The door stood open; he stepped inside and called Henri’s name. Soon a familiar face appeared around the corner. Although they hadn’t met, Julien recognized Landry Drake, the well-known supernatural investigator for a New Orleans TV station. His being on-site meant there was something significant going on at Proctor Hall, and Julien felt a tinge of excitement. Cameras and equipment were everywhere, and people were tromping around upstairs. That meant a film crew was here.
Landry knew Julien by reputation as a well-respected authority and the author of several textbooks on Louisiana culture. “Dr. Girard?” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Landry Drake. Henri’s upstairs; come on in.”
“Please call me Julien. Of course I know who you are. It’s nice to meet you. I was excited when Henri agreed to let me come, but after seeing you here, I’m more interested than ever! What are you guys up to?”
“Is my name being used in vain?” Henri Duchamp’s voice boomed as he walked downstairs. Julien presumed this was the very staircase where Noah Proctor had sat covered in blood after supposedly murdering his family.
After exchanging pleasantries for a moment, Henri suggested they go out to the front porch — the one overlooking Bayou Lafourche — and talk. The old oaks swayed in a light breeze as they sat on the steps. Julien commented on how beautiful the scene was along the tree-lined bayou at the far end of the yard.
“What’s your interest in Proctor Hall?” Henri asked.
Julien explained for several years he’d used the old house and its macabre history as part of his course on Louisiana culture. He’d seen it a few times, but not lately. He added, “Since Landry’s here, I presume the house is haunted.”
“‘Haunted’ isn’t a word I use often,” Henri said. “It tends to conjure up thoughts of spectral visitors, unexplained lights, sounds and the like. Something very unusual is happening here, but it’s too early to assume anything.”
“I appreciate you allowing me to come.”
“That permission comes with a caveat,” Henri said. “If you choose to stay and observe, everything that happens is confidential. You’re free to talk about Proctor Hall so long as what you say comes from outside sources. Unless I approve it, you are prohibited from discussing anything — anything at all — that you see, hear or experience on this property. Do you agree to those conditions?”
“Yes,” Julien said. “Yes, of course I do. I’m just pleased to be here today and to get the chance to watch you all at work.”
Henri smiled. “Before we start, allow me to give you some history about what I believe to be Louisiana’s most haunted plantation.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Landry said, “When you called, you spoke to Henri’s assistant, Cate Adams. She’s my girlfriend, and her father is a doctor who invests in distressed properties.”
“So he owns Proctor Hall?”
“Yes. He recently bought the plantation at a tax auction — the house, a thousand acres, and thirty-five outbuildings, including the ruins of a hundred-year-old sugar mill. The previous owner was Hiram Proctor, who died here in the 1963 massacre. Hiram’s caretaker, Ben Trimble, stayed on after the killings — Noah was the only family left, and with him in an institution, no one challenged Ben’s living here. Ben paid the property taxes up through 2014. At some point afterwards, it seems they just walked away.”
Julien asked, “The caretaker and his wife took care of Noah after his release. When they left, what happened to him?”
Landry said, “That’s something I’d like to know. The Trimbles were reclusive — they didn’t have any friends or close neighbors. On their rare trips into town, they did their business and got out. As far as Noah, nobody ever saw him after he came home in 1989. The locals concocted stories about Noah being locked up here in what they already called a haunted house. When Marguey Slattery disappeared nine years after Noah’s return, everyone assumed he was up to his old tricks.
“As Henri said, they abandoned the house sometime after 2014. In 2018, a reporter doing a follow-up on Marguey’s disappearance came here. He called the sheriff’s office and reported open doors with nobody around. Deputies gave the house a quick search and found furniture, personal effects, silverware and dishes, and even pans on the stove containing dried meat. It looked like they just walked away.”
Landry said people jumped on that story. They used words like “vanished” and “mysterious” and “bizarre” even though their departure might have been as simple as deciding to move away. People chose to believe Noah had struck again. He chopped up Ben and Agnes and cooked them on the stove before he left. That story stuck, even though investigators proved the meat was chicken.
The sheriff reported brown stains on the sitting room rug — the room where Noah had propped up the bodies. The stains resembled blood, but the sheriff figured they happened during the massacre. Without taking samples, he secured the house as best he could and left.
Julien said, “So that reporter was the first to report the house abandoned?”
“It seems so. Everyone believed Proctor Hall was haunted, and people said Noah hid out somewhere in the swamps, awaiting his next victim. The tales have elements of a classic ghost story, but it kept most people away and the house from being looted.”
Henri said they were starting a walkthrough and invited Julien to come along. Julien seemed enthralled by the place and asked to take pictures. Henri said no.
