli, huddling near him, seeking warmth, whispering in baby-like tones that only he could respond to.
It was during one late night, as thunder rolled overhead, that Clara discovered the first truth: the babies were not entirely human.
Their cries resonated with a frequency that seemed to affect the adults differently—some dizzy, some weeping uncontrollably, some paralyzed with fear.
Silas began to experience these effects more severely than anyone, his authority eroding with each night the children appeared.
Then came the first real horror: one morning, the largest of the infants was gone.
Clara found the cradle empty, Eli standing nearby, humming softly.
“They take them back,” he said, voice trembling.
“They come and they go.”
Silas lost control.
His wealth and power meant nothing in the face of the unexplained.
He began accusing Clara of witchcraft, threatening punishment, yet he could not harm the infants, who remained out of reach, spectral and resilient.
Clara realized she needed a plan.
She worked in secret, hiding food, keeping the infants warm, and talking to Eli.
Slowly, she pieced together what he knew: the children were born of the earth, lost souls drawn to those who understood suffering.
Their parents were shadows, remnants of a past long buried, and they could not survive without human care—but they were not fully human themselves.
One stormy night, as lightning tore across the sky, Clara made her move.
She gathered the infants in the main cabin, determined to shield them from Silas, who had come with a whip in hand, fury blazing.
Lightning struck the big oak outside, the windows rattled, and the cabin shook.
Eli began to hum louder, a crescendo that made the children glow faintly.
Silas screamed, clutching his ears, blinded by the light.
Clara felt herself lifted, heart racing, as if the cabin itself were breathing.
Then the walls went silent, the storm vanished, and the children blinked at her with strange, knowing smiles.
The final twist came as she looked at Eli—he was no longer a fragile boy.
His eyes glimmered silver like the infants’.
“We are ready,” he said softly.
And before Clara could respond, the children and Eli disappeared into the night, leaving only her trembling hands and an empty cabin.
Silas never understood.
The plantation remained, the work continued, but Clara knew the truth: some things are beyond power, beyond wealth, and beyond comprehension.
And some lost souls will find their way—even in the darkest, most forgotten corners of the world.
Clara never saw the children again—but sometimes, in the dead of night, she could hear a lullaby carried on the wind, soft as a whisper, reminding her that wonder and terror walk hand in hand.
Clara Jenkins thought she had seen the end of it.
Eli and the infants had vanished that stormy night, leaving only silence, an empty cabin, and the faint echo of a lullaby carried on the wind.
But Henderson Plantation had a way of reminding her that some mysteries never die.
The first sign came subtly: crops began to fail.
Cotton wilted overnight, strange frost-like patterns appeared on leaves in the dead of summer, and Clara’s fellow field hands whispered about the plantation being cursed.
Silas Thornton grew paranoid.
His once-mighty authority eroded as he demanded explanations, punishing anyone who even hinted at supernatural causes.
One evening, Clara returned to her cabin to find a single infant on her doorstep—eyes closed, body cold as if it had been floating in the air.
She picked the child up, hands trembling.
Something about its touch made her dizzy, as if the world had shifted slightly.
Then she heard it: Eli’s voice.
Not outside, not near her, but inside her own mind.
“They need you,” he whispered.
“But not all of them come with good intent.”
Clara froze.
The implication hit her like a blow.
Some of the children—some had darkness in them.
She remembered the glow of the infants’ eyes, the way they whispered in baby voices she could barely understand.
Was it possible that some were drawn to her for comfort, and others… for something more dangerous?
Before she could react, the cabin door slammed open.
Silas stood there, eyes wild, accusing.
“Enough! I will end this!” He lunged forward, but the infant in Clara’s arms suddenly cried—a sound unlike any human wail, piercing and sharp.
Lightning flashed through the window, and Silas froze, convulsing.
His face twisted as visions, horrific and impossible, played across his eyes: glimpses of the children’s world, a place beyond time, filled with pale, silent figures reaching for him.
Clara realized something horrifying: the children were not bound by human morality—they tested people, showing them truths they were not ready to face.
And Silas had failed.
Terrified but determined, Clara ran into the woods with the infant, hoping to find Eli.
But the forest was different now: trees seemed taller, shadows deeper, and whispers floated between the trunks.
Shapes moved just beyond her vision.
She heard a laughter that was both a warning and a greeting, and realized the infants weren’t the only supernatural beings here.
A sudden scream split the night.
Clara spun, heart racing.
One of the children, glowing faintly silver, had been taken by a shadowy figure taller than any man.
It was dragging the child toward a clearing where the ground seemed to ripple like water.
Clara charged forward, but the forest itself seemed to shift, paths twisting, leading her in circles.
Every step she took brought her back to the same spot—Silas’s abandoned manor in ruins, smoke curling from the chimney, even though the storm had ended hours ago.
Eli appeared then, older, taller, not the fragile boy she remembered.
But there was a coldness in his eyes.
“Clara… not all of us can be saved.
Some are lost by choice,” he said.
The wind lifted, and the other children’s cries surrounded her, pleading, warning, laughing.
Suddenly, the infant in her arms screamed again, and Clara felt herself pulled into a vision: a place of shadows and mirrors, where every choice she had made, every kindness, every fear, was reflected in endless, twisting corridors.
And at the center, a figure that resembled Silas—but not entirely him—smiled knowingly.
“You wanted to protect them,” the figure said.
“But can you protect yourself?”
The vision shattered.
Clara was back in the forest, alone, the infant gone, replaced by the faint echo of Eli’s humming.
The night was silent… except for the distant sound of footsteps—many of them, approaching from all directions.
She realized, with a cold certainty: the game had just begun.
And somewhere in the shadows, something was waiting—watching, judging, testing.
