Haunted House Tales

by Riley Amitrani

  November 2017

  Amy was sitting on one of the chairs that were part of the set for the touring company’s production when Malcolm returned carrying a large book under one arm and toting a medium-sized valise. He laid out a variety of objects and then opened the book to the section he had used previously in such instances for trying to remove a spirit that had taken over a new host. Amy watched him patiently, but did not give any indication that she was merely placating the man…just playing along in a ruse.

  “OK,” Malcolm said as he stepped back looking at his setup, “I think we are ready to give this a go. Just close your eyes and relax.”

  Amy did as he requested and when Malcolm turned his back, Amy let all of her old self fade away as the spirit of Rosalva took over. She looked up toward the scaffolding that was part of the intricate design of the production to be done soon, and watched as the rope she had frayed while Malcolm had left the theatre to get his gear began to wear away completely. And in perfect timing, just as Amy/Rosalva knew it would, the balance bar offsetting a light boom fell with speed from high above striking Malcolm directly on the top of his head and crushing him to the floor.

  Amy/Rosalva walked calmly to the fallen man’s body and squatted down as blood poured from his head and he looked up at her with desperation as his life was slowly draining away.

  “So sorry Malcolm…but this is the way it has to be. We both liked you very much, Amy and I. However, I am afraid you are just too much of a threat to our future.”

  “So I was right, then…” Malcolm sputtered out, as ribbons of blood dribbled over his lips and sprayed forward. “Is it you, Rosalva?”

  “Oh…I guess the best answer to that is that the two of us are one now. It seems you’ve already figured that out, though. But as to your theory that Amy was an available and perfect vessel for me? As usual, Malcolm…you were right on target.”

  With that, Malcolm’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell silent on the stage, the massive bar across his inert body as the last of his breath left for good. Amy/Rosalva stood and with no emotion or other concern for what she had done walked down the stairs that led from the stage to the seating and then out of the building never looking back once. It was what we had to do, Amy, the voice of Rosalva said to her as she walked home. Now we both get what we really wanted; you’ll be the star you always dreamed of, and I am free to make sure that happens. I will still get my appreciation from the public, even if it is vicariously through you…

  ……….

  The next morning, as Lynch arrived at the theatre to make his way to his office behind the stage he found the corpse. It was shocking in its macerated and bloody demise, but Lynch was now seriously wondering if there might be something to all the stories and legends that everyone in Swinson clung to regarding the old Regent. The place sure seemed to be having more than its share of accidents as of late. However, he had a business to run, and he called the police to let them wrap this one up…just an unfortunate thing the detectives said to him as they watched the coroner take away Malcolm Peter’s body. Lynch kept his thoughts to himself and just nodded solemnly as he thanked the men for their discretion and professionalism in keeping this incident as low key as possible so as to not impact the upcoming show.

  As far as the touring company was concerned, nothing untoward had ever happened on the night that Malcolm Peters had died. They all poured into the building, and soon the seats were filled, and the show, which had certainly had had its challenges to get to up and running went on without any other glitches. Florentine and the producer sat back smiling broadly as the show they had been working on for months was a huge success. The audience loved the performance, and they knew this was but a harbinger of good fortune for the string of coming venues they had in mind. And Amy/Rosalva was the central focus. The audience roared with approval at the conclusion of each of her numbers in the play, and she stood in glowing admiration at the end of the show as the audience leapt to their feet offering her a standing ovation.

  It was all she had ever wanted in her life. And now that she had attained it, Amy embraced the spirit of Rosalva with no reservations. If this is what was required to make her a star, then so be it. After the show, Florentine came to Amy and offered her a permanent spot in his company, as the original actress had taken a turn for the worse, health-wise. He could not wait on her recovery and thought Amy would far surpass her anyway after what he had seen that evening. She accepted readily, knowing the tour was her ticket to the top.

  “How generous, Mr. Florentine. Yes…I’d love to come on board.”