“There are more ghost stories about Proctor Hall than any others I know,” Henri said as they went from room to room. The 1963 massacre gave the house a reputation for supernatural occurrences. There were rumors of hidden rooms and passages, an ancient graveyard where Noah Proctor slept at night, chain-rattling spirits that roamed the upstairs bedrooms, and drops of blood that mysteriously appeared on the mantel each year on the anniversary of the massacre.
“As happens so often, some of the tales were based on fact,” Henri told them, “but they became distorted in each retelling. Here’s one that seems to be true.” He paused outside a door in the upstairs hallway.
“Looks normal to me,” Landry said as Henri opened the door to reveal a five-foot-square room with metal bars on all four sides and the top and bottom. It looked like a cage at the zoo. Henri opened the barred door and said, “Makes you wonder why the Proctors needed this room.”
“What’s it for?”
“The story goes that Noah was insane. He was locked here twenty-four hours a day to protect the family. One day he managed to escape, and look how things turned out.”
Julien asked, “Could that legend be true?”
Henri shrugged. “There’s no way to know. That secret and many others died with the family, I suppose. Noah was a mute, as we know, so he never explained things either.”
Fascinating, Julien thought as they walked on. So many secrets in one house, and nobody has a clue what really happened at Proctor Hall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The semester was drawing to a close. Several of his students would graduate, and as always, Julien would miss some more than others. With just six weeks remaining, he announced one morning how the last assignment for Appreciation of Louisiana Culture would work.
He drew names from a hat, dividing his sixteen students into four teams. On Friday, each team would submit its proposal for a project that embraced and promoted appreciation of Louisiana’s culture. Once he approved the projects, the teams would go to work. This assignment would make up forty percent of the class grade, and only the winning team would receive an A. The others would get a B or below, based on several factors.
The winning team would best embody the spirit and history of Louisiana. The amount and depth of research, on-site work if necessary, creativity and imagination would be factors in the ultimate grade. He encouraged out-of-the-box thinking and said nothing lawful and moral was off the table.
“You’ll have two weeks to complete your project,” Julien explained. “They’re due three weeks before the end of the semester, so
you’ll have plenty of time to study for finals in your other courses. Just before summer break I’ll name the winners and post everyone’s grades.”
He drew names and wrote the team participants on a whiteboard. He chuckled to himself at the makeup of Team B. A struggling student who needed the grade, a football player on a scholarship, and two type A’s — Marisol, the smug know-it-all and Andy Arnaud, the class clown and smartass.
As his students looked at the team makeups, he noticed discomfort on some faces. As far as Julien knew, these people weren’t close friends. Except for this class, they were strangers. It would be fascinating to observe the dynamics, and that was one reason he’d rigged the drawing.
Julien Girard had handpicked these four, knowing without a doubt they would choose the project he wanted them to have. The driven, aggressive Marisol would make it happen.
On Friday, the students revealed their projects. Three teams chose ones that were mundane and predictable. Over the years, other teams had chosen the same ones, and they’d long ceased to be interesting to Julien. The long, colorful history of one Garden District mansion. The impact of Hurricane Katrina on New Orleans society and commerce. Sites where the pirate Jean Lafitte plied his trade and sold his booty.
Every boring project would be well-researched, polished and neatly wrapped for presentation at the end of term. Each team hoped for an A in this class where A’s weren’t easily earned. And none of them would get it.
His heart jumped when he called on Team B and Marisol stood to announce their project — the mysterious history of Proctor Hall.
Just as I thought! They took the bait!
Julien accepted all four submissions and read a list of caveats. No trespassing — you must have permission before going on private property. No plagiarism — the words in their final reports must be their own or footnoted with attribution. And the majority ruled. Anything the team did required three votes in favor.
He would not see them again for two weeks. Instead of three hours a week in his classroom, they would use the time collaborating, researching and doing what they could to create a winning project.
Julien found it difficult to contain his excitement. It would be hard to wait.
CHAPTER NINE
The four couldn’t have been more diverse, which had been Julien Girard’s plan. They sat around a table at Starbucks, and Marisol declared herself the logical choice for team leader.
Michael and April didn’t care who was in charge, so long as it wasn’t them. He was a sophomore on a football scholarship, and a passing grade was all he wanted. It would suit him if the others did the project while he worked out in the gym.
Also a sophomore, April was from Natchez, and she was a history major like Marisol. That choice frustrated her parents, who said the only thing a history degree was good for was teaching, but that was just what April wanted. School was hard for her, and she needed a good grade in Dr. Girard’s class. For that reason, she’d do her part to make this project the winner.
“What qualifies you to be leader?” Andy snorted.
“What qualifies me is that I’m both smart and crafty, and I’m not an obnoxious rich asshole like someone on our team.”
“Run the damn thing. Do everything yourself, for all I care. That’s what you want anyway. We’ll just sit back and watch.”
