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Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Haunted Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

Myrtles Plantation

 
4:15 p.m.
I arrive just after official plantation tour hours, but the guide very graciously says she’ll give me a tour. Thanks! (There are also “Mystery Tours” on Friday and Saturday, 6, 7, and 8 p.m. It is recommended that you buy tickets ahead of time because they do sell  out.)I have been to a bunch of plantation tours and liked this one. For starters, even if you don’t believe in ghosts, the house has been furnished as much to period as possible. The plantation, located in St. Francisville, was built in 1796 by Gen. David Bradford and was expanded upon in the early 1800s by then owner, Ruffin Grey Stirling. The style is a variation of the raised center-hall cottage with a main hallway acting as a breezeway, through the center of the house, with rooms flanking it on either side. The front porch is adorned with ornate cast iron railings, and the interior details such as the open pierced frieze work and the Baccarat crystal chandelier from France are also extravagant. Interestingly, the entire home is built from cypress and was, previously, faux painted to appear as walnut, pine and antique oak. As we tour the home, I peer into the famous mirror in the hallway. Did I see the faces of two children in it? Hmmm. No. But those hand prints are kind of creepy.
 
5:00 p.m.
As I stroll through the lovely grounds with its large oak trees, azaleas and yellow irises near the small pond in the back, I think this place is too pretty to be haunted and begin to side with those who—bringing forth historical evidence—debunk the theory that the Myrtles is haunted at all. Chloe, the slave, who poisoned her master’s two children in a jealous rage? According to one web site, historical records say that there was no such slave named Chloe at the Myrtles and that the children, in fact, died of yellow fever.
 
5:30 p.m.
However, just as I started taking photos of the house in the front and the back, my digital camera refuses to work. Hmm. That’s odd. I put that down to it’s a moody digital camera, and I’m clueless about operating it. Fiddling with the camera, I mull over the fact that historical records do say attorney William Drew Winter, who was married to the Stirling’s daughter was, in fact, murdered in the house. According to the tour, he was called downstairs by a man on horseback and was shot in the chest. (It is thought that his murder might have been motivated by his political involvement in the Reconstruction at the time, but no one really knows.) But here the records become murky; there is little evidence he collapsed on the 17th stair, and yet his contributions from beyond the grave supposedly include footsteps heard going up and down those stairs. Did I hear any creaking footsteps on the stairs? No. Did I see a black cat in the back patio? Yes. Did I cross its path? Yes. I begin to wonder if that was a rather bad idea, considering that I will be here after sundown and all.
 
6:00 p.m.
Time to shake off the shivers and head to the Caretaker’s Cottage, where I am staying tonight. Located to the side of the house, it has a nice size bed with an additional bunk bed squeezed in. I’m wondering if this is also where the “Ghost Hunters” saw a lamp move across the table without any explanation. Why is the gate to my wooden fence opening by itself? Fooled you! It was just the wind. I wander over to the Carriage House Restaurant, just behind the plantation, for dinner.  Can I get any ghosts to sit down and eat with me? A Yummy Gibson at hand and the menu has a nice variety of Southern style dishes, such as gumbo, étouffée, a seafood platter, fish accented with lump crabmeat, and the imposing sounding Feliciana Eggplant Stacker (fried eggplant medallions topped with the Chef's special seafood stuffing and étouffée sauce). I particularly liked the barbecue shrimp, which is called Shrimp Extravaganza on the menu.
 
8:08 p.m.
Heading back to the cottage, and inside, I realize that I have no T.V. Therefore, no Lost. That’s O.K. They do have Wi-Fi. However, I find out that I can’t watch a simulcast of Lost. Will try to see if the new episode will be loaded after midnight or later. Time to relax, read a book and enjoy the country sounds—crickets, the occasional car, silence. Oh, and I just saw another black cat. How many times have I crossed both of their paths now?
 