  “Fantastic! Go see Edward, my producer, and he can get you all set up with a contract and all the other details necessary. We will be moving on the day after tomorrow. Will that work for you? I realize this is sudden…”

  “No problem for me, sir. I will resign my job here and then get set up with Edward. And thank you again for this opportunity.”

  Amy/Rosalva walked with a spring in her step and knocked on Lynch’s office door.

  “Come in…” Lynch said.

  “Oh, good, Darren…I’m glad you are here. Mr. Florentine has offered me a permanent position with his tour, so I have come in person to tender my resignation at The Review.”

  Lynch sat in stunned silence as he took in her words. After seeing her performance this evening, he had actually been formulating a plan of his own to promote Amy, hopefully making The Review as much of a showplace as the old Regent had once been.

  “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

  “Just like that, Darren. It’s what I have wanted ever since I was a little girl.”

  “But, I thought maybe you and I could work together to make this place really shine, Amy?”

  Amy/Rosalva just grinned and shook her head in a gesture indicating she thought he had to be kidding.

  “After all the hell and insults and denigration you put me through here? Are you out of your damn mind, Darren?”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  “But, I…”

  Amy/Rosalva cut him off.

  “Shut the hell up, Darren. You went to great lengths to thwart my dreams. So just shut up.”

  Then her voice shifted from the one Lynch knew well as Amy Roberts to one from an entity form long ago.

  “My best advice to you, Mr. Lynch,” the Amy/Rosalva thing said, in the unmistakable voice of Rosalva, “just move on with your life. You will not have us as your meal ticket. It is over. Just let it go. It would be a shame if there was another ‘incident’ here…possibly involving you, if you get my drift.”

  Lynch fell silent even as his mouth fell open in shock. His jaw snapped shut, and he gulped with a sudden shiver of fear. At the moment, Lynch had no idea who it was that was speaking to him from out of Amy Robert’s body, but he knew it was not her. The accent and the inflection…they were all off. He thought back abruptly to all that had happened at The Review and decided it best to follow the advice of whoever or whatever it was that was speaking to him. He nodded in resignation and watched as the Amy/Rosalva thing turned abruptly on her heels and departed without another word. Despite the disappointment at the money he had hoped to make with Amy, Lynch thought of Peters’ crumpled and decimated corpse and wondered if he had just dodged a bullet.

  Amy/Rosalva boarded the tour bus with the rest of the cast and crew, and she smiled crookedly as she peered over at Swinson as it disappeared behind the fumes of the bus. As far as the Amy portion of the hybrid entity could see, there was nothing but a path to the top now for her. She had struggled and fought and sweated and strained doing all the right things to succeed, but where had it gotten her? An usher and custodian in a third-rate movie house? But that was all behind her now. Regardless of the journey she had taken to get here, getting here was all that was important now. She settled back into her seat and closed her eyes as the voice from the other half of her hybrid came to her as if in waking dream…

  “Doesn’t it feel great, Amy? This is w
hat you were born to do. Together we are unstoppable.”

  “Yes, Amy replied in a whisper...unstoppable.”

  “And what must we do if anyone gets between us and our goals?”

  “Whatever it takes, Rosalva.”

  “Even if that means like what we had to do with Malcolm?”

  “Whatever it takes, Rosalva.”

  From across the aisle of the bus, Jennifer Goddard, one of the actresses that Amy had several duets within the show touched her on the arm.

  “You OK, Amy? You were mumbling in your sleep.”

  “Oh? Was I? Just a dream I guess. It was nothing.”

  “The name you mentioned…Rosalva? Who is that?”

