The Myrtles Plantation

by Ghostly Enconter

  Copyright © 2005 by Frances Kermeen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover design by George Cornell

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

  First eBook Edition: February 2005

  ISBN: 978-0-446-51072-1

  Contents

  Also by Frances Kermeen

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Time Line

  Many have seen their faces, felt their cold breathheard their screams . . .

  • Two little blond-haired girls who peek through windows

  • The lady dressed in black dancing in the French bedroom

  • The Confederate soldier who stays in the Green Room in May and June

  • The one-eared slave tortured and betrayed by her master—before she killed his wife and daughters with a poisoned cake

  • The Voodoo Queen looming over guests in the Old Nursery

  • The baby whose cries can be heard during the day and well into the night

  • The murdered overseer who walks the grounds—and tells tourists to go away!

  They’re just some of the ghosts you’ll meet in

  THE MYRTLES PLANTATION

  Also by Frances Kermeen

  Ghostly Encounters

  For my Father, with love

  And in Loving Memory of

  Hapton Sanders, Martha Mary Singleton,

  Beverly Bilowich, Whelman Perkle, Jimmy Lorio,

  Martial La’Fleur, Maimie Thompson,

  Violet Opal, Lizzie Russie, Guy Nurdin,

  Marguerite Rarick, and Caesar,

  Freckles, Woodruff, and Grinch

  Acknowledgments

  There are so many people I am grateful to for their efforts with this book. First, my agent Jodie Rhodes. After eight years and three agents, Jodie made a sale on my first book just weeks after acquiring it. I want to thank John Aherne and Beth de Guzman at Warner Books for believing in and championing this book. I’d also like to thank Devi Pillai, Megan Rickman; Diane Luger and George Cornell for the great cover art; and the entire staff of Warner Books.

  To my friends and family who helped me with the long and tedious editing process, I’d like to give a special thanks to my parents, Bob and Millie Kermeen, as well as Arthur Payne, who provided creative and technical direction. Thanks also to Kerry Zimmerman, Laura Campbell, and Mike Scheck.

  For those who shared my journey at the Myrtles, offering their love and support along the way, I’d like to thank Ozelle Thurston, Fran Campbell Rarick, Betty Jo Eschete, Kerry Zimmerman, Lillie May Scott, Hester Eby, Delores and Katina Littleton, Thelma Washington, Robin Botsford, John and Barbie, Iris Williams, Sam and Cindy Moore, Jimmy Bane, Cathy Wallace, Charlotte McKeithen, Windell Weeden, Carolyn Lockhead, and John Miller, who will always hold a very special place in my heart.

  Prologue

  For nearly a decade I owned an old Southern home in St. Francisville, Louisiana, known as the Myrtles Plantation. It had been my dream to restore and live in a historic mansion, furnish it with period treasures, and turn it into a wonderful romantic inn. As it turned out, I got more than I had bargained for.

  I had no idea that the place was haunted, a fact that was kept from me during the purchase process. Nowadays you must declare any ghostly disturbance to a prospective buyer, but that wasn’t the case back then.

  Ghosts and sightings at the Myrtles were an almost daily occurrence. Voices, footsteps, and the scent of perfume were common throughout the house. In the spring and fall, the ball seasons, you could sometimes hear parties going on, but if you tried to find the source of the merriment, it seemed to move. A servant carrying a candle made her way from room to room at night, tucking people in. A beautiful Indian maiden sat naked beside the pond. Two little girls, reportedly poisoned in 1824, romped and played outside, stopping occasionally to chat with an unsuspecting guest. An overseer, brutally murdered decades ago, confronted visitors and brusquely ordered them away. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

  Although not everyone who died at the Myrtles became a “ghost,” and not every ghost is a murdered soul, many of the restless spirits can be historically accounted for. Some have their own particular room to haunt, or a time of year or even a specific day each year that they manifest, which correlates in some way with their prior physical life at the plantation.

  The house itself is not the only place that spirits manifest. Ghosts can also be seen on the grounds, even in broad daylight.

  Hundreds of these ghostly occurrences were reported by the guests at the Myrtles, and I’m sure many more went unreported.

  Why are there so many ghosts at the Myrtles Plantation? There have been many explanations. One is that it sits on sacred Indian burial ground. I feel, however, that the Indians chose that spot because it already possessed mystical qualities. The house was reportedly haunted long before a previous owner paved over the graveyard to make a parking lot. Another theory is that the intensely passionate emotions of the people who lived, loved, and died there bound these souls to the plantation. Or perhaps they just simply did not want to leave.

