The Myrtles Plantation

by Ghostly Enconter

  The final scene was powerful and poignant. Sarah broke down at the news that David had been apprehended and charged. As she did, all the lights in the house flickered!

  Later we noticed something else. The footsteps that had been haunting us night after night, the seventeen steps that even Mrs. Michaud had heard, stopped! William no longer had to relive his death night after night, mortally wounded, climbing those stairs trying to reach his beloved Sarah. We never heard his footsteps again after that night. We never saw Sarah again after that night, either, nor heard the sounds of crying from upstairs in her suite.

  Was it possible that our reenactment of William’s life and death had somehow set their spirits free? It gave me chills just thinking about it.

  CHAPTER 50

  Exactly one month after the first murder mystery weekend, Beverly passed away from cancer, with her beloved Michael, who had played William to her Sarah, at her side. I had gone to visit her at the hospital in Houston just days before she passed. Michael was beside himself. It was very sad.

  The eerie thing was that Beverly had told me several years before that she was afraid she might die. She had gone to a tarot reader who told her that her family would be coming to visit her and stay at her house.

  “Frances, my family has never come to visit me. They didn’t even come to my wedding. The only reason they would come to my house is for my funeral. I’m so afraid,” she confided.

  I tried to ease her fear by telling her that maybe her family would come visit her, but she was adamant that they would not.

  “Then the tarot card reader must be wrong,” I assured her. She nodded her head in agreement, but the terror was still in her eyes. After she married Michael, just eight short months before, the fears escalated. Then, four months after the wedding, she found out she had stomach cancer. Michael told me that playing Sarah meant the world to her, and having that to look forward to had added some precious time to their short union, not to mention the chance for them to be married all over again, as Sarah and William. I will never forget the look in his eyes as she walked down the stairs.

  Beverly’s funeral was held at the Methodist Church on Royal Street in St. Francisville. Martha Mary and I were sitting together holding hands, comforting each other, when we each felt a reassuring arm around our shoulders, and Beverly whispered in our ears. I looked over at Martha. She looked back at me and nodded “yes.” Suddenly, in the middle of the eulogy, Martha Mary and I could not stop grinning. The three of us—Martha Mary, me, and Beverly—had shared a very special moment.

  I didn’t get to Baton Rouge as often as I would have liked to visit my friends down there, but the four of us, Fran, Ozelle, Thelma (who had just moved back from Kentucky), and myself, always got together to celebrate one of our birthdays. In January, I joined them for Ozelle’s birthday. We took her to dinner at her favorite restaurant, Ralph and Kacoo’s, and headed to Thelma’s house. Thelma had converted one of her bedrooms into a meditation room, painted in pale lavender with lavender carpet and filled with colorful pillows in all sizes. My three friends had mastered many different techniques in the classes they attended together, along with Hamp, at Midge Soderbergh’s, which included meditation, channeling, healing, and psychometry. We sat on the pillows in a circle and Thelma lit several candles, placing them in the center of the room. Thelma led us in a guided imagery self-hypnosis technique, followed by individual meditation.

  It was impossible to be with this group, my spiritual friends, and not be reminded of Hamp, and tonight I felt his presence more strongly than ever. Even though it had been nearly a year since his passing, I still missed him terribly, but I felt he was always close by. But feeling and knowing were two different things. I wanted proof positive that he was still with me. I peeked around the room at the others, their eyes closed, absorbed in meditation.

  “Hamp, please, if you can, just give me some kind of sign,” I pleaded. “Do anything. Rap on the door. Blow out the candle. Just show me that you are here with us.” I concentrated solely on Hamp, willing him with all my might to communicate somehow. Sure, I realized it was silly, and probably impossible, but if anyone could break through from the other side it would be Hamp, so maybe, just maybe . . .

  “Hamp wants you to know that he is closer than you think,” Ozelle broke in. I gasped. I quickly looked over at her. Her eyes still pressed tight, she had not wavered from her meditation posture.