  “Rosalva? I have no idea…funny about dreams, huh, Jen? Guess I must have seen the name somewhere…”

  “Be careful, Amy…she seems a bit too nosy. Keep an eye on that one. Remember…whatever it takes…”

  Amy smiled with an almost evil sneer as she acknowledged Rosalva’s admonition. But her other half had nothing to worry about. Amy was completely on board now…

  The Haunting of Daucourt Mansion

  By Riley Amitrani

  Introduction

  West Oliver, Maryland

  August 2016

  When I was an undergraduate student, I often got sidetracked by what a lot of my friends referred to as my obsession with the supernatural and haunted houses and the like. I always thought that obsession was a bit strong of an adjective to describe my interest in such things, but perhaps they were able to be more objective. In retrospect, I suppose these topics might have in fact fallen under that moniker. For sure, the professors under whom I was supposed to be focusing my time and energy would have agreed had they been asked. As I entered my junior year, it was only the persistence and tenacity of my roommate in those days, that kept me from being dismissed from school based on my faltering GPA.

  Before my university days, I had never even pondered such things. In fact, if you had asked, I would have waved off such ideas as laughable if I was being generous. But more likely I would have said such ideas were insane on most of my days. Ghosts and hauntings and such nonsense were the stuff of Halloween and fodder for low-grade films that appealed to the weak-minded. At least that is what I once believed. However, after I began to read and research some things that touched on this realm for a history elective I took on, that changed. I am not sure how, based on my former firm beliefs in the paranormal, but that is exactly what happened. My undergraduate program based primarily in the natural sciences was mixed with a smattering of offerings from all the university departments as was required at the liberal arts school. Something about getting a “well-rounded college experience” I think was the marketing ploy in the brochure the admissions people sent me when I was considering my choice for a college.

  Anyway, the history seminar fulfilled part of this requirement, so I signed up just to get another few credits outside of my major curriculum over and done with. The seminar was a broad overview of the culture and quite enigmatic peoples of the southern United States, with an emphasis in the regions of New Orleans and the surrounding bayou lands. To my surprise, I found the seminar intriguing, and it was what came after the class was over that led me “astray” and contributed significantly to nearly ending my tenure at the university. The material we covered in the class included what draws many people to the New Orleans region even today, namely the huge number of locations of supposedly haunted homes, hotels, and restaurants in the Big Easy. I will not bore you with a detailed list of such places, as most are either well-acquainted with them already or if not, there are always search engines.

  My own introduction to the Louisiana paranormal epicenter set me on a path I had never envisioned before the class. It was not like I was an instant convert from just reading about the area in this regard, but the combination of history, religion, and legends from years ago sparked something in my brain. So, I began to dig deeper into it all when the class was over. New Orleans may be the dark hole from whence a lot of these stories originate, but for sure that is not where it stops. New Orleans, I suppose just has had better PR. It was only, based on my own research and interest that I went to the town of St. Francisville to talk to some locals concerning the legend of Daucourt Mansion.

  The literature I poured through mentioned this old mansion in St. Francisville that was reputedly haunted. But that was not what captured my interest per se. As a buddy of mine in high school used to say, “it is hard to swing a dead cat and not hit…fill in your own subject here.” To my experience, this is apt for hauntings in Louisiana. Despite being nearly two hours northwest of New Orleans, St. Francisville is home, in my opinion anyway, to a haunted mansion on par with anything in and around Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. However, everything I could get my hands on gave only a cursory description of the Daucourt Mansion. Enough to make me curious, but short on the details, I was craving once I had opened the door even to consider such things to be plausible. So, I did what any reasonable person with unanswered questions would: road trip!

  Well…maybe not reasonable, but that was what I did on my spring break that year. While my friends were lining up reservations and making plans for a spring bacchanal like other normal kids at colleges across the country, I was loading my slowly degrading Jeep for a drive from the Midwest to Louisiana to see if the legend of the Daucourt Mansion had any validity to it—at least from the locals who might know—or if it was just that: a legend to bring in tourists. Before I spill the story, though, here is a little of what is known of the mansion that caused me to go off in this direction in the first place. Hang in there, my readers…the preamble is well worth your patience. It’s a great tale. Think of it as an appetizer to the entrée…

