Nightmare (15 page)

Most of it occurred exactly as before. The red eyes in the
kitchen. The dining room apparitions. The creepy hallway.

When I got to the living room I made a point of being the
first one in so I could take up my position in the center of the
room before the teenagers did.

Just like before, the room was dark and a mist entered the
room. But this mist was different. It was a much brighter white
and it seemed to dart from one side of the room to the other.
Just when one cloud would disappear, another would dart past,
going a different direction. It happened again and again, and
my eyes traced its origins to a system of ducts hidden near the
ceiling on all four walls.

It was programmed, precise, very well executed, and ...
unquestionably artificial.

As the double front doors opened and I followed the teenage
couple out into the cold night air, I felt a numbness fall over my skin. It wasn't a supernatural sensation; it was my own emotions
allowing the horrible truth to sink in.

I'd seen Jordin Cole here three nights ago, and whatever she
was, she wasn't part of the attraction.

So what was she? What happened to her? And if she really
was a ghost, how did she wind up in this park, of all places?

And then, the worst thought of all entered my mind.

I was going to have to tell Derek.

MARCH 3RD

Baton Rouge, Louisiana, provided a surprisingly warm and welcome respite from the frigid winds of New York. In fact, it was
downright sticky as we exited the Baton Rouge airport and headed
north to St. Francisville, the first of three stops on this trip.

I still couldn't believe I'd let Jordin talk me into this one.
It was spring break, for crying out loud. We had a whole week,
and I could have been sunning at the beach or catching up on
studies or visiting my family. Instead, Jordin offered to pay me
triple for a week-long adventure at multiple haunted locations
far away from New England.

There was just no sating this girl's thirst.

So I chose three of the most haunted locations in the deep South and plotted a trip that would give us time to spend at
least one night at each.

The Myrtles Plantation was first on the itinerary. Once
a stately plantation home, it was now a converted bed-andbreakfast nestled in the backwoods of rural Louisiana. I had
briefed Jordin about the place on the plane, and though she'd
never heard of it, she had stopped questioning my choice of
haunted locations. The place overflowed with legends, and it's
anybody's guess how many were true.

Surrounded by five thousand acres of cotton fields, the Myrtles was supposedly built over an Indian burial ground. ("Why are
so many places built over Indian burial grounds?" was Jordin's
comment when I told her about this.) There was a large mirror in
the foyer in which many have claimed to see the images of people
who died on the grounds-an unpleasant thought for me.

The most famous Myrtles legend concerned a slave girl named
Chloe who was owned by the plantation's owners in the early
1800s. Over five hundred slaves lived and worked and died on
the plantation, but Chloe was by far the most famous. Reports
of how and why she died varied greatly, but the story told most
frequently said that Chloe had had her ear cut off for spying on
the plantation owner, who kept her as his mistress and then later
killed her for accidentally poisoning his wife and daughters. But
whatever happened to her, it was probably pretty awful, and she
was the apparition seen most often on the property, a mournful
figure wearing a green turban.

At one time, the owners tried to downplay the rumor of
hauntings, hoping not to scare customers off, but in recent years
they'd begun to embrace the legends, welcoming paranormal
enthusiasts as regular guests.

We drove through the short white picket fence that surrounded the place and past the tall white guard house, and I
pointed out the many statues throughout the property. Long
strands of gray Spanish moss hung from the canopy of trees
surrounding the plantation as we drove up the dark, narrow
driveway. The white main house ahead was so lovely, Jordin mentioned how impossible it seemed that a place this quaint and
welcoming could be haunted.

"And I thought it would be bigger," she added as we unloaded
our gear and luggage from the car.

I couldn't criticize her for that. I'd told her so much about
this place, and it had such an infamous reputation, it was easy
to overestimate how big it might be. The Myrtles was a small
plantation house, made up of just twenty rooms total, including
the guest rooms.

The two of us slowly made our way up the short stairs that
led to the picturesque north porch. It was still midafternoon, so
there was no need to rush to check in. Blue wrought-iron railings with intricately patterned details surrounded the porch and
extended all the way up to the overhang. Seven or eight white
wooden rocking chairs sat empty on the humongous porch, rocking themselves by inches due to a mild wind blowing.

I was glad I'd brought warm-weather clothes with me. My
sweater and jeans I'd worn on the plane from brisk New York
were already making me sweat. Changing would be the first order
of business when we got checked in.

