After a while, Charles stepped out of the room to use the bathroom, and I stood up to go into the kitchen. Suddenly, I found myself walking from the entry hall at the Myrtles into the double parlors. As I slowly walked through the room I was mesmerized, mentally taking note of each piece of antique furniture and every little knickknack that I had forgotten in the four months since I had been there. I was slowly continuing my journey through the ladies parlor and into the gentlemen’s parlor, trying to memorize everything, when I abruptly heard Charles call my name.
As instantly as I had left, I was back in my own living room, with a physical jolt that hurt. It felt like the electric shock I received one time when I stepped into a wet sink and reached up to change a light bulb. Stunned, I grabbed for a chair to steady myself.
Noticing my dazed appearance, Charles asked, “Where were you just now? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Still clutching the chair as if holding on might keep me grounded safely in my own living room, I looked around, comforted to see the familiar surroundings of my own home. Shivering, I unconsciously pulled my sweater tightly around my chest. I didn’t want to consider what just happened and what it could mean.
“Nowhere,” I replied.
For the first time, I had to wonder if I had found the Myrtles, or if the Myrtles had found me.
CHAPTER 10
With tears running down my cheeks, I clung to Jim in the San Jose airport before I left for Louisiana. We had not been separated for even one night since we moved in together four years before. With little interest in “silly” things like the Pilgrimage, Jim opted to remain in San Jose and keep working until our houses sold. I would miss him terribly. For once, I had no hesitancy about public displays of affection, and I gave Jim a soulful kiss goodbye as the pubic address system announced the final boarding call. As I reached the end of the long, narrow tunnel leading to the airplane, I turned to throw one more kiss, hoping he was still there. He was.
My plane touched down at 6:30 p.m. in Baton Rouge, where Betty Jo was waiting to pick me up. I was anxious to get to the Myrtles, but she insisted on taking me out to dinner first. Like a child on Christmas morning, with all the colorfully wrapped gifts piled under the tree, waiting for everyone else to get up, it was hard to sit still at the restaurant.
At 9:25 p.m. we finally turned into the gate of the Myrtles. My eyes filled with tears of joy as the house came into view. I was finally here. I knew this was where I was meant to be. John L. met us on the gallery, and wrapped his arms around me in a hearty Southern welcome.
Once inside, my eyes swept the rooms, studying each piece intently. Everything was in the exact same place that I remembered from the night before, during my strange, involuntary “journey.” Many of the tiny knickknacks I never would have remembered had I not “revisited” the home were all accounted for. It still haunted me.
Betty Jo and John L. made small talk until she said she had to get back home to her children. “Well, my dear,” John L. cooed when we were finally alone. “Welcome home.”
Home! It was unbelievable!
“Shall I show you to your suite?” he offered.
I followed him up the main staircase, down the long, wide hall, to the huge suite that occupied the entire length of the house, one of the two sleeping areas upstairs that had been previously restored and furnished.
“This is the room where Sarah died,” John L. commented as he turned to go downstairs, leaving me all alone upstairs. “Sleep well.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t scare easily,” I thought. Before climbing up into the big four-poster bed, I turned down the dimmer switch on the chandelier, which cast a hazy glow around the room. Soon I was sound asleep, oblivious to the creaks and groans of the old plantation house. I woke up once during the night, with a start. I looked over at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m.
The bright morning sun was streaming through the windows. I had overslept. I didn’t want to miss one minute of my experience at the Myrtles. I quickly popped out of bed, anxious to start exploring. It was spring, and glorious pinks, lavenders, and fuchsias painted the landscape. Outside, I was amazed by the quiet—no traffic or airplane engines to jar the serenity. I strolled through the garden, which was bursting with tulips, daffodils, and lilies, breathing in the most heavenly fragrance. Later I learned that the towering tree by the north side of the house is a sweet olive, which is known for its strong, sweet aroma.
