THE PROCTOR HALL HORROR
The Bayou Hauntings
Book Seven
Bill Thompson
Published by
Ascendente Books
Dallas, Texas
This is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, businesses, organizations and locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of this novel are products of the author’s imagination. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal rights to publish all the materials in this book.
The Proctor Hall Horror: The Bayou Hauntings 7
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2020
V.1.0
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic or mechanical without the express written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by Ascendente Books
ISBN 978-09992503-8-9
Printed in the United States of America
Books by Bill Thompson
The Bayou Hauntings
CALLIE
FORGOTTEN MEN
THE NURSERY
BILLY WHISTLER
THE EXPERIMENTS
DIE AGAIN
THE PROCTOR HALL HORROR
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mystery Series
THE BETHLEHEM SCROLL
ANCIENT: A SEARCH FOR THE LOST CITY
OF THE MAYAS
THE STRANGEST THING
THE BONES IN THE PIT
ORDER OF SUCCESSION
THE BLACK CROSS
TEMPLE
Apocalyptic Fiction
THE OUTCASTS
The Crypt Trilogy
THE RELIC OF THE KING
THE CRYPT OF THE ANCIENTS
GHOST TRAIN
Middle Grade Fiction
THE LEGEND OF GUNNERS COVE
When my boys were little, I often read ghost stories to them, but they loved it most when I created spooky tales of my own. I’d describe the haunted cabin by a lake, or the lady in white that floated past the window of the old house in our town.
I dedicate this ghost story to other parents who have told made-up stories to their own kids,
who encourage them to read and learn,
and who love a good scary story as much as I do.
Significant Characters in The Proctor Hall Horror
LANDRY DRAKE
Paranormal ghost hunter and creator of the nationally popular Bayou Hauntings television series. Works for WCCY-TV Channel Nine in New Orleans
CATE ADAMS
Landry’s girlfriend who works for Henri Duchamp
DOC ADAMS
Cate’s father, a prominent psychiatrist in Galveston who invests in distressed properties
HENRI DUCHAMP
President of Louisiana Society for the Paranormal. Old friend of Landry’s who works closely with him on cases.
MARGUEY SLATTERY
Teenaged girl who vanished at Proctor Hall
THE PROCTORS
Hiram, Sarah and May Ellen were victims of the Proctor Hall Massacre in 1963. Son Noah was blamed for killing his father, mother and sister.
THE TRIMBLES
Ben was caretaker of Proctor Hall before and after the massacre. Agnes is his common-law wife.
THE GIRARDS
Joseph and Mary are relatives of the Trimbles.
DR. JULIEN GIRARD
History professor at Tulane University and creator of a course in Louisiana culture
HARRY KANTER
State police lieutenant who works regularly on cases with Landry
SHANE YOUNG
New Orleans police detective who works regularly on cases with Landry
CHAPTER ONE
Wind whipped through the ancient live oaks that hung low over Bayou Lafourche. The sky turned a deep purple as ominous clouds swept over the parish. The weatherman had predicted thunderstorms around four p.m., and his forecast was right on the money. Fat drops fell, slowly at first, then increasing in speed and intensity until the heavens opened up.
Marguey Slattery poled her pirogue toward the bank. Two hours ago when she put in, the weather had been perfect. Her dad had warned her to be back by three, but she’d lost track of time as she floated past the old plantation homes that fronted the bayou. Now it was too late — she’d have to ride out the storm under one of the massive old oaks.
She dug the pole into the bottom, turning the pirogue to reach a branch and tie off. Marguey wasn’t certain where she was. Some distance from the river stood a house she hadn’t seen before. Even in the gloom, no lights shone in the windows. The house looked abandoned.
Daddy’s gonna be mad. I’m gonna get the lecture of my life. Maybe even a whipping.
Just a few miles from home, she might have tried going back, but she couldn’t risk it in the powerful rainstorm.
Better for Daddy to be mad than for me to drown in the bayou.
More drenched by the minute, Marguey sat in the pirogue and pulled her straw hat down low. It did little more than filter the raindrops, but that helped. She looked at the old house again and thought she saw something. Was someone standing on the lawn? She dug out the binoculars she’d brought along for bird-watching, wiped down the lenses, and looked.
She did see someone. A child younger than Marguey in a black dress stood in the yard. There was a hood over her head so she wouldn’t get wet. She raised her hand.
She’s — she’s waving at me! How does she know I’m here, as dark as it is here in these trees? Is someone really there?
Marguey stopped to clear the lenses again and looked. Now the girl stood halfway down the yard, standing between the house and the pirogue.
How did she move that quickly?
Her face was hidden by the hood, but the howling wind made a sound like words. She beckoned to Marguey, and the wind said, “Come play with me.”
