An Irish Ghost Story

This is a true story of my own experience. It is my only certain physical experience with the supernatural. In the years since, anyone who has doubted this story, and cross-examined my cousin, my sister, and myself has found that our identical attention to the details has proven its veracity; above all, the detail of the red-and-white-striped sleeping cap.

*     *     *

My great-great grandfather, Martin Glynn, sailed from Galway, Ireland, to New Orleans, Louisiana in 1847. It is said he arrived here with his brothers, Thomas and Patrick, after their father P.J. died. The cause of their leaving Ireland or choosing New Orleans as a destination is a mystery to the living, though perhaps the death of their father created a hunger for a fresh start. Whatever the cause, the three brothers arrived in New Orleans with little to no money or possessions to their names. Martin eventually found a job working in a foundry, and used his wit and will to move from that to a grocery wholesale business firm, Seward and Glynn. Eventually, Glynn bought out Seward, apparently finding great financial success.

He soon married Mary Wilson, the daughter of a prominent, Irish-born New Orleans businessman, Charles Wilson, and become an official citizen of the United States. 

The Civil War apparently did little to dim Glynn's fortunes, and upon the war's ending, Glynn turned his eyes inland. The South's abominable business model of plantation-based slavery was, thankfully, broken by its defeat. This led to the financial ruin of many a plantation, making both their lands and central homes fair game for a prospering Irish businessman with a hunger for country living. Glynn soon began to use his considerable, recently amassed wealth to start buying these homes and their surrounding lands. He first settled his new family just North of New Orleans, near the current town of Donaldsonville, but a great Mississippi River flood caused Glynn to look further North for settlement. He eventually landed in a westside bend of the river in Pointe Coupee Parish. Of course, unlike the U.S.'s other 49 states, Louisiana call its counties "parishes." This is because of the state's roots in Catholicism, which must have been appealing for the devoutly Irish Catholic Glynn.

Glynn bought a former plantation home, sitting directly above the old Mississippi River valley--the river, before shifting course hundreds of years before, once flowed directly in front of the home. The name of the home and family who originally dwelled in that abode is lost to history. No one recalls who lived and died there, who walked its halls, who died in its service while working against their will. Whatever the case, the likely Creole French plantation "master" was deposed by a clever Irishman, as Glynn turned his hand toward farming and his new, thriving syrup factory. His family grew in accordance with his fortune, and soon Glynn's children ceased to fit in the home, which he had rechristened "Glynnwood." The rising Glynn had part of another home from neighboring West Baton Rouge Parish moved by logs, and in order to expand Glynnwood, the houses were joined together. The record of that West Baton Rouge house is gone, as well, but the village that grew and remains around Glynnwood to this day was christened as Glynn.

Overall, Glynn lived a full life, passing away in his home in 1921, but not before serving as a Louisiana State Senator, and fathering 12 children (many of whom also passed away behind the doors of Glynnwood). His youngest son, Aloysius, was born on June 21, 1879. Aloysius's wife, Arisa (my sister's namesake), gave birth to my grandmother, Ruby Adele Glynn, on January 7, 1916. Ruby gave birth to my father, Charles Wilson, third of the name, in 1954. Ruby and my grandfather, Joseph Etienne, made their residence in New Roads, Louisiana, while the house was left to Ruby's older sister, Emma, who continued to live in Glynnwood. Eventually, my father and mother, as well as my father's sister and brother, all moved their families onto a strip of land just a field away from Glynnwood. Joseph Etienne and Ruby Adele also moved to this strip, but died shortly after.

My dad and his brother farmed the land for miles around us, though we were told at a young age that Glynnwood belonged to another side of the family. However, all of that side of the family had long departed Glynn, sans Emma's son, who lived nearby, and of course, the elderly, widowed Emma, herself. My cousins and I loved to walk across the field to visit "Aunt Emma," and explore the house, though I am not sure if Emma enjoyed the visits as much as we did. We were hyperactive, inquisitive children, and would often find our parents knocking on Glynnwood's doors to pick us up, though we were sure we hadn't told them where we were visiting. In Glynnwood, sound amplifies, reverberates. The air feels ancient and storied. Every room feels of an ornate infinite.

