It was good to be home and see my family and friends, except for the fact that they were all interested in hearing about the ghosts—the very last thing that I wanted to talk about. I found it strange that Jim never asked about the ghosts, but since he didn’t ask, we didn’t ever talk about it, and except for the bits and pieces he caught when our friends inquired in front of him, he did not know about all the craziness that Charles and I had endured. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t believe and thought I was silly, or if he really did believe and didn’t want to know, so we just avoided the topic.
Charles called nearly every day. He reported on the progress of the restoration and the few minor disturbances (the footsteps at night, and the occasional voice), but luckily nothing else happened to frighten him while I was gone. Several days into my visit, he called with some exciting news: The Michaud family, who had owned the Myrtles between 1951 and 1975, had moved to San Jose, California! One of the hostesses, Ruth Reed, had recently heard from them and realizing we were from the same city, she told Charles to let us know in case we wanted to look them up.
Wow, it would be so great to talk to them! It was incredible that they had moved to San Jose, California, of all places! I was even more surprised when I looked them up in the phone book and learned that they lived less than a mile directly behind my parents’ house, with nearly the identical house number! Even stranger was the fact that their house was built on or very near the site of an old, dilapidated, vacant shack we used to play in as children. Rumor was that the creepy wooden hut was haunted. At that time, our backyard extended through acres of orchards and fields, with a refreshing creek. While my sister would stay home and play with toy horses and Barbie dolls, I used to hang out with the boys in the neighborhood, climbing trees, exploring creek beds, gathering polliwogs and Indian arrowheads, or playing makeshift sports. Although our parents forbade us to go near it, the “haunted shack” was one of our favorite places to hang out and play. It was there at that very site that was now the Michauds’ home that I got the only scar I had on my body, on my right knee, when I fell down on a nail playing hide and seek!
As soon as Charles and I hung up, I called the Michauds. When Mr. Michaud answered, I explained that we were the new owners of the Myrtles Plantation and that we would love to learn about them and their time at the Myrtles. He was very gracious and invited us over the very next day! I couldn’t wait to meet them and hear everything I could about their experiences at the plantation. Of course, I wondered if they had encountered the ghosts, and if they had, whether they would admit to it.
At exactly two o’clock we knocked on the front door of their modest home. We were met at the door by Mr. Michaud, a gentle, diminutive man, who looked much younger than the ninety-nine years he claimed to be. He was very cordial as he led us into their quaint though outdated living room. He explained that Mrs. Michaud was in very poor health and stayed in bed most of the time, but that she wanted to come out and meet us. My heart gushed, I felt so grateful to be meeting them. He invited us to sit down on the sofa and then went back to get her.
Directly in front of me as we entered the room was a glass-and-chrome étagère, filled with knickknacks and mementos. I walked over and scanned the treasures, looking for clues about their lives. Suddenly my heart leaped into my throat. Upon one glass shelf, behind a few trinkets, was a small, yellowed photograph of a lady—the dancing lady in the French bedroom! The clothing was different, but the face was unmistakable. My heart was pounding so hard I felt I might faint. It was her!!
That same creepy feeling that had come to be part of my existence at the Myrtles now suddenly overwhelmed me, and I wanted to bolt for the door. I knew I would have no logical explanation for running away from these gracious people, so I mustered all the courage I had and stood there frozen in fear, waiting to face Mrs. Michaud in the flesh. Would I be able to cope? How could this be happening?
As I finally turned to sit down, I gasped. I was face to face with the woman, much older, but definitely the same lady I had seen several nights before dancing in Charles’s room at the Myrtles. My mind boggled. How could she be here, alive, and also be dancing at the Myrtles? It was too much for me to understand. I fought hard not to lose it, yet as the minutes passed, in spite of my shock, they both seemed so sweet, and so interested in hearing what we were doing at the plantation, that I finally calmed down just a little.
Afraid to look at Mrs. Michaud, I kept my total focus on Mr. Michaud, who was sitting in a chair beside the couch talking away. I found him fascinating. Famous in his own right, he had been the conductor for the Hollywood Symphony in California before meeting and marrying Mrs. Michaud. He was also an accomplished violinist. As I had studied violin myself for many years, he proudly showed me his prized Stradivarius, and even played a tune for us, the sounds resonating like the music of cherubs.
“I can’t play like I used to,” he complained. “My arthritis is getting to me.” He sounded heavenly to me. “Here, you try it,” he offered, passing the invaluable treasure to me. I couldn’t believe he was allowing me to play his Stradivarius! Gingerly, I performed the first movement of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 3. I had never sounded so good!
Although I was captivated by my conversation with Mr. Michaud, scary, unanswerable questions kept running through my mind: Did Mrs. Michaud remember her visit to the Myrtles just a few nights before? If so, had she seen me there? Did she know I was afraid of her?
Finally, not wanting to appear rude, I turned and looked over at her, a quick glance at first, and then when that didn’t affect me in any kind of negative way, I allowed myself to study her. She was propped up on the couch on the other side of Jim, dressed in her bedclothes, too weak to sit upright. Although she looked very small and frail, her piercing ice-blue eyes were full of life. I carefully avoided her penetrating gaze.
