I quickly jumped up, got dressed, and went out to find John L., anxious to discuss the night before. He was on the back verandah, holding one of Lillie May’s fresh biscuits in one hand and a cup of piping-hot coffee in the other, acting as if nothing had happened.
I decided to tell him what had happened; I needed to tell him what had happened. In one long breath I recounted my experience, beginning with the chandelier lights in the suite, and leading up to the ghost in the sitting room looking down at me. By the time I finished recounting the story, I was breathless. I looked up at him, expecting him to look shocked, or amazed—anything—but his expression hadn’t changed one bit. He was still sitting there, smiling!
“Oh, Frances, don’t be silly,” he smirked, taking a sip of his coffee.
What!! Surely he had to be kidding!
“Didn’t you hear me screaming?” I asked. “Why didn’t you come?”
I noticed the involuntary drop of his eyes as I asked that question, and I knew beyond a doubt that he had heard me. Why was he pretending he hadn’t?
“My dear, once I fall asleep, I am out like a log,” he declared.
He was lying through his teeth! Why would he lie about something like that? Why hadn’t he come to help me, or at least called out to be sure I was okay?
It was obvious I couldn’t confide in John L. anymore.
Still feeling pretty shaky, and wanting some answers, I called Betty Jo and invited her to have lunch with me. Much to my relief, she was available. What I really wanted was the chance to get away from there, and I wanted to talk to her about what had happened, to get her take on John L., and to find out if facts were being kept from me. We decided to drive into Baton Rouge.
During the thirty-minute drive down Highway 61, we kept the conversation casual. I was afraid if I told her about what I had seen, she might think I was crazy, but I needed to know if she knew anything about the situation at the Myrtles. Part of me wanted to know, anyway. The other part of me was terrified to find out. I loved the place so much. I didn’t know if I would find the courage to walk away from it. Or the courage to stay.
We decided to dine at Piccadilly’s Cafeteria in Cortana Mall. That way we could eat and shop! We each grabbed a red plastic tray and got in line.
“Serve you?” each worker asked, as we passed bins of crunchy fried catfish and steaming crawfish étoufée. And oh, the desserts. I tried not to look as I passed, but the carrot soufflé called out to me every time. Balancing our “Super Dillys” on our trays, we found a vacant booth and sat down. Halfway through the meal, I finally got up the nerve to broach the subject that was the reason for the trip. Twisting my napkin in my lap, I began.
“Do you believe in the supernatural?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. She told me that she had once had a ghost in her house that kept hiding things from her.
Okay, good, at least she wouldn’t laugh at me for what I was about to ask. “What about the Myrtles, what have you heard?”
Betty Jo looked over at me, probably deciding if she should tell me or not. I smiled boldly, and she began.
“Well, people say that the Myrtles is haunted.”
“What do you mean by haunted?” I asked.
“Strange things have always been reported there.”
“What kinds of things?” I prodded. I picked at my catfish, pretending to eat. Getting any information about the ghosts out of Betty Jo felt like pulling teeth.
She paused for a long time, pouring hot pepper juice on her collard greens before beginning. “Oh, I don’t know, footsteps, voices, that kind of thing.”
John L. had already told us about the footsteps and voices. I wanted to learn something new. “Have you ever experienced anything there?” I asked.
Betty Jo slowly chewed on the greens. “Actually, I had never been there until I showed you the home. I knew several of the owners, but not well enough to be invited over. Why? Did something happen to you?”
I was getting nowhere, so I decided to drop the subject. “Not really,” I replied, disappointed. So, the house was known to be haunted. I didn’t even know if I believed in hauntings, but I knew something strange was going on. Again I wondered if I should just get on a plane and go home.
Betty Jo had the perfect cure to make me forget what was ailing me—she took me shopping. After an afternoon browsing the sales racks in D.H. Holmes, Godchaux, and Dillard’s, my fears had subsided. By the time we got back to the Myrtles I had nearly forgotten about the vision in my room. She dropped me off, watching to be sure I got inside safely. She didn’t realize then that the danger was inside.
