Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Brick’s Last Stand A Giant’s Revolt Against Injustice in the Post-Civil War South #58

Episode Date: August 6, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #southerngothic #historicalhorror #revengetale #injusticeexposed #civilwarlegacy  In the turbulent aftermath of the Civil War, a towering man known as Brick becomes a symbol of defiance and justice in the South. After witnessing brutal injustices inflicted on the oppressed, Brick’s rage boils over into an unstoppable revolt. But his story isn’t one of triumph—it’s a dark, supernatural spiral into violence, blood, and a legacy that refuses to die. This eerie blend of historical fiction and horror reveals how the past never truly stays buried.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, southerngothic, postcivilwar, historicalrevenge, racialinjustice, supernaturalvengeance, hauntedhistory, darklegacy, folklorehorror, revenantjustice, rebellionhorror, bloodandsoil, cursedpast, monsterwithin, violentuprising

Georgia, 1873, five years after the ratification of the 14th Amendment, eight years since the last Confederate surrender. The Reconstruction Act had papered the South in federal blue, but the rot beneath festered. The Fulton County Stockade, a repurposed cotton mill ringed by oak stumps and rusted track lines, housed incorrigibles, union loyalists, carpetbaggers, and the odd freedmen who'd forgotten his place. Tonight, it housed something else entirely. The wagon creaked to a halt, its iron-rimmed wheels sinking into mud the color of dried blood. Chains rattled. A whip-crack snap split the air, not to punish, but to announce. Christ a mighty, hissed Deputy Willis, thumbing the sweat off his brow.

His Remington Model 1858 trembled in its holster. Ain't no man that size? That's, that's a goddamn spectacle. The thing that clambered down from the wagon wasn't a man. Not anymore. Eleven feet of corded muscle and scar tissue stretched over a frame that seemed to warp the lantern light, casting a shadow that swallowed the stockade's limestone walls. His skin, black as pitch under the moon, gleamed with sweat and old blood, his masters, they said. The shackles around his wrists were ship anchor links, the kind used to more steamers in Savannah Harbor.

They wumped against the earth-like funeral drums as he walked. name, barked the warden, a skeletal Mississippian with a voice like a saw blade. His ledger lay open, inkpot trembling. The giant stared. His left eye was milk-white, blinded by a lie burn. The right held a flicker of something older than rage. Ain't got one, he rumbled. Gullah Creole thickened his words, the saltwater drawl of the Carolina Lowcountry.

Masa Calmeet Brick, for I mash I'm. Laughter sputtered among the guards, nervous, jagged. Deputy Willis spat a stream of tobacco. Brick, huh. Fidden. Gunna need a bigger hammer when the boys in the yard get thirsty. The yard. A half-acre pit of Georgia clay, studded with the stumps of oaks felled for rebel ramparts.

The prisoners, Irish railroad saboteurs, chalkedaw horse thieves, a one-armed buffalo soldier who'd gutted his captain over back pay, pressed against the stockade's inner fence. Their eyes glinted in the dark. Brick, the warden repeated, scribbling. Charged with murderin, Reginald Devon, Esquire, of Charleston. Sentence, death by Hanjin, pending federal review. He smirked. Yankees love their paperwork. Reckon you got a month, for they not a rope. Till then, welcome to Hell's Ice House. The cell. Brick's new home was a former smokehouse.

its walls still greasy with decades of hog fat. The floor sloped toward a drain clogged with rat bones. Deputy Willis tossed in a tin plate of hocakes and sowbelly. Supper, he sneered. Eat up, Samson. Tomorrow, you dig, they put him on the levee crew. Dawn broke over the Chattahoochee River, its banks swollen with spring runoff. Twelve prisoners, ankles shackled, hacked at the mud with shovels while runoff.

rifle trustee convicts watched from horseback. Brick's tool was a felling axe, its handle splintered. Move, you lazy nigg. The guard slur died as Brick turned. The man paled, spurred his mare back. Leave, I'm B. Hollis, called the overseer, a grizzled Arcanzan with a star revolver on his hip. Big U.N.'s got a date with Mr. Gallows. Let the river waste, I'm. Brick swung the axe. Each strike split the earth like a skull, the rhythm sinking with the chain gang's work chance. O L. Riley, oh. Heavy hammer, oh. Mossa in the big house.