  I kept a diary while I was at the Myrtles, quintessentially to have a record of the restoration process and my innkeeping experiences, but ultimately to document the ghostly encounters.

  I was very careful, in writing this book, to make sure that every statement is true. In places, I used a composite of several people when it didn’t affect the outcome so as not to confuse the story with too many characters. The important thing is that every single passage in the book actually happened. It’s all 100 percent true.

  I lived and survived at the Myrtles
Plantation for nearly a decade and the experience changed me in a profound way. Anyone who has seen a ghost will tell you that the encounter has instilled in them a firm belief that life goes on after death, that the soul exists separate from our bodies. Spirits are real; life does not end. It is a very comforting thought. Maybe not when you are alone in the house and heavy footsteps are coming up the stairs, but at least in retrospect.

  My experiences at the Myrtles have started me on a lifelong study of the meaning and existence of spirits.

  You may wonder how I remained at the house when so much paranormal activity was taking place, dealing with frightening things I didn’t believe in until I was confronted with their existence. To survive at the Myrtles for any length of time I had to put the ghosts out of my mind. To deal with them I had to not deal at all. We avoided the subject like the plague, especially at night before we went to bed when we were most vulnerable. If something frightening or scary happened, as it regularly did, we forced it back in our minds and busied ourselves with the daily activities of running an inn. When it was too frightening, as was the case when my husband became possessed, I fought like crazy to keep the images from surfacing in my consciousness.

  Writing this book was difficult. As I neared the end, I found myself very emotional. It was as if a dam had been opened and water was finally flowing. Even now, it’s hard to reread the last several chapters.

  The book is not just about ghosts and things that go bump in the night, although there was plenty of that. It’s also about love, passion, and coming to terms with the spirit realm. There is a deeper message, that the soul transcends death, and anyone who has ever experienced a ghost has been blessed with proof of that.

  It’s my desire that this book will offer a little “lagniappe,” a Louisiana term for something extra, and that between the pages of ghosts and possession you will find a certain peace in knowing that there is so much more to life than this finite world.

  CHAPTER 1

  The idea that I would one day be the owner of the house considered by many to be the most haunted house in the United States had never entered my mind—not in my wildest dreams, or darkest nightmares. We never sought out such a place. It was almost as if the house had somehow selected us.

  Looking back now, I realize that my destiny, or fate, as you would have it, the road that would take me to the most memorable and frightening days and nights of my life, began on the captivating and mysterious island of Haiti.

  I arrived in Cap Haitien, Haiti, with my boyfriend, Jim Meyers, aboard a pristine white cruise ship that sailed out of Miami. The mysterious land of voodoo, Haiti has always captivated me. Voodoo, the practice of worshiping spirits and placing curses, originated in West Africa, but in the eighteenth century it moved across the Atlantic with those of its unfortunate inhabitants who were sold in Haiti as slaves. “Haiti” is an Indian word that means “high lands,” and the lush, mountainous island of Hispaniola is one of the most beautiful in the Caribbean.

  Feelings of fun, adventure, and romance permeated the sea air as we prepared to dock in Haiti, the last port on our itinerary, having previously explored the exotic nightlife of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and ascended the Dunnes Waterfall in Ocho Rios, Jamaica, during our romantic seven-night cruise. We had scoured the shore tour offerings the night before we arrived and found the following offerings: 1) a tour of a famous Haitian rum factory that offered thirty flavors of rum (and free samples of all thirty!); 2) a shopping excursion down the main street of the quaint village, where one could become immersed in a world of wood carvings, straw crafts, colorful Haitian art, and brightly colored clothing; or 3) a burro ride deep into the Haitian jungles, to the Caribbean’s most famous monument, the Citadelle, passing primitive voodoo tribes and exotic vegetation along the way. Perched high atop a steep mountain, this extraordinary fortress was built in the early 1800s to defend against any possible French invasion. Twenty thousand people were ordered to construct the massive, towering structure, and thousands of them died in the process. This third option was the one that captured our interest.

  Once on shore in Haiti, Jim and I were led to a rickety old bus, where we were joined by a few other adventurous passengers who had chosen this exotic call of the wild over that of intoxication or shopping. The old coach chugged, burped, and backfired its way along the bumpy roads of town, barely missing a few of the locals, who quickly jumped or dived out of the way of the hell-bound vehicle. It veered off the main road, following a harrowing, twisted dirt road, finally depositing us at a small rustic camp. Waiting there was a motley group of burros, outfitted only with faded wool blankets and ropes. I looked over at Jim, wondering how I would ever manage not to fall off. Jim shrugged, and after three embarrassing attempts to hoist me aboard, finally managed to successfully situate me on an animal before mounting his own. At last we were off, and I held on for dear life as our native guide led us, bouncing and swaying, down a dirt road. I was hardly a vision of my childhood idol, Annie Oakley, but my spirits still soared. Anyone could walk down the main street of town, trying on some silly big straw hat, but this was an adventure—something to remember.