With that said, when we did visit, we had our run of the large, old house, except for the attic. We got into the attic one time, to find matching dark, gaping holes had been carved into the North and South walls. Above one, written in black paint, was the word HEAVEN, and above the other, HELL. I was later told that one of the more troubled former Glynnwood residents would go into the attic in the middle of the night, and experiment with psychotropics. We were commanded never to go into the attic again, because the room was dangerous. After seeing the words on the walls, we complied without argument.

*     *     *

One spring day, on our Easter break, my cousin Amber, my sister, Arisa, and myself, named not for anyone on that side of the family (my brother, though, is the fourth Charles Wilson), ran excitedly to Glynnwood. The air felt crisp and alive, and bouncing around Glynnwood's corridors seemed the perfect outlet for our joy. 

We found our great-aunt Emma reposing in her room, jumped up and down on her bed, and were promptly told to jump up and down on a bed elsewhere. We then ran roughshod through a hallway, into the house's parlor, banged on the old piano there for a few minutes, then ran into the Green Room, where a hush fell upon us.

The Green Room is named thus, simply because the carpet and walls are green, though the ceiling is high enough that I've never turned my neck at an angle to see how it is painted. There's also a weathered wardrobe, which when opened, proves to hold one item, an elephant's tusk.

This particular morning, sunly fell dimly through the windows in great shafts of dust. I don't know why we suddenly quieted. We looked at the Green Room's bed, backed by its tall headboard, and fronted by its old, wooden prayer stool. The bed itself was immaculately made, exquisite quilting covered in a thin sheen of dust. After a moment, we looked at each other and broke out in contagious, hysterical laughter, at the absurdity of our sudden quiet. I must have been somewhere close to ten at the time, Amber a year behind me, and Arisa two years behind her. 

Amber and I were precocious children, the two smartest kids at our small, rural school, while Arisa was more quiet and reserved, except for in situations such as these. Due to our fathers' occupation, we seldom saw them in the daylight, and our mothers, on days like these, must have found some joy in the fact that their children could entertain themselves. After our fit of laughing, we wildly leapt onto the bed. 

I have found there are two methods of jumping on a bed--one can jump for height, or one can jump to stomp, and on this occasion, I chose to stomp. The nice, thick, flat bedspread felt great under my feet, and Amber and Arisa laughed and jumped around me through bright shafts of dust, overcome with wildness.

And then we heard it, a sound I'll never forget.

A deep groan, a deathly sucking in of breath. Suddenly, inexorably, the sheet starting moving beneath our feet. 

We lost our footing, and stumbled to the bed, the spread unfolding toward us, and rising from underneath....
A man, eyes wide in terror, wearing old night clothes, an old-fashioned, red-and-white-striped sleeping cap over his head. He inhaled loudly, the most ghastly, horrific noise, death, eyes impossibly huge, and as one, Amber, Arisa, and I screamed.

We stumbled over one another, trying to gain footing, but the sheet kept sliding from beneath our feet. Finally, miraculously, I ran without looking back, hearing Amber and Arisa's breath, and God-willing, only Amber and Arisa's breath beside me as we ran as fast as our legs could carry us. We ran all the way back to Aunt Emma's room, where she sat in an old rocking chair, working something between her fingers.

"We're sorry! We're sorry!" we breathlessly exclaimed.

She looked at us with surprise for a moment, hands frozen, then said, "Why, children, sorry for what? I don't mind you playing."

"The man!" we said in unison. "The man in the bed. We woke up the man in the Green Room!"

"What?" Her wrinkles deepened. "There's no one here but me."

I've never felt a chill run through my body like that. All of the fine hairs on my back stood on end. I felt as if someone were slowly, almost imperceptibly pulling my backward.

Amber and Arisa looked at each other, waiting for me to speak.

