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.
* * *
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.
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.
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?
E. Aunt Emma was very, very old, and as I've mentioned, the house is in a very, very rural area.
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."
Comments
Might those painted words in the attic be a reference to Aldous Huxley's essay "Heaven and Hell"?
I remember reading in a book once about how postmodernism perhaps has the ability to make some Westerners question their materialism in light of the belief in spirits that is a part of many other cultures across the globe. Makes you think...