  “He is telling me to tell you that he loves you and that he is watching over you,” she continued. “He wants you to remember something about last Christmas, and also a time in the bathroom.”

  Goosebumps penetrated my flesh. I had not told anyone about Hamp’s Christmas greeting, and especially not about his being in the bathroom with me. There was absolutely no way Ozelle could have known.

  “Oh, Hamp. Thank you. Thank you,” I gushed, overwhelmed.

  And then, all at once, it became clear to me. Hamp was not “somewhere else”; he was not sitting up on a fluffy white cloud somewhere playing the harp. He was right here with us, right in front of us, only we couldn’t see him. Time and space do not separate us from our loved ones. They are right here, all along. They never leave us. That was what Hamp was trying to tell me when he said, “I’m closer than you think.”

  I felt an incredible peacefulness.

  CHAPTER 51

  It was spring again, and Hollywood had come to St. Francisville! Several production companies were making movies in our little town, using some of the local plantation homes as sets.

  Three movies were filmed in St. Francisville in the late 1980s: North and South, La Louisiana, and The Long Hot Summer. The Myrtles was used as the home of the gay guy in The Long Hot Summer. The house was chosen because of its graceful features: the lacy ironwork and rococo touches standing in stark contrast to the typically masculine, massive Greek revival home with huge columns in the front.

  The producer also asked if he could use our dog Woodruff, in the movie. Since Caesar’s death not only did we get Grinch, our tricolored cocker spaniel, but we adopted Woodruff, a golden retriever we named after Judge Clarke Woodruff, from the dog pound.

  “Sure, but it will cost you!” I joked. “He expects to be treated to steak every day that he works!” Wouldn’t you know, with all that the producer had to think about, the catering truck prepared Woodruff his own big juicy steak every day! From a distance, Don Johnson’s golden retriever and Woodruff looked identical, and the two were a terror together, egging each other on, splashing in the pond and knocking down props. The duo was insufferable.

  Woodruff became quite a celebrity. He made the newspapers and talk show circuit, with the headline: “Pound Dog Becomes Movie Star!” Woodruff proudly “inked” his front foot so that he could sign his “pawtograph” for admiring fans!

  We all secretly had concerns about what would happen with the ghosts when the movie company started moving furniture around, and with good reason. We had learned from experience that the ghosts didn’t like things to be moved around. And sure enough, within days the set decorators complained that someone had been moving things around the room after they had set it up!

  Margot Kidder came to town to do La Louisiana. Unlike many of the other stars staying in town, like Cybill Shepherd, Elizabeth Taylor, Kirstie Alley, and Patrick Swayze, who brought their own luxury motor homes, Margot opted to stay at the Holiday Inn. Time after time, people would tell me that she had heard about the ghosts, and she was dying to come to the Myrtles.

  “Tell her we are open for tours every day,” was my reply.

  A childhood friend of mine was visiting from California with her husband. When they learned Margot Kidder was in town, they pleaded with me to invite her over.

  “Okay, go ahead and call her,” I conceded. “You can invite her over for drinks.”

  About fifteen minutes later Margot arrived, in sandals and long wet hair. She was genuine and sweet. After a few drinks in the tavern, my friends and she decided they wanted to
have a séance.

  “Absolutely not!” I replied. Ever since Jim had become possessed during Hamp’s séance, I understood the seriousness of Midge’s warning and I had vowed never again to “invite” or “call in” spirits, no matter how protected people thought they were. I knew firsthand it was far too dangerous, and I wanted no part in it.

  “Then let’s just go into the house and see if we can pick up any vibes,” my friends suggested.

  “Sure, suit yourself,” I answered. My survival at the home depended on my not interacting with the spirits.

  I followed them into the gentlemen’s parlor and watched in amusement as three men squeezed in beside Margot on the two-cushioned love seat.