"...But Aunt Emma. There was a man sleeping in the Green Room. We jumped on the bed and woke him up. We scared him. We're sorry."

"I'm telling you children, there's no one here but us."

I ran my fingers through my hair, young mind working overtime.

"But...Aunt Emma," Amber said, "there was a man. We saw him."

"My Nicholas, if there is a man in that room, I beg you find him and bring him here. No one but me has stayed at this house for months, and especially not in that room."

We looked at each other in confusion, until finally, I said. "Uh...okay, Aunt Emma. Sorry we were so loud..."

"That's okay, she said. "But you shouldn't make up stories." He fingers began to work again.

The three of us slowly walked out of the room into the hall.

The house suddenly felt cold and constricting, where before it had always felt warm and inviting. Amber and Arisa both knew what I was going to say, and seemed to be willing me not to.

"We have to go back in there," I said.

"No!" Arisa said. "That man is in there! What if he hurts us?"

Amber shook her head no.

"We have to go back in there," I said.

The three of us crept reluctantly down the hall, to the old foyer, me a few feet in front. We didn't dare strike the piano's keys this time.

"Let's go back to Aunt Emma's room," Amber said.

"I want to go home," Arisa said, tears welling.

"Look," I whispered. "I'll go in. Let's tiptoe. You two just stay in the doorway."

They agreed.

We slowly crept forward, Amber and Arisa stopping a few feet before the door. Once the floor changed from the hardwood of the foyer, to lush, green carpet, I quietly crouched to my knees, and army crawled forward. I moved so slowly, so tensely, ready to jump and run at any sign of trouble. Bright shafts of dust struck diagonal paths throughout the room, and I avoided them like ancient spears. Finally, after what seemed hours, I reached the old, wooden prayer stool. I slowly, quietly brought my knees upon it, and for a brief moment, silently used it for its intended purpose. Then I slowly brought my head up, over the front of the bed.

The sheets were immaculately made, and covered in a thin sheen of dust.

*     *     *

Our parents laughed, didn't believe us...except perhaps for my father, who also insists that as a kid, he lived near an old man who could pray over a child's cuts and warts, and make them heal immediately. "My old uncle Charlie died in that bed when I was just a little boy," he said, staring off into the distance.

My old Aunt Emma held firm that no one had been in the house that day but herself, and the three children. When I talked to younger family members on her side, those who own the house now, they insisted no one was staying with my Aunt during that time. For those who wish to imply that my geriatric aunt had a gentleman caller, which she would have tried to hide, I posit:

A. Why wasn't he hiding in her bed?

B. Why would Aunt Emma be fine with us running roughshod around the house if there was someone there she did not wish us to find.

C. Why were the sheets perfectly made and covered in undisturbed dust both before we encountered the spectral figure and only moments after.

D. Why was there no noise of someone leaving in a house where one can hear a mouse snoring in the attic from a room downstairs? And why was there no car but hers in the driveway when we arrived and left?

It is inarguable that the three of us saw the man. It is also a fact that my Aunt was not aware of another soul being in the house at that time. It is sure that no one exited or moved around the house while we were there. It is certain that something that looked like an old, sickly, waking, perhaps dying man was in that bed. Then something that looked like an old, sickly, waking, perhaps dying man was not in that bed.

My Aunt Emma died in 1995. Since then, Glynnwood has had no permanent resident...

*     *     *

As my 40th birthday approaches in a mere span of months, I can reflect on the times I've doubted the existence of the supernatural, disbelieved that a benevolent God could exist in such a cold, chaotic universe that seems antithetical to existence itself. I can always come back to belief when I recall the horrific visage of that old man in the Green Room. 

I've told this story at times throughout my life to people who have doubted it. "No way," they say. "You must have imagined it." "All three of us imagined it?" I ask. "Well, no, but I mean, maybe you just thought that you saw it." "Okay, I say. Talk to my sister. Talk to my cousin. Ask them what he wore on his head."

When they do, the answer is always the same.