John L. was already in his bedroom, with the lights out. I couldn’t decide whether to go up to my bedroom or sleep on the couch again in the room next to his. Realizing that there was no comfort in being close to him, I went upstairs to the suite.
Alone in my room it was another story. I tried not to think about things, but it was eating away at me. I lay in the bed, rigid, eyes wide open, for most of the night—with the lights on. Fortunately, the dreaded footsteps did not return.
John L. had planned to take me to Baton Rouge the next day to meet his mother. He chatted away, oblivious to the fact that I was unusually quiet. It would have been so much easier if he had only opened up to me and really listened to my fears.
Mrs. Emma Pearce, John L.’s mother, had a small, tasteful apartment, full of antiques and old photographs. She invited us to sit in her living room, where she served coffee in delicate demitasse cups from a silver tray. We had barely exchanged formalities when she got right to the point.
“John L. tells me you saw the ghost in the green turban!” she exclaimed, obviously thrilled.
I was shocked! I glared at John L., but he maintained a blank stare.
“John L. just thought that was marvelous,” she continued. “She is one of the most famous ghosts at the Myrtles.”
Ghosts, plural! My head was spinning. So John L. had deliberately kept this from me. I encouraged her to tell me more, as he obviously wasn’t going to.
As she explained, the figure that I had seen had been a house servant at the Myrtles. Her ears had been cut off, a common punishment for eavesdropping.
“That happened before she came to the Myrtles,” John L. broke in. “She always wore a turban to hide her disfigurement.”
Nervously twisting a strand of my hair, I listened, wide-eyed, as John L. admitted for the first time that the house had ghosts. Ghosts?! “Oh, my God,” I gasped.
John L. continued to tell me that the “ghost in the green turban,” as he referred to her, has been seen, and documented, at the Myrtles for over a century. According to him, she is most often seen at night, in her green dressing gown and turban. She goes from room to room, carrying her night-candle, checking to be sure that everyone is safe and warm. On more than one occasion, his houseguests had gone to bed without a blanket, and awakened to find themselves covered up, or worse, being covered.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked him. Again the blank stare. He probably would never have admitted to ghosts if his mother hadn’t busted him.
“What else are you keeping from me?” I asked.
At that, John L. abruptly stood up and whisked us out the door to go to lunch.
CHAPTER 13
I decided to accept Betty Jo’s offer to spend the night at her house. I needed some time to digest everything that I had learned, and I was not eager to spend another night alone upstairs wondering if the footsteps would begin again—or something even worse. I told John L. that Betty Jo and I would be out late, and that I would probably spend the night with her. I didn’t want him to know that I was afraid. I accompanied Betty Jo and her two children to a movie in Baton Rouge and to the Coffee Call afterward. Back in St. Francisville, safely at Betty Jo’s, I had my first good night’s sleep since I arrived.
I returned to the Myrtles early in the morning. It was storming outside, and the torrents of rain, accompanied by de
afening crashes of thunder and lightning, made me want to run and hide. I was not used to Louisiana’s violent storms.
John L. finally got up around 10:00 a.m., just about the time that the electricity went out.
I looked over at John L., who did not seem concerned. “How do you give tours in the dark?” I asked.
“You don’t.” He grinned, like a kid playing hooky from school.
“Then what do you do when the lights go out?”
“You drink, my dear, you drink.”
Other than the occasional mandated martini my father enjoyed at his executive business lunches, I had never heard of anyone drinking so early in the day, but John L. assured me that it was an old Southern custom. I had already had more to drink in my short time at the Myrtles than I ordinarily drank during an entire year. John L. disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a silver tray containing a silver ice bucket, two crystal goblets, a couple of cans of Coke, and a large bottle of Crown Royal. By two o’clock, when the electricity was finally restored, we had both dozed off, enveloped in the big, soft goose-down sofas in the parlor.
I awoke as a giant figure hulked into the room. As I looked up at him from the sofa, he appeared to be about eight feet tall.
“Hi. I’m Hampton Sanders, Hamp for short; a friend of John L.’s,” he introduced himself in a very deep, hypnotic voice, reaching out his hand. I might have been timid or afraid, but I had an intense feeling that I knew this man somehow. I racked my brain thinking about how I knew him.