I explored the original cisterns and the old well, wondering what treasures (or tragedies) might be buried beneath the long-rotted protective planks. John L. had told me that several slaves had lost their lives digging the well.
When John. L. finally got up, he introduced me to Lillie May Scott. Smiling, she served us piping-hot coffee and flaky buttermilk biscuits. She told me she had worked at the plantation since it had been restored five years ago, and already she had worked under three different owners. She asked if we would be keeping her on, and delighting in one of her delicious homemade biscuits drenched in honey and butter, I readily agreed. I had hoped that the staff would want to continue on once the house was sold.
I studied her dark, square face and sturdy frame and guessed that she must be around fifty. She boasted that she had been born and raised right down the street and lived here all her life, a descendant of slaves. I imagined that she must have some stories to tell, not only about the Myrtles, but also about Southern culture, about which I knew little, mostly gleaned from a few TV shows, the little I learned in school about the Civil War, and the stories my father told me about growing up in Louisiana and playing at Lake Pontchartrain. I was sure her experience would be quite different from his.
I spent the entire day following John L. around as he told me about the plantation, its history, and the antiques. There was no mention of ghosts, and in my excitement at finally being here, I had forgotten all about the voices I had heard in the parlor during our previous visit.
Malcolm and Wayne, two young friends of John L.’s from Baton Rouge, arrived later that evening to help him with the open house for the upcoming Pilgrimage. Both were congenial and charming, with all the courtesy and manners you would expect from Southern gentlemen. Although in California, being the independent female that I am, I might have protested, I graciously succumbed to the genteel hospitality of all these Southern men, and quickly became accustomed to such antiquated luxuries as having my door opened and my chair held. We sat in the gentlemen’s parlor drinking cognac until the wee hours of the night, when we all retired to our respective wings. Malcolm and Wayne were staying upstairs on the opposite end of the house from my suite.
Alone in my room, I decided to leave the lights on very low again while I slept. It’s not that I was afraid—or so I told myself. It was just that I was not used to the layout of the room. I fell right to sleep, but my sleep was disturbed several times by the sound of footsteps making their way slowly up the stairs, pausing, then pacing in the hallway outside my door. The footsteps sounded as if they were made by heavy boots. I assumed it was Malcolm and Wayne wandering around, unable to sleep.
I woke up with a start and glanced at the clock. It was exactly 3:00 a.m. I felt a chill, but it quickly passed, and I was soon sound asleep again, dreaming about the Myrtles.
The next day was spent in preparation for the Pilgrimage, which was to begin Friday. We all pitched in to polish the silver, change the 142 candles in the candelabra downstairs, climb laddertops to dust the crystal chandeliers, and gather tulips, azaleas, and apple tree boughs to make flower arrangements. I shoved a big group of azalea sprigs into a vase and moved them from side to side, trying my darndest to primp them into some sort of decorative arrangement.
“Here, let me help,” said Malcolm, smiling, as he plucked most of the azalea sprigs out of the overflowing vase, creating a beautiful, delicate bouquet.
All day long, a seemingly endless stream of visitors came calling, all curious to meet the new owners of the Myrtles. After each one left
, John L. would give me the “rundown” on exactly who they were, who they were related to, what they did, what their relatives did, where they lived, which, if any, plantation had been in their family, and, of all things, their religion.
“That’s so funny,” I thought. I had no idea of the religion of most of my friends, let alone my neighbors, and it was certainly not something I would use to define them.
I was astounded by how much John L. knew about everyone in town, having lived in St. Francisville for just two short years. In a big city like San Jose, even if you had lived there for twenty years, you were lucky if you knew your next-door neighbors, let alone the entire town. I wondered if I would ever know the people in St. Francisville that well.
By Friday the annual Audubon Pilgrimage was in full swing, and thousands of history buffs and festival-goers flocked to St. Francisville, and the Myrtles, to relive a piece of history. At five o’clock, after the last tour had departed and the Myrtles was once again a private home, John L., his houseguests, and his tour guides settled in for their daily ritual of unwinding over bourbon and stories about the tourists.