  “Um, boys, I don’t think we all fit,” Margot sweetly informed them. When none of them moved, she said politely, “I think two of you have to sit over there.”

  In spite of my reluctance to hold a séance, my friend started calling to the spirits.

  “Be very careful,” I warned. “You don’t want to call anything up.”

  “Don’t worry so much,” she assured me. “I’m just trying to see if I get any vibes.”

  Before long, the room was filled with tiny sparkly lights floating around our heads. They were dizzying. They reminded me of the lights Jim and I had seen in our bedroom and again in the movie Poltergeist, where the tiny lights manifested into full-fledged apparitions.

  “Okay, we need to stop this now,” I warned, standing up to leave. “This is crazy. I’m not leaving myself open for a possession.” I caught myself involuntarily swatting at the lights swarming in front of me like gnats, dodging them, trying not to collide with them as I left the room.

  As I walked through the double doors into the twilight, the yard was completely filled with thousands of silvery, sparkly spider webs suspended in thin air. It felt unreal, yet I knew I wasn’t dreaming. With my arms held up to protect my face, I made my way through the thick, silky webs to the tavern, where, once safe inside, I quickly locked the door, made myself a drink, and waited for the others to come out. I was furious with them for stirring them up, and there was no way I was going back into the yard filled with Lord knows what. When they finally emerged, they came running and screaming to me.

  “Frances, come out here. You gotta see this,” they called.

  “I know, I saw it,” I replied flatly.

  “Wow, this is so cool. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It’s like a movie or something.”

  It wasn’t a game to me; it was my life, over which I was losing control.

  “Look,” I fumed, “you guys get to come here and visit and play and stir up the spirits, and then you get to go home to your nice safe houses. I have to live here. I don’t even want to know what you did in there, or what the heck is going on in my backyard, but I’m sure they are somehow related. Personally, I’m sick of people talking about the ghosts as if they were some kind of parlor game. They’re not. They’re real, and they can affect you if you don’t take them seriously or do foolish things like y’all did tonight. Now, I would ask that you stop this right now, and leave them be for everyone’s safety.”

  I stormed off into the house, leaving my guests in the tavern. I realized my outburst had more to do with the entire situation at the Myrtles rather than this one incident, but I had reached my breaking point.

  CHAPTER 52

  Margot became a regular visitor after that. She was so sweet; in spite of her star status, she always remembered everyone’s name, and she always treated everyone on the staff the same as she treated me. There were only a very few celebrities out of all the ones who visited who were so sincerely genuine and nice. Bryant Gumbel was the same way. Although he was running late, he took the time to personally say hello and take a picture with everyone on the staff before he left.

  When La Louisiana wrapped, Margot booked the Myrtles for the cast party—a huge costume gala complete with a live band, a costume contest, and a major fireworks display. Several nights before the event, she brought the catering company over so they could see the setup. We all sat in the tavern discussing the plans.

  “So you’re from California?” the catering assistant asked. “What part?”

  “San Jose,” I replied.

  “I’m from Los Gatos,” he said.

  “You’re kidding. I used to live there!”

  He looked clean-cut, your typical California guy with blond hair and blue eyes. He sat down next to me, and I enjoyed talking to him. I noticed at one point that he brushed his hand against my knee briefly when he was making a point. It was such a fleeting, friendly gesture that I didn’t think much about it.

  There had been a wedding booked at the Myrtles the night before Margot’s costume ball, so it was a really long weekend. I was glad that her people were doing the catering for the cast party, because after doing the wedding I was exhausted. I told Charles I didn’t think I would be able to stay awake for the costume ball.

  “At least stay for the fireworks,” he proposed. “I hear Margot spent a bundle on them, and they are going to be spectacular.”

  Everyone in town was buzzing about the event, but Margot had insisted that it be a closed party for La Louisiana cast and crew members only.