  Prologue

  St. Francisville, Louisiana

  1794 - 1830

  Daniel Broadfoot was the son of Irish immigrants born in Pennsylvania. Daniel grew to become a successful attorney and businessman who eventually became the Deputy AG there, marrying Ellie Potter in 1785 with whom he started his own family. Unfortunately, though, Daniel became involved in the Whiskey Rebellion, and he had to flee for his life, leaving Ellie and their children behind, as it is said that George Washington himself had placed a price on Daniel’s head for his part in the uprising. Daniel ventured down the Ohio River, eventually making his way to the Mississippi in search of a safe haven for them. He settled in Bayou Sara—now known as St. Francisville—where he purchased about 600 acres of land and built a home for his family in 1794.

  Broadfoot, feeling the overwhelming anxiety and uncertainty of being on the run from Washington’s alleged threat, changed his name to Florian Daucourt for further protection. He had seen the name in a very ancient French manuscript, and it seemed that it would make him more invisible to any federal authorities that might be beating the bushes for his arrest, and simultaneously help him blend into the Louisiana country with a name more amenable to the area. Uneasy, but understanding his fears and concerns, Ellie went along with the plan and joined her husband with their kids as they moved south to Bayou Sara. Their life went on much as it had before in Pennsylvania, with Florian practicing law and keeping his hand in other business ventures and pursuits.

  Daucourt, nee Broadfoot, may have begun the legend of the mansion, but it was one of his law students, Charles Wilder, who married one of Daucourt’s daughters, Suzanne, about whom the real legend of the Daucourt Mansion revolves. Much like Daucourt, Wilder became hugely successful as a lawyer, and businessman, and he and Suzanne added three children to the legacy of the family. He continued to expand the estate and in homage to his mentor and father-in-law as well as Ellie, renamed the massive estate, The Daucourt Mansion. However, unlike his mentor, Wilder’s happiness at the mansion was short-lived. This is where actual fact and creative legend collide. It depends upon whom you talk to as to what is true and what is legend, but enough of the legend has been confirmed by generations of locals, that the legend seems to
have enough validity to be accepted as real…depending on your belief system.

  The legend of The Daucourt Mansion is based on and linked to a slave, known through all the narratives simply as Corrie. As the story goes, Corrie supposedly murdered the Wilder children in a fit of jealous anger due to Charles Wilder. While well-known for integrity with his legal career in men in general, Wilder was also widely recognized for his promiscuous behavior with women. It is said that Wilder counted Corrie among the targets of his indiscretions. Apparently, even though Corrie, a household servant, was abhorrent to his advances, she was also petrified that if she refused him, she would most likely be sent to the fields to join the most brutal of all the work among the other slaves.

  However, as was often the case with Wilder, he tired of Corrie and moved on to other girls upon which to force himself. Sensing she might be exiled to the fields, Corrie began to eavesdrop on the private conversations of Wilder family listening with dread for the mere mention of her name. Eventually, she was caught at this, and a court ordered that one of her ears be cut off to teach her a lesson and make her understand her place in life. From that point on, Corrie was seen to wear a bright red turban around her head to hide the hideous scar of her punishment. What came next though, is still disputed. The action is agreed upon, but the motives are not.

  Some say Corrie’s next actions against the Wilders were just to make the children sick so she could nurse them back to health and gain back some compassion from Wilder, but others dispute this saying her only motive was revenge for being replaced in Wilder’s bed with another girl. Whatever the reason, Corrie had made a birthday cake for the oldest Wilder daughter, Mary. In among the flour of the cake, Corrie mixed crushed oleander flowers. The children all ingested the poisoned cake, but for some reason, neither Charles nor Suzanne partook of the dessert. The children soon became very ill, and despite all efforts to save them, they were all dead within a matter of hours. Like rumors today, it did not take long for the other slaves to hear of Corrie’s actions, and afraid they might be punished as well for what she had done, they dragged her from her room and hanged her in a tree just in the rear of the orchard to the east.