Their stories cracked me up, but frankly I was amazed by the audacity of some of the tourists! Tourists felt that because they had paid to see the house they were “entitled” to see everything, and I mean everything—opening closets, drawers, and closed doors, or helping themselves to a swig of sherry from the crystal decanter in the parlor. Curious about the owner, some would ask the tour guide extremely personal questions. Occasionally people who considered themselves experts on a particular era of history or antiques would try their hardest to intimidate the tour guide, in a bid to show off how smart they were. And on rare occasions, particularly with a large bus tour, tourists tried to sneak off by themselves, tiptoeing upstairs, or making themselves at home in the private quarters. It was hilarious, if a bit unnerving.
It had been a busy day, and as we sat on the patio relaxing, I finally had a chance to get to know one of the hostesses, Elaine Beckley, a local high-school student. Her grandfather had been the Episcopal priest at Grace Episcopal in St. Francisville for many years. Her grandmother and mother had both been hostesses at the Myrtles, and her aunt still worked here. I was delighted when she agreed to stay on and work for Jim and me.
That night in bed, I was awakened for the fourth night in a row by the footsteps outside my door. I decided that I would mention it to Malcolm and Wayne in the morning, and perhaps they could use the back staircase when they came in late at night.
The Saturday Pilgrimage crowd was even bigger than the opening day attendance. It was drizzling outside, and I was horrified at the thought of hundreds of tourists traipsing through the house with muddy feet.
“You’ll get used to it, my dear,” John L. said, smiling.
I finally found a moment to speak to Malcolm and Wayne about being more considerate about the noise in the middle of the night. They acted surprised and assured me that they had not left their room during any nights of their stay once they had retired for the evening.
“Then it must be John L.,” I thought to myself.
The footsteps grew even louder the next night.
“Who’s there,” I called out. No one answered. The footsteps continued, but I was too tired to get out of bed to confront whomever it was.
By Sunday afternoon the Pilgrimage festivities were winding down, and John L. and I had a chance to sneak away and visit some of the other historic homes and plantations that were on the special Pilgrimage tour. Many of these places were open for tours year round, but several were private homes and not ordinarily on tour.
At Catalpa Plantation I had the privilege of meeting Miss Maimie Thompson and her spinster sister, Miss Sadie. Their roots go way back to both Catalpa and St. Francisville’s premier plantation, Rosedown; Eliza Pirrie, the beautiful young pupil of John James Audubon, had been their great-great-grandmother.
John L. introduced me to Miss Maimie as the soon-to-be mistress of the Myrtles.
“Sooo nahce to meet you,” she drawled in perfect old-South dialect as she clasped my hand. “You ahhn’t by any chawnce Episcopalian ahh you?”
“Why yes, I am,” I replied. There was the reference to religious denomination again. I thought it was an odd question, especially when we had just been introduced.
“Whaah good. Aah told John L. he couldn’t sell his haawse unless it whaas to an Episcopalian!” she cooed.
I was suddenly very grateful that I really was an Episcopalian. Having verified that I was of the “correct” faith, Miss Maimie took an instant liking to me, as I had to her, and I was looking forward to accepting her invitation to come back and visit her very soon.
By Sunday evening, the Pilgrimage was over for the year, and all of John L.’s houseguests had departed. Before retiring for the evening, I asked him if he were the one walking around at night.
“My darling, when I go to bed nothing awakens me,” he exclaimed.
I told myself that one of them must be sleepwalking, or they didn’t want to admit they were wandering around at night. When the footsteps started up again that night, I did not call out, nor did I attempt to find out who was out there. Instead, I tried hard to convince myself that I had not heard a thing.