8:30 p.m.
Hear a sound—a thump—in what could be considered the attic. It is probably just a bird or a bat trapped (or Chloe stumbling about up there). Speaking of noises—when a friend of mine found out that I was going to the Myrtles, he reminded me of the time when he sat me down to listen to an EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) recording that he and a TV crew had made here. I did pause at the remembrance. How does one explain low-level growls in the background? Shuffling sounds instead of creaks. My friend, normally levelheaded, and the TV crew were so upset out by the experience that they left as soon as they were done.
 
9:00 p.m.
And then the wind picks up. It’s a thunderstorm. I’m not kidding. I guess I am going to get the mood-appropriate weather for my trip, huh? There’s a thump on the window. Is that the shutter hitting the side of the wall due to the wind? And will someone do something about the squeaky pipes? (It sounds like a chair is being dragged across the attic—shades of The Exorcist?)
 
9:16 p.m.
One of those black cats must be in heat, because its yowl sounds otherworldly. I figure out the squeaking noise are the shutters moving on the hinges and not crazy plumbing. Peek outside. Dark. If there are ghosts out there, they could be having a tea party, as far as I can see. Next time, I remind myself to bring a flashlight. However that might scare guests and stories about mysterious lights at night might start becoming part of the plantation’s lore. Speaking of lore, according to the Mystery Tour, the story of Chloe goes something like this: In the 1820s, Judge Clarke Woodruff owned the home prior to the Stirlings. Apparently, Chloe, who was working in a field, ‘caught his eye,’ and he offered her a place in the house as caretaker of his children. She also became his mistress. As the years passed, she began to ‘eavesdrop’ on the family and was punished by being banished to the kitchen (then a separate building from the main house). She attempted to return to the home by ‘making the family sick’ with a cake baked with oleander, hoping she would be called back in to the house to heal them. However she accidentally fatally poisoned the Judge’s wife and the two smallest children. After confessing her crime, Chloe was hung. Today, in addition to various odd sensations around the home, guests report the sensation of being ‘tucked in’, as they lie in bed. Apparently, Chloe is still performing her household duties.
 
10:00 p.m.
Checking out the photographs of the house I took earlier in the day. I zoom in on various ones, and then…here is something really strange. I have what I call my fuzzy caterpillar image. It’s one of the photos I took of the back of the house, and when I zoom in on the area where the pathway is between the gift shop and the main house, there is a shadowy image. Much like a shadowy black caterpillar that you can see through. I know it’s not a caterpillar, and then I realize that my fuzzy, shadowy figure is almost located in the exact same spot that a shadowy figure, thought to be Chloe, appears in a photo, at the Myrtles.
 
11:00 p.m.
Windy outside. Heard there might be tornado warnings. Bam! Thunder clap. The wind is strong, and the rain is almost horizontal. Ghosts and black cats are definitely hibernating now. Bed shakes a little. Sci-Fi Channel’s Ghost Hunters, did declare paranormal activity at the plantation, and they are tough judges. Hmmm.
 
12 a.m.
I dozed off.
 
4 a.m.
Yep, I fell asleep during the thunderstorm and missed the witching hour. Peek outside. Still really dark. Try to doze.
 
5:00 a.m.
I am now awake and can tell St. Francisville is stirring by the sound of cars going by.
 
6:00 a.m.
Stroll into the gift shop, where guests can also have breakfast (part of the room rate.) Though they don’t officially open until later, the cook gets me some hot tea, and asks how my night was. I told him I slept soundly. He smiles. Hey, I’m thinking, I’m not lying (well, sort of!). The black cat, plus another black cat, waits for me outside. I ask the cook how many there are, and he says 20. That’s a lot of bad luck—or counter luck—to tempt. Unfortunately, I had to hit the road back to New Orleans to get to work on time. I really wanted to ask my other fellow overnight guests what they thought of their stay. Were they scared?
 
My conclusion, well, it is inconclusive. There were things that could be easily explained—the squeaky shutters etc—while others, such as the photograph—that could not. Is the Myrtles haunted? It’s up for you to find out.