  As we traveled deeper into the jungle, we came upon a row of primitive huts made of mud, grass, and twigs. Inside, ebony women dressed in colorful print wraps were singing as they swept their dirt floors, or leaning in their open doorways to study our little group. Other women passed us on the road, balancing large grass baskets or clay jugs on their heads. Some of them paused as we passed, whispering and giggling among themselves, before sauntering off on their bare feet. They seemed friendly enough, but I could not help but detect looks of concern on some of their faces. Maybe they were afraid we would suffer sunstroke, or get lost in the jungle before returning to the safety of the large white vessel that brought us to their island.

  I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen many men. Other than one old gentleman sporting a long white beard, sitting under a tree, smoking the nub of a well-used cigar, we had seen no men in this little tribal village. Perhaps they were off tending fields, stalking wild pigs, or enjoying lazy siestas in the deep cool of the forest. We were soon to find out.

  As we continued deeper into the jungle the trees and knotted vines nearly consumed the path, and we began to hear voices drifting through the bushes—scary, garbled voices. I looked to our guide for assurance, and although he offered none, he didn’t seem too worried. The voices grew louder and more intense as we came upon a clearing, where patches of sunlight fought through the thick canopy of vegetation to reveal about twenty-five scantily clad men stomping and dancing feverishly in a circle. They wore nothing but loincloths and heavy necklaces made of shells and bones, their bronze bodies glistening with sweat. Their faces were smeared with paint, making them look angry and scary, and they danced zealously round and round in a circle, some shaking primitive rattles made of unknown gris-gris, others waving long bones (animal bones, I hoped), chanting in a strange tongue. The longer it went on, the more wild and uninhibited they became.

  Focused on their ritual, I was relieved that they did not seem to notice us.

  “What you are observing is a sacred voodoo ceremony,” the guide whispered. “It’s something few outsiders ever witness.”

  I had a strange feeling we were seeing something not meant to be seen, and I began to wish that we were shopping back in the marketplace, or delightfully tipsy at the rum factory. The event was spellbinding, however, and wanting to capture the moment to show my friends, the “tourist” in me took control, and I reached for my camera. Big mistake!

  As the camera’s flash illuminated the festivities in harsh white light, the attention of the dancers was suddenly drawn to me, and all their heads turned my way in that instant. Suddenly they were all lunging toward me! My legs turned to jelly and I clung tightly to my burro as I quickly found myself surrounded by the manic performers. I sat frozen, paralyzed. Luckily, our guide, maintaining his composure, grabbed for my animal’s rope and quickly led me away.
The voodoo warriors followed, still shaking tightly clenched fists and shouting unfriendly, unrecognizable words until they finally dropped away behind us and disappeared back into the jungle.

  My heart was pounding so hard I’m sure you could have seen it through my blouse.

  “You okay, honey?” Jim whispered.

  I quickly nodded my head “yes.” Jim was such a sweetheart. I knew he would rather be at the rum factory, but he had chosen to join me in the primordial jungle. We had been dating for three years, living together the last two. Although we were very different, with my interests leaning toward architecture, history, and antiques, and his toward beer and sports, we were very much in love. Jim was my Luke Spencer and I was his Laura. His resemblance to Anthony Geary was so remarkable that when Geary curled his straight blond hair, Jim followed suit.

  We rode a long way in silence before I dared to speak. “What happened?” I asked the guide.

  “They put a curse on you,” he answered.

  “Why?”

  “Because you took their picture. According to their beliefs, you were stealing their souls.”

  When we arrived back at the camp, both my head and my fanny were throbbing. I quickly slipped the camera out of my pocket, took out the tainted film, pulled and twisted it into a ball, and quickly tossed it like a hot potato into the nearest trashcan.

  CHAPTER 2

  Although I wanted to forget the day’s harrowing experience, Jim could hardly wait to tell everyone at the dinner table about our encounter with the native tribe and the voodoo curse. For a moment, I wished we were sitting at a private table for two. Our tablemates, the Johnsons, seemed captivated by his accounts, so I resigned myself to the fact that at least someone was getting some entertainment value out of my frightening encounter.

  “How scary,” Judy Johnson squealed, her eyes wide.

  I wondered if they were worried about sitting at the same table with a cursed woman. They were probably all waiting for me to fall dead in my soup or worse yet, spontaneously combust before their very eyes.