  “Can’t you just say we are working for you? We will do anything. Anything!” Mary Nell Marchieve, clerk of court, and Mary Thompson, Miss Maimie’s daughter, pleaded. They had become close friends, and we all hung out together, even more so after Jim’s departure.

  “We can put on maid’s outfits and pass around the hors d’oeuvres,” Mary Nell suggested.

  “They have their own caterer,” I replied.

  “Well then, we can play tour guides, and stand guard in the entry hall so that no one goes upstairs.”

  That actually sounded like a good ploy. “Of course, if you’re sure you want to,” I accepted, happy to have the help. Another friend, named Lisa Aimee, from Baton Rouge, came up to help out as well.

  The party was wild, the costumes outrageous! Just before 11:00 p.m., the fire chief and the mayor showed up to oversee the fireworks, which were set off from the island on the pond, spectacular bursts of color illuminating the sky and reflecting in water. I stood beside the mayor, transfixed. Charles had been right; the fireworks were worth staying up for.

  So tired I was ready to drop, I headed for my bedroom in the house immediately after the light show.

  “Hey, you promised me a tour,” a voice called out. I turned, and it was the caterer from Los Gatos. He had asked for a tour earlier, and I remembered that I had been busy, so I told him I would catch him later. If I had to give him a tour, I wanted to get it over with so I could go to sleep. We walked into the entry hall, where Mary Nell and Mary Thompson greeted us. I quickly led him through the dining room and parlors and into the French bedroom, reciting the briefest details from the tour.

  In the French bedroom he moved beside me and kissed me gently on the lips. I was too tired to object at first, but he must have mistaken that for a go-ahead. He pulled me in close and tried to stick his tongue in my mouth.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just too tired. I need to get some sleep,” I explained. Women are socialized not to hurt someone’s feelings, so I felt I had to apologize for not wanting to kiss him. He did not take the hint and continued kissing me. I didn’t want to make a scene and embarrass him, or myself.

  “Wait. Wait,” I pleaded. “Hold on for just a second. I have to run to the bathroom.” It was the only thing I could think of to get myself out of the room. I left by the side door, rather than going back out into the entry hall, and instead of going into the bathroom, I ran back outside to the tavern to find Charles. I felt smug that I had tricked the kissing caterer. I wondered how long it took him to realize I wasn’t coming back. I waited a while before going back into the house, where I changed into my nightgown and was asleep within moments of hitting the pillow.

  I was dreaming that I was choking. No, it was real. As I floated into consciousness,
I realized with horror that someone was in the room, beside me, over me, trying to stick something in my mouth. His penis! Oh, my God. I pushed up, trying to jump out of the bed, but I realized he was straddling me, with one knee on each side of my body, and I couldn’t move. It was the catering guy!

  “Stop, please,” I begged.

  He put his hand over my mouth and lowered himself on top of me.

  My mind raced. “What can I do?” I thought. “Mary Nell and Mary Thompson are right outside the door in the entry hall. If I scream, they will certainly come in and save me. But wait. They saw me come in with him earlier. I introduced him to them. Would they believe that he was attacking me, or would they assume that I invited him in?”

  Because I was in business, my reputation meant everything, especially now that I was separated from my husband. It was happening very quickly, I had very little time to react. The thought of creating a commotion by screaming, of having everyone race into the room and see him on top of me, was unbearable. Would anyone believe me? What would people think of me?

  “Please, stop,” I pleaded, squirming hard so that he couldn’t get into position. He was way stronger than me, and in spite of my fight, he brutally entered my body, grunting. I kept frantically trying to push him off, beating him in the face with my fists.

  At that moment my friend Lisa walked into the room, dressed in her bumblebee outfit, on her way to my private bathroom. He stopped and turned at the commotion, and it gave me just the leverage I needed to garner all my energy and give him a huge heave. It caught him off-guard, and he rolled off me. I ran into the bathroom to find Lisa, frantic.

  “Lisa. Thank God you came when you did,” I sobbed. “He was raping me!!”