CHAPTER 11
With the Pilgrimage behind us, Betty Jo and I spent a day in Baton Rouge, tying up a lot of business details for the closing, which was just a week away. By the time I got back to the Myrtles, John L. was already in bed, so I went on upstairs to my room. I decided that it was silly of me to continue to leave my light on at night. I turned the dimmer switch all the way down, clicked off the lights, and fell asleep.
A short time later, I awoke with a start to find the lights glowing brightly. I rationalized that being so tired I must have forgotten to turn out the lights, so I turned the dimmer knob three hundred degrees to the off position, clicked them off, and fell back to sleep. Before long, I woke up again, and once more the lights were blazing.
“This is really strange,” I thought. “I know I turned out the lights.” I played with the switch to see if maybe somehow it had malfunctioned, but it appeared to be working. I turned the knob and clicked them off once again.
When I woke up a third time to find the lights turned up full, that was it. I grabbed my pillow and blanket and headed downstairs to sleep on the couch in the sitting room. That room was right next to the French bedroom, where John L. was sleeping, so I felt somewhat more secure, and I eventually was able to get back to sleep.
I had not been asleep long when I once again awoke with a start. I had the eeriest feeling that someone was watching me. I had been sleeping on my stomach, and as I rolled over to look around, from the dim light in the room I could see a figure standing next to the couch looking down at me. The woman was dressed in a long, flowing, dark green gown, holding a round tin with a candle in it. I realized that the light in the room was coming from the candle. Her face was dark and very square, and a green turban was wrapped around her head, concealing her hair.
I closed my eyes tightly, as if that would make the intruder disappear. A few minutes later, I peeked out. She was still there, right next to me, staring at me. I shut my eyes again and started screaming, fully expecting that John L. would come racing in any moment from the next room and rescue me.
After what seemed like an eternity, the realization set in that John L. was not coming to save me, and I finally stopped screaming. I opened my eyes again, praying she would be gone, but she was still there. I was terrified to look up into her eyes. I can’t explain why I had that fear, or what I thought might happen if her eyes met mine, but I just couldn’t bring myself to look up. Could she read my mind, or even steal my soul? That was silly. There was no way.
I knew this couldn’t possibly be a real person, although it appeared to be solid. Finally I gathered enough courage to reach out and touch the long flowing gown. As my hand passed right through her gown, through her body, she slowly disappeared.
&nb
sp; As her image melted away, the room turned pitch black, as the candle she had been holding that illuminated the room had vanished with her. I lay paralyzed in the darkness for quite some time. Why hadn’t John L. come to help me?
Finally, still trembling, I stumbled into the kitchen next door and scoured the cupboards for some liquid relief. Before coming to the Myrtles, I seldom touched the stuff, but considering the situation, I decided that I needed something “substantial” to calm my nerves. All I could find was a half-empty bottle of cherry brandy. I don’t really like cherry brandy, but at that moment, I considered it medicinal. Besides, there was no way I was going to go out into the main part of the house alone to get some sherry. The syrupy red liquid tasted like cough syrup, but I forced it down, hoping it might help alleviate what ailed me.
Sleep still would not come. I paced for several hours, desperately wanting to wake John L. for comfort. I felt angry at him for not answering my screams. Finally I sat down in a chair beside the window and waited for the first rays of sunlight to save me.
I thought about all the weird things that had happened at the Myrtles—the voices, the footsteps. But this—this was different. This was something I saw with my own eyes.
I thought about all the times my grandfather had taken my sister and me with him to the set of The Addams Family, where, as art director, he designed extensive sets that were meant to look creepy and haunted. I used to beg Grandpa to take us to the special effects department, my favorite place. With all the technology of that day they created ghosts and ghouls that came to life on the big screen. That was fun and exciting.
Only this wasn’t fun and exciting like Hollywood. This was the real thing.
CHAPTER 12
The bright midmorning sun woke me. I looked around the room. At the first light of dawn, I must have relaxed a little and drifted off to sleep, still sitting in the chair.
The Myrtles Plantation Page 5