“I’m Frances Kermeen . . .” I started.
“The new owner. I know. Have we met before? You look so familiar,” he asked, shaking my hand. We unsuccessfully tried to figure out where we might have met. In a matter of minutes, Hamp and I were so deeply engrossed in conversation, we barely even noticed that John L. had awoken and slipped quietly off to bed. Like old friends reunited, Hamp and I talked easily for hours.
Hamp worked at the Baton Rouge Zoo tending the animals. He had met John L. five years ago in Baton Rouge, and when John L. bought the Myrtles he came up for one of John L.’s notorious parties. The Myrtles captured his heart and he has been a regular visitor ever since.
We talked for hours like old friends reunited. Sensing I could confide in Hamp, I told him about my encounters with the spirits, and I discovered that he possessed a wealth of knowledge about the Myrtles, its ghosts, and even Sarah.
“How do you know so much about the house?” I asked, amazed by his knowledge of the Myrtles’ history.
Hamp explained that he had done a lot of research on the Myrtles at the regular venues—the library, LSU, and talking to people—but that he also got a lot of his information from “them.”
Like me, Hamp had fallen in love with the Myrtles the moment he set foot inside, and he had spent hours at the plantation with the past curator, a man named Charles Celestine. Hamp told me that he had had hundreds of experiences with the sprits here, and often he and Mr. Celestine had actually communicated with Sarah. Hamp explained that Mr. Celestine and Sarah were in love, even though he was human, and she was not.
Having never heard of someone having a love affair with a ghost (except maybe in the movies), I wanted to learn more, but Hamp, standing up to leave, promised to explain it all very soon.
“Can’t you stay just a little while longer?” I pleaded.
Hamp glanced nervously outside at the falling shadows signaling the approaching nightfall. “No, I really have to get home,” he said firmly. With a hearty bear hug, he made a beeline for the back door.
Around 7:00 p.m., John L. reemerged from his nap. I cooked us a light supper and we ended up back in the gentlemen’s parlor, sans the cognac. The closing was just one day off, and I desperately needed to understand as much as I could about what I would be taking on.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, “What do you think causes ghosts?”
“Some people believe that all spirits are demonic in origin,” he stated, his eyes darting back and forth. It seemed that he was uncomfortable talking about it.
I refused to believe that the house of my dreams, the place that I loved so deeply, the house that I had left my very comfortable life in California for, was possessed by demons. “Well, what do you think?” I persisted.
He looked down, shaking his head. “I just don’t know.”
Unwilling to be distressed by the possibility of demons, I quickly dismissed that theory. “Couldn’t ghosts just be spirits of people who died here, and just don’t know they are dead? Or spirits who loved this place, and just don’t want to leave?”
This began a lengthy, esoteric debate about the origins of ghosts, until, reaching no conclusions, John L. went off to bed. I preferred to remain in the parlor, as I had on numerous occasions, putting the ghosts out of my mind and happily daydreaming about the plantation and my plans for the restoration and the bed and breakfast.
The warm and cozy feelings changed in an instant, and suddenly the room turned ice-cold and I felt chilled to the bone. At the same time, I became gripped by an overwhelming terror. I summoned all the courage I could muster to force myself to pause and turn off the lights before fleeing from the room. With the last light extinguished, I bolted for the door, but stopped dead in my tracks. The floor-to-ceiling window between the ladies parlor and the hallway offers a full view of the main staircase. Floating about four feet off the stairs was a cluster of tightly arranged lights that resembled the burning wicks of a fancy candelabra being carried down the stairs. I wanted to flee, and I would have, had I not had to enter the hallway to do so. So there I stood, frozen, as the lights descended the stairs, turned, and hovering about four feet off the floor, passed before the thin glass window between me and the hall.
I breathlessly waited to be sure they wouldn’t return, then raced directly across the hall to John L.’s door. I pounded desperately, but he had either passed out or was ignoring me. Or maybe there was a third explanation, I realized. Maybe he was scared.