This is crazy! She’s out in the pouring rain but doesn’t seem to notice. Who is she? What’s going on?
Marguey shouted, “I can’t come up there. It’s storming!”
The binoculars fell onto the floor of the pirogue. Marguey strained to get them, and when she sat upright again, she cried out.
The girl stood on the bank not three feet away, her face dark inside the hood. She — or perhaps the wind — said, “Come play with me.”
Marguey fumbled with the rope, trying to untie it. Being out on the bayou in a storm was a lot less scary than being right here. As she fumbled with the knot, the girl moved again. Now they were close enough to touch each other. A sudden, powerful gust of wind blew the girl’s hood back, and Marguey realized that tying off here had been a huge mistake.
The figure standing in front of her had no head.
The wind spoke. “Don’t leave. I want you to play with me.”
CHAPTER TWO
“What’s the most haunted plantation home in Louisiana?”
All sixteen students raised their hands, and Julien Girard said, “Camilla, let’s hear your choice.”
“The Myrtles in St. Francisville.”
“A logical choice,” Dr. Girard said, asking the class who agreed with her. As usual, the vast majority chose it too. Only three had other ideas.
Oak Alley. Chretien Point. San Francisco Plantation.
They always pick the same ones. “You’ve made four excellent choices, but the title ‘most haunted’ depends on who you ask. Every Louisianan has an opinion, and if you ask a hundred people, you’ll get a variety of answers.
“Here’s my idea. The most haunted plantation house in Louisiana is Proctor Hall in Lafourche Parish. Not many people know
about it.”
He flashed a picture on a screen. “As you can see, it’s not a beautiful old mansion like the ones you just mentioned. It’s a farmhouse on a plantation along Bayou Lafourche.
“Proctor Hall was the scene of one of the most grisly mass murders in the twentieth century and the most horrific ever in that parish. Here’s your assignment for the weekend. Research the story, find out as much as you can about what happened there, and turn in a report on Monday. There’s more to the story of Proctor Hall than you might expect, so the top grades go to those of you who dig the deepest. We’ll discuss it then.”
As the students filed out of Julien Girard’s classroom on the third floor of Tulane’s Hebert Hall, he considered which of them would do the minimum on this project and who would really embrace it. There was plenty about what the press dubbed the Massacre at Proctor Hall, but almost nothing about the other eerie things that had happened there over the years. The only A’s for this assignment would go to those who learned more than the obvious.
After teaching history for twenty-eight years, Julien knew almost every tall tale and spooky story there was. But when he created a course called Appreciation of Louisiana Culture, he’d found his true calling. For the past three years he’d been enchanting his students with the legends of Cajun country. Julien was a master storyteller, and every semester there was a waiting list of people who wanted to take his course. His rugged good looks and black hair pulled back into a ponytail didn’t hurt his popularity with the coeds either.
The part of his job he loved most was preparing his curriculum for the next semester. He spent summers driving the back roads of southwestern Louisiana, exploring old houses and hearing about mysteries and ghosts. In town after town, he listened to stories from ordinary people who claimed to have witnessed unexplainable events. All that research ended up as fodder for his students to ponder.
Although it had happened a few years before he was born, Julien knew every detail about the Massacre at Proctor Hall. It fascinated him to watch his students dig into the mysteries there. Would they turn up all the secrets the old house held? Not a chance. Nobody ever did, because they’d been so well concealed all these years.
On Monday morning, his students drifted back into the classroom. He could tell from the looks on their faces who had enjoyed working on Friday’s assignment and who gave it the usual “just enough to get by” effort.
“I hope everyone had a great weekend,” he began. “And I hope you found researching Proctor Hall intriguing. It’s one of my favorite stories. Is there anyone who didn’t do the assignment? Dog ate my homework? I had the flu? My mother grounded me and I couldn’t use the computer?”
Everyone laughed, but no one raised a hand. That was always gratifying. At least they all tried.
“Who thinks their research is best? Who among you thinks you’ll get the top grade today?”
One hand shot up before he’d finished the first question — Marisol de Leon’s. No surprise there. Over the years, a variety of students had passed through his classroom and his life. Underachievers, overachievers, those who struggled, the cocky, the shy, those who loved his subject, and those who took it to fill an elective and graduate.
Marisol had a classic type A personality — driven, ambitious, ruthless and determined to be best at whatever she did. Naturally she’d consider her work the best. And it probably was, but he had to be fair to the class.
“Okay, Marisol, we’ll save the best for last.” He and she laughed, but the others didn’t. Early in the semester they had tired of her ego trips. By now it was fifteen against one — the class against the beautiful, sultry senior from southern California.