We got to the front door, but Jordin hesitated, looking back
over her shoulder at the surrounding grounds.

"Have you ever met a witch doctor or voodoo priestess?"
she asked.

I shook my head.

"Me neither. I guess being in Louisiana, the feel of it, just
made me wonder. How about witches? Or Wiccans? Ever met
any?"

"Only once or twice. Made me uncomfortable," I confessed.
"All the rituals and stuff-too dark, too weird. Seems to bring
them close to dark forces that no one should get close to."

"I think the most paranormal thing I ever did was play with
a Ouija board at a sleepover when I was eleven."

"Bad idea," I said. "I can't believe they still sell those things.
As if they're harmless board games! They're incredibly dangerous. You wouldn't believe how many people have used them to
accidentally invite dark entities into their homes."

Jordin didn't argue. "It was definitely creepy, though we never
had anything bad happen afterward. But my dad was furious
when he found out. Called it a witch board, said it was of the
devil."

"Guess he wouldn't care much for his daughter going out
ghost hunting, then."

Jordin looked away. "No ... he'd probably say we're playing
with fire. Just like Derek."

I still hadn't met Jordin's fiance, and the two of us hadn't
discussed him since what Jordin had told me at the Stanley Hotel.
It was a touchy subject, and even though she gave me an opening,
I tried to steer things in a safer direction.

"Does he remind you of your dad? Derek?"

Jordin's face was a mixture of sadness and elation. "Yeah. He
really does. I guess that's a good thing. They say you always pick
a mate that reminds you of your parent."

"So what did it tell you?" I couldn't resist asking.

"Hm?"

"The Ouija board."

"Oh, urn. .." Jordin's eyes darkened and her voice dropped
to a mumble, "it told me my parents were going to die."

The friendly staff at the Myrtles checked us in quickly and
showed us to our rooms. Jordin had gladly put up enough funds
to ensure that we would have the building entirely to ourselves
overnight, with no other guests and even the front desk clerk
being paid extra to take the night off.

Jordin also gave them enough money to allow the two of us
to have our own private rooms on the ground floor, and when
she mumbled something about needing to rest after the long
plane ride, I silently agreed and shuffled into my own room. Best
to get a good nap now to prepare for the long night ahead. And
talking about Jordin's parents had seemed to cast a gloom over
us both, so I was glad for the break.

I was about to lie down on the comfy-looking bed, having
drawn the curtains closed and turned off all the lights, when I
saw in the sunlight still stubbornly filtering through the brightcolored curtains that my door was still open.

I could've sworn I'd closed it, but gave it little thought as I
pushed it closed again. This time I locked it.

Finally, I gave myself to the gloriously soft bed and handcrafted quilt on top.

Three hours later, I awoke to the sound of crying.

I opened my groggy eyes and noted that while the sun was still out, my room had grown a bit darker as I slept. So deeply asleep
had I been that it took a few seconds to remember where I was.

Then I saw it. The door to my room was cracked open.
Again.

Even though I'd locked it.

Beyond the small opening between door and post the distant
sounds of painful sobbing drifted into the room.

My first thought was that it was Jordin, in her room several
doors down the hall. She must have still been upset about speaking of her parents dying. I rose slowly from the bed and slipped
out into the hall, my barefoot steps tapping lightly on the hardwood floors as I glided toward Jordin's room.

But Jordin opened her door before I could reach it and cast a
significant gaze at me as she, too, listened intently to the sound.
Oddly, it seemed no louder at this end of the hall than it had
from my room, even though I had been certain that it was coming from this direction.

When we were close enough to speak, Jordin whispered, "You
think it's her? That slave girl, Chloe?"

I shook my head, having no answers for her. "Grab your
digital recorder."

Jordin spun on her heels to zip back into her room.

I stood very still and listened from my perch in the hallway,
trying to get a bead on the direction of the sound. It showed no
signs of stopping. It was a pitiful, soft wailing.

It suddenly hit me just as Jordin returned with her recorder
in hand and already on.

"It's outside," I said.

Jordin listened and nodded eagerly in agreement, so the two
of us located the nearest exit and walked around the building until we got closer to the sound. We rounded a last corner to
face an empty wall of siding. Nothing was visible, but the sound
was very close now.