Freaking out, I couldn’t make myself go up the stairs. I found the cherry brandy in the cupboard, gulped a big swig straight from the bottle, and made my bed once again on the lumpy sofa in the sitting room next to his.
“Why didn’t you answer when I pounded on your door?” I demanded, when I saw John L. the next morning, but he didn’t answer, he merely looked away. I was glad Charles would soon be there with me. “I will be safe with Charles here,” I lied to myself.
Fortunately, John L. announced that there had been some kind of technicality, and that the closing would be delayed by one more day. Good. That gave me one more day to reconsider. I had a lot to think about. Could I live here in this house? Certainly not alone! Did I really want to live here? For months and months this had been my passion, my dream, and I had thought of little else, yet it seemed to be turning into a nightmare. I resented feeling afraid. As far as I knew, no one had ever been hurt by a ghost. Part of me wanted to just pack my bags and go back to California and not deal with the concept of “ghosts” at all.
On the other hand, I loved the place so much. I had so many plans, so many dreams. I felt “home” here like no other place ever. And I had made such a big deal about moving here. What would I tell everyone—that I was afraid? I am a strong, successful woman. What reason could I possibly give for running back home? All my friends had turned out at the huge farewell party my parents threw for us. It would be so humiliating.
But could I handle the alternative and stay?
John L. was selling the Myrtles so that he could join a Catholic monastery, a silent one at that. That’s a pretty drastic measure. He was searching for his own answers, and I had to wonder what role, if any, the Myrtles’ ghosts had played in his decision. What had he experienced that led him to seek a place of religious asylum? It was another thing I had to consider.
Talking to Jim offered little help, as he made it clear he would support me with whatever decision I made. That meant a lot to me, but it didn’t help me decide.
&n
bsp; I spent most of the day struggling with my decision. Finally logic, and my heart, won out, and I resolved to go through with the sale. This was my dream, and I had worked very hard to get here. I had been silly to worry about such things. Ghosts or no ghosts, tomorrow I would take on the Myrtles.
CHAPTER 14
The closing took place in Baton Rouge. After celebrating over champagne John L. and I said our goodbyes, as he was leaving early the next morning.
The sound of his car winding down the drive woke me up. I smiled. The Myrtles was now mine. I lay in bed daydreaming about the house, and the things in my life that had led up to this moment. I was extremely grateful to my first husband, Ron Stevenson.
I was barely nineteen when we sold his souped-up 390 Mustang fastback for the down payment on a “starter” home. My parents and their friends thought we were stupid to strap ourselves down with a mortgage while we were still in college, but two years later real estate had skyrocketed, and we sold our starter home for double what we paid for it and bought the cutest two-story Victorian cottage in Los Gatos.
We worked together to restore the home selecting period styles and furnishings, doing most of the work ourselves. That year, we received the first ever Los Gatos “Bellringer” award for historic preservation at a public presentation.
Sadly, Ron and I divorced shortly after the house was finished. His dream was to become a pilot, a goal that was very expensive, not only monetarily, but monopolized his time as well. He spent long hours flying to faraway places—without me. On top of that, he worked the day shift, and I worked at night. We rarely saw each other. With so much time away from each other, we grew apart. Although our divorce was very civilized (“Honey, you take that”; “No, you love it, you keep it”), it was also very painful.
We came out well financially, however, and between the restoration and the climbing value of real estate, we sold the house for nearly triple what we paid for it. Numb from the divorce, I put all my energies (and all my money) into a huge thirteen-bedroom Queen Anne Victorian, complete with turrets, round rooms, and a full basement and attic, in downtown San Jose, without ever considering what I would do with such a gargantuan house. I found myself living in a large three-room wing on the lower floor, rarely using the twenty-five- by twenty-five-foot dining room, or the twenty- by thirty-five-foot living room. I seldom even went upstairs. My furniture filled an average home, but it looked tiny and sparse spread about the huge rooms. I had my own little area with a bedroom and living room, and its own separate entry. That’s when I decided that I could rent out the rest of the house and never run into anyone else. So I became a landlord.
The Myrtles Plantation Page 6