Riley in the holler. A chocked our man to Brick's left, face-poxed with small-pox scars, muttered in broken English. They say you kill master. How, Brick didn't pause. He tried to brand me. Took the iron. Put it, cross he eyes. he scream then he don't the chokta grunted good white men steal our land our children you steal his breath

yukoki thank you a rifle but slammed into the chokta's ribs shut your hole taffy hollis snarled next word i mail your tongue to oklahoma the fight it came at sundown the yard's hierarchy was darwinian the strong eight the wight the walt weak starved. Brick's rations, triple portions, out of fear or fascination, drew eyes. A pack of Irish roughnecks, their faces still soot-stained from burning Sherman's rails, circled him at the water pump. Lads, their leader, a red-bearded carryman named Finnegan, grinned. Let's see if the Big N asterisk asterisk-a-astrusk are as hearts as soft as his Mass's skull. Brick drank slowly, his back turned. Finnegan lunged, Shiv carved from a bed slat aimed at Brick's kidney. The giant moved. Later, witnesses would argue over what happened. Some swore Brick's fist caved finnigan's chest, ribbed splintering inward to puncture the lung.

Others said he grabbed the Irishman's head and squeezed until an eye burst like a muskidine. Truth was Messier, Brick caught the Shiv mid-thrust, snapped the wrist bone. then drove the wood sliver into Finnegan's throat. The Irishman drowned on his own blood, gurgling a banshee's curse. Anyone else? Brick roared, Finnegan's body dangling from his fist like a cornhusk doll. The yard froze. The buffalo soldier, name unknown, rank long stripped, nodded once, respect glinting in his one good eye.

The Choctaw spat at Finnegan's corpse. Deputy Willis raised his Remington. Drop him, Brick. Now, Brick let the body fall. He done dropped already, he said, turning away. The fever, no one warned him about the swamp rot. Three days later, Brick's left leg swelled hot to the touch, the old brand on his calf oozing yellow pus. Malaria, the guards called it.

An asterisk asterisk asterisk our sickness, Hollis jeered. He'll be dead by Easter, the child. Cockta brewed a poultice, crushed willow bark, river moss, stolen whiskey. Here, he grunted, smearing the paste on Brick's leg. My people's medicine. Better than white man's poison. Brick's fever broke in waves. Hallucinations clotted him, his mother's voice singing,

Cumbaya, as the auction block loomed, Devon's blood bubbling between floorboards, the thud of the gallows trapdoor. Why help me, he rasped. The Choctaws face hardened. You fight. You live. That is enough. The noose, they came for him on a rain slick Thursday.

Federal orders execute sentence of death upon the negro known as Brick, et al, all, for the crime of murder. The gallows stood in the yard, its hemp rope looped like a waiting serpent. The prisoners watched silently. The Buffalo soldier hummed Shenandoah. Last words, the warden asked. asked, smirking. Brick stared past him, toward the river.

Ain't afraid, he said. Dunn seen hell already. It white, and it burn. The trapdoor dropped, and the rope snapped. God damn it, the warden screeched. Hollis. Fetch another rope. Chaos erupted.

The Choctaw lunged, tackling a guard. The Buffalo soldier seized a rifle, bayonet flashing. Brick, sprawled in the mud, roared, a sound felt more than heard, and surged upward, snapping the hangman's platform like kindling. Bullets tore the air. Brick's fist found Hollis's jaw, shattering it. The deputy's scream died as Brick hurled him into the stockade wall, spine cracking like a dry twig. To the river, the buffalo soldier bellowed, tossing brick a stolen axe. They ran.

Men fell, the Chok-Taw took a mini-ball to. to the gut, cursing in Muskogee as he bled out. The Buffalo soldier made it halfway across the Chattahoochee before the sharpshooters found him. His body sank, pulled down by the weight of his chains. Brick alone reached the far bank, axe in hand, blood in his teeth. Behind him, Fulton County burned. Ahead, freedom. Maybe. Or just another master. But for now, he ran. note, the Fulton County Stockade was real. In 1873, it held 128 prisoners, mostly black men arrested under vagrancy laws, in a 24 by 24 foot room. Six died of disease, the rest were leased to railroads. The Buffalo soldier references the 10th cavalry, deployed to subdue Plains' tribes post-Civil

war. The Choctaw's Pultus mirrors traditional Muskogee remedies.