Mr. Michaud offered us some wine, and I jumped up to accompany him into the kitchen, glad to move away from her. I felt silly that I was afraid of her. She was truly nice. No one else had any idea how upsetting this was for me.
When we returned, Mrs. Michaud was singing, her weak voice warbling. It was a song she had written and published in the fifties, titled “The Ghost in the French Bedroom”! Goosebumps covered my flesh.
Mrs. Michaud went on to tell us that although she had loved her time at the Myrtles with all her heart, although it had been her dream, she had never felt accepted by the locals in St. Francisville, in spite of the fact that they lived there nearly twenty-five years and presented community recitals and concerts in the parlors of the plantation. After all these years she was still holding bitterness and grief toward the people of St. Francisville.
The time had come to leave, and we said our fond goodbyes, promising to keep in touch. I was a little bit disappointed that except for the song about the ghost in the French bedroom, the Michauds did not mention the ghosts, but I had decided because of Mrs. Michaud’s fragile condition not to bring up the topic. During the short drive to my parents’ house, Jim and I discussed our incredible visit, and although I did not confide in him about my confrontation with Mrs. Michaud and her recent visit to the Myrtles, I expressed how grateful I was that we had the opportunity to meet them.
The first thing I wanted to do when we arrived at my parents’ house was to call Charles. I could hardly wait to tell him of my “discovery.”
“Charles, you will never guess who the dancing ghost was in the French bedroom,” I gushed the second he was on the line.
“Mrs. Michaud,” he shouted back at me. I was blown away. How could he possibly know?
Charles explained, “I found a box of old photographs and postcards from the Myrtles from the fifties and sixties. One postcard showed Mrs. Michaud standing in the parlor in an antebellum gown. I recognized her right away, and I wanted to tell you first, because I knew you went to meet her!”
“But how can she be alive, and be a ghost at the Myrtles?” I asked, a rhetorical question, knowing Charles w
ould have no answer either. I was almost afraid to even let the question enter my mind, it was so mind-boggling. I remembered seeing a talk show once that explained how sometimes very elderly people, or people on the brink of death, can actually “leave their bodies,” and that “in spirit” they can attend dances and go to exotic, faraway places, all from the confines of their limited physical bodies or wheelchairs. A researcher from UCLA explained that when a person “has one hand among the living, and the other in death,” it somehow frees these people to leave their bodies at will. Was that what was going on? Because she was so close to death, had she “visited” her beloved Myrtles?
Mrs. Michaud died shortly after we met her, but it was far from the last time that she would make an appearance at the Myrtles.
CHAPTER 21
My trip to San Jose and away from the Myrtles had been good for me. With the exception of meeting Mrs. Michaud, I had been able to forget the fear and anxiety I experienced daily at the Myrtles and had finally started to relax a little. Thoughts of Mrs. Michaud, however, continued to haunt me, no matter how much I tried to put her out of my mind.
I was thrilled that I was finally able to bring my dog, Caesar, back with me to the Myrtles. He was a fluffy white ball of fur I had picked out at the dog pound ten years before, and he had been my constant companion ever since, offering unconditional love, loyalty, and compassion. I hated leaving him behind, but it was impractical to bring him before I took ownership, with all the commotion from the Pilgrimage and everything. I had missed not having him underfoot. I carried Caesar with me into the cabin, and carefully placed his carrier under the seat. Once we were in Baton Rouge, Charles carried my luggage, and I carried Caesar to the car.
Driving home, we chatted about our mutual friends in California, the restoration of the Myrtles, and the continuing progress with the guest inn, avoiding the subject of Mrs. Michaud completely.
At the plantation, Elaine was in the French bedroom delivering a tour to a group of about thirty French people on a bus tour. They were all horrified as my little white dog ran in and relieved himself on the antique Aubusson rug, in full view of everyone. Elaine ran out screaming, not realizing that Caesar was mine. I was embarrassed as I had to introduce him as my precious little dog.
In the evening, alone at the plantation once again, Charles and I continued to avoid the subject of hauntings like the plague, creating a false sense of security by pretending everything was fine. Little did we know that we were soon to face yet another ghostly encounter.
Shortly after we said our goodnights and went to bed, the antique harmonium in the ladies parlor, distinctly out of key, began to play, drumming the same few notes over and over.
“Charles!” I cried out, startled.
He was ahead of me as I bolted through his room and into the parlor. As soon as we entered the ladies parlor, the notes stopped. We stood there, in our pajamas, and tried to duplicate the tune. It had definitely come from that instrument. This time, it was I who begged Charles to sleep in my room.
As we entered my room, I glanced out the windows. Because the home was so secluded, I, like John L., never bothered to go through the house and close all the drapes, now held open by antique mercury tie-backs that Charles had found to match the doorknobs. The garden and the parking lot beyond were well lit. Everything outside seemed perfectly normal, until I noticed an empty wheelchair sitting in the lot! It was the old-fashioned kind, made of oak and wicker. I freaked as I watched it slowly wheel up to the white picket fence surrounding the rose garden just outside my window.