“No, you won’t. This is a team project, and we’ll do it as a team. I’ll assign work to the three of you, tackle the harder tasks myself, and between us we’ll turn in the best report and get that A.”
Andy wouldn’t let it go. “You’re saying thanks to your hard work, the team will end up with an A? You think you’re hot stuff, but the guys can do the heavy lifting on this one, little lady.”
She slapped him so quickly it astonished not only Andy, but everyone else in the coffee shop. “Don’t you ever belittle me again, you coonass misogynist,” she hissed. She regained her composure, forced a smile to her face, and said, “Where were we?”
After that encounter, a vote wasn’t necessary. Marisol was de facto leader, and the consensus was to visit Proctor Hall. She assigned Andy to find the owner and get permission. April and Michael got research jobs — she on the massacre in 1963 and he on Marguey Slattery’s disappearance in 1998.
Andy sneered, “How about you? Are you going to sit around eating bonbons while we do your bidding?”
“I’ll find out what happened to Noah Proctor.”
Andy texted the others at five that afternoon. All good for our visit to Proctor Hall. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight on Freret Street by the library. Black Ram pickup.
Surprised Andy could have gotten them in that fast, Marisol texted back.
Who gave you permission? Is someone meeting us there?
You do your job. I’ll do mine. We’re in. See you tomorrow at eight.
Damn. This was how the entire project would be, and she had to get over it. Fighting with Andy wouldn’t get them the top grade.
His Dodge pickup was the biggest, baddest, most jacked-up thing she’d ever seen. It had a dealer tag — she knew his dad owned several dealerships, since Andy bragged about it to everyone — and it was downright luxurious inside. She took the front passenger seat, and as they got on the interstate, she turned down the blaring rock music and asked him who gave him permission to go inside Proctor Hall.
“You just can’t stand it, can you? Somebody else is more resourceful than the great Marisol. Just settle back and take it easy. If you can, that is. I don’t think you’re wired to relax, but you should give it a try sometime.”
She let it go. She admitted to herself this was one fine ride, and Andy was a far better driver than she expected. I’ll bet he’s afraid he’ll wreck Daddy’s car. She dismissed the catty thought in the interest of harmony and a common goal.
They pulled up to the gate, and she asked whose phone number was on the sign.
“Some paranormal outfit.” He got out of the car and said, “We walk from here.”
April said, “A paranormal outfit? What do you mean?”
“I mean the message on their phone said they were some kind of paranormal society.”
Marisol said, “Am I the only one who thinks that’s weird? We’re at an old house where a kid decapitated his mother, father and little sister. Years later, another girl disappeared here. And it belongs to a paranormal organization? I’m not afraid myself, but does anyone think this might be dangerous?”
“Dangerous? It’s just an old house, for God’s sake. This isn’t some horror flick or Stephen King novel. Wait until you see it. It’s not a spooky old mansion like what you expect in this part of Louisiana.”
April wasn’t convinced. “It makes no sense why a paranormal group would own this place.”
“Perhaps they don’t,” Marisol said. “Maybe they’re investigating the stories about Proctor Hall, and when they’re done, they’ll take down the sign. Speaking of that, the gate’s got a lock and chain on it. How do we get in?”
Andy said, “We climb over the gate.”
“Isn’t that trespassing?” April asked, and Marisol insisted Andy explain or they were leaving.
“I drove up yesterday after I left you guys,” he said. “I parked here and called the number. Then I climbed over and walked to the house. It’s less than a quarter of a mile — you just can’t see it because of the tall grass.”
“They told you to climb over the gate?”
“Nobody said I couldn’t. Okay, so I got an answering machine. Some paranormal society, like I said. I left a message that we would be here this morning to visit the house unless they told me no. They never called, so it must be okay with them.”
Marisol snapped, “Yesterday was Saturday, dammit. You knew when you left the message they might close on weekends. They haven’t even listened to it yet.”
He raised his eyebrows, turned to April and Michael, and said, “It takes three votes to approve a decision. There hasn’t been anybody at Proctor Hall
in years, as far as I could tell. Who cares if we just look around?”
“How about the person who put up the No Trespassing sign?” Marisol said. “Dr. Girard told us we couldn’t do anything illegal, so instead of following the rules, you left a message when you figured they wouldn’t get it. I vote no. This is wrong.”
Andy wanted to run things, and now was the time to take charge. They had voted her team leader over his objection, so it was time for persuasion. It worked with the girls he dated, and it could work now.
“Guys, we’re here. The house is just down that lane, nobody’s around, and there’s nothing to stop us from checking it out. I’m not talking about spending the night inside. I’m saying we should just go look around.”
The Proctor Hall Horror Page 3