“How about you, Andy?” Girard asked, looking at the only other senior in his class. Andy Arnaud slouched in his chair, chewing on a toothpick and exhibiting his trademark “don’t give a shit” attitude.
Andy was one of those who did just enough to get by. He was here for one reason. His parents wanted him to have a degree. Andy couldn’t care less because he wouldn’t be job hunting after he walked across the stage. His father owned a dozen car dealerships across the state. Andy’s folks were what wealthy people in the deep South called “new money.” It wasn’t a flattering term.
“I looked it up like you said,” the boy replied. “Old house, kid kills his whole family, he’s nuts so they can’t fry his ass, yada yada yada. That’s the ten-second version of Proctor Hall.”
“If minimizing the horrors of Proctor Hall had been the assignment, you’d be the winner for sure,” Julien snapped, but why get angry? Andy wouldn’t change, and he wasn’t worth the effort.
He listened to summaries from a few more before asking the big question. “How many of you came across the name Marguey Slattery?”
Eight hands went up, Marisol’s first and highest. Half the class.
“Okay. Now here’s a question for those who didn’t come across Marguey’s name. Don’t yell out the answer. Raise your hands. Who killed the three members of the Proctor family in 1963?”
As he had expected, all eight students raised their hands. And six out of eight fell for the trick question, just like they did every semester.
Six said, “Noah Proctor.”
Julien asked the other two, “If Noah didn’t do it, who did?”
“Nobody knows who killed the family,” they said, and they were right.
Julien said, “Six of you answered as most people would, but the facts are clear. Noah was never charged and never convicted. You drew a conclusion from an improper basic premise. If everything else in the report you turn in is right, I’ll give you a C, but that’s the best you can hope for.”
At last he called on Marisol. “You think your report’s the best. Tell us the story of Proctor Hall.”
CHAPTER THREE
With confidence and a hint of smugness, Marisol walked to the lectern. She’ll be addressing groups for the rest of her life, Julien thought as he watched her arrange her notes and prepare to speak. This one will be a CEO or own a hedge fund or be President of the United States.
She arranged her notes and began. Little online information existed about Proctor Hall or the family prior to 1963. Mason Proctor emigrated from somewhere up north to Lafourche Parish in the first decade of the twentieth century. He bought a thousand acres of land on the bayou and built a home in the Queen Anne Revival style in 1910 that became known as Proctor Hall.
Mason’s only child, Hiram, was born at the house in 1928. From the scant information available, Marisol assumed Hiram took over the sugarcane operation from his father. He married Susan Proctor, and they had two children, Noah in 1949 and May Ellen in 1954. Perhaps autistic, Noah never spoke.
According to news stories and the sheriff’s report Marisol found, one bright Sunday morning in 1963, a man named Mike, the plantation supervisor, came to the house to check on his boss. Mr. Proctor had missed the daily meeting with the field hands. It was a rare thing, and Mike wondered if things were okay.
The front door stood open, and Mike knocked on the frame and looked inside. On a stairway near the entrance sat fourteen-year-old Noah covered in blood. Mike yelled at Noah and asked what happened. The boy never changed expression or moved or seemed to realize Mike was there. He just stared off into space somewhere.
When he went inside, Mike saw crimson footprints heading down a hallway. He glanced at Noah’s bloodstained shoes and walked gingerly down the hall, avoiding stepping on the prints but following them into a sitting room.
The only sound in the classroom was Marisol’s voice, and Professor Girard was as enthralled by the story as the kids. No matter how many times he heard it, the Proctor Hall story always gave him goosebumps.
Marisol read the Baton Rouge Advocate’s account of what the supervisor found. The caretaker’s eyewitness account was chilling. “If there had been people besides Noah within a mile of me, my shrieks would have scared the hell out of them. I found the rest of the family — old man Proctor; his
wife, Susan; and their twelve-year-old daughter, May Ellen — all sitting on the couch. Noah had propped them up with pillows. With one exception, they just sat there as if waiting for you to come in and join them for a chat.”
That exception was that their heads rested on the mantel above the fireplace.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marisol continued. Soon the farmhouse buzzed with activity. Parish and state officers combed the place room by room while two detectives sat in the kitchen, trying to interview Noah, who neither looked at them nor spoke. Mike the supervisor said the kid didn’t talk, but it surprised deputies that at age fourteen he displayed no emotion about the deaths of his family.
One officer commented either he was the coldest person on earth or downright crazy. His mother, father and sister sat in the next room, decapitated, but Noah’s demeanor never changed one iota. The cops even took him into the parlor where the bodies sat. He saw them — they held his head and forced him to look — but he showed neither understanding nor concern about what he’d done.
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