“Uuh . . . uuh . . . uuh,” I choked, pointing frantically toward the window.
“What? What? I can’t see anything!” Charles replied, his arms flailing in the air.
“Out there. A wheelchair! It’s coming toward us!” I screeched, when I was finally able to talk. “Oh, my God!” I shrieked, as it came to a crashing halt right up against the fence, just twenty feet from my window.
“I can’t see,” Charles cried. “My glasses are in the other room!”
Charles was half-blind without his glasses. Not wanting to be left alone even for a second, I followed him as he ran to the French bedroom to retrieve his glasses. They were not where he had left them on the nightstand, nor were they anywhere to be found.
“Great,” I grumbled, after looking under the bed to be sure his glasses hadn’t slipped off onto the floor. “You mean I’m the only one who can see this!”
“I’m afraid so,” Charles replied. “I know I left my glasses on the nightstand!”
If the antique Louis XIV day bed in his room had not been a single, we would have piled in there, but we reluctantly returned to the queen-size sofa bed in my room.
“Is it still there?” Charles whispered.
With my head turned sideways from the window, I slowly turned and peeked outside.
“Oh, shit,” I gasped. “It’s still there, only now, it has moved up inside the rose garden!”
Charles and I jumped into the bed clinging tightly to each other, pulling the covers way up over our heads, as if somehow that would block out everything else. I didn’t dare peep outside again that night.
“Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe Mrs. Michaud herself chose you to continue on here?” Charles whispered as he drifted off to sleep.
“What do you mean?” I asked, but there was no reply.
“Charles. Charles, wake up,” I pleaded. “Don’t leave me all alone. Please.”
As if my mind didn’t have enough to deal with with the wheelchair sitting in wait outside my window, Charles had to add that very disturbing comment. Even though I didn’t believe that I was somehow “chosen” by Mrs. Michaud, in the terror of the night, anything seemed possible. I poked him and prodded him, but I couldn’t get him to roll over and talk to me. I was left all alone with my thoughts, which were every bit as frightening as the real things that were going on around me.
With the safety of daylight, I slowly peeked over a sleeping Charles out the window. Thank God the wheelchair that had terrorized me the night before was gone. But that fact did not help my fears much. There were just too many coincidences at this house, too many unexplainable events. Although I had already begun to feel that maybe I had been “chosen” by the house, now I had to consider my connection to Mrs. Michaud as well.
I got up and went into the French bedroom, where I found Charles’s glasses, right where he said he left them—on the nightstand. I could hear Charles stirring in the bedroom. I walked in and without saying a word placed his glasses in his hand.
“Where were they?” he asked.
“Right where you left them on the nightstand,” I replied.
“But . . . that’s impossible.”
“I know. And another thing. Why didn’t you answer me last night? I was terrified, not only by what happened but from what you said.”
Charles looked confused. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but I don’t remember us going to bed last night.”
Our eyes met, and I knew he was telling the truth.
The wheelchair incident was still very frightening to me, but I couldn’t allow the fear to distract me from the task at hand—we had to get the guestrooms ready and get some income coming in. I forced myself to think about other things, happier things, and concentrate on the renovation. I dealt with my fear by not dealing with it. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow” became my motto.
Still, I could not get my mind off Mrs. Michaud. Suddenly inspired, I ran to find Charles. “Charles, where are all the photographs of the Michauds that you found while I was in San Jose? I want to see them.”
“I’ll go get them,” he promised.
A few minutes later Charles brought in a box full of their things that he had found while poking around in one of the rooms of the original kitchen wing, which was now filled up from front to back with clutter. I sat down on the floor next to the box and began going through it. It was filled with wonderful mem
entos from their years at the Myrtles: newspaper articles, sheet music written by Marjorie Munson Michaud and composed by Dolor Michaud, personal letters, and legal documents. For a few hours I was totally captivated by these fascinating treasures and had nearly forgotten the wheelchair incident. There were articles from the Los Angeles Times about Mr. Michaud’s concerts with the Hollywood Symphony, as well as Baton Rouge Advocate and St. Francisville Democrat clippings about the community concerts the Michauds held at the plantation. There were even several yellowed articles about the ghosts!
As I continued digging through their life, I discovered many similarities between Mrs. Michaud and myself. Besides the fact that we had both lived at the Myrtles, and in San Jose, just streets apart, Mrs. Michaud and I were both single businesswomen when we found the Myrtles, and we both married shortly thereafter. We had both studied music. A letter from her accountant advised her not to purchase the plantation. She bought it anyway. My accountant in California likewise advised me not to purchase the plantation.
As I delved deeper into the box, I came upon something that deeply unsettled me: a daily schedule from a cruise ship dated June 1951. Oh, my God! Just before purchasing the home, Mrs. Michaud had been on a cruise—to Haiti!
The Myrtles Plantation Page 9