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This ghost story originated as a writing prompt in a creative writing class where students came up with settings and then swapped them.  Shannon received “1940-45, Louisiana, an old cabin with broken down furniture.”  It’s not a very scary story.  It’s included here because he did a decent job with establishing the setting and mood.

“Hell’s bells! That damn Jew better not stand me up!”

Timothy Flanagan looked to his left where state route 54 ran past him in either direction. A lighted billboard in front of him read, “Welcome to Haverston, Birthplace of Colonel David Kenington!”

He turned and looked down route 54 the other direction, the way from which he had come. There was another sign, on the other side of the road. It was only a small road sign, but it attracted the young man so much more than the billboard. It simply read, “New Orleans 25 miles.”

Tim’s eyes rolled back in his head as he thought of New Orleans. The city offered booze, women, and live jazz, and that was just one club on Bourbon Street, one out of a dozen that waited on him to return to his hotel room and change out of his business clothes. Twenty five miles might as well have been a thousand.

Twilight rolled over the Mississippi Delta like a thick, wet, wool blanket. The cool respite brought by an evening thunderstorm passed with the sunset and left steaming pavement and sweltering humidity. A haze clung to the earth, not substantial enough to be called fog, but thick enough to obscure the burgeoning stars.

Tim sat on the hood of his Studebaker, fanning himself with his fedora. He had heard Louisiana was miserable in August, but it was so hot even the mosquitoes had lost their appetite. He looked at his watch for the fourth time in fifteen minutes, but the lethargic hands of the time piece refused to appease his frustration.

He turned his attention away from the watch and scrutinized the property. Directly in front of the car, a broken down single story farm house stared out at route 54. The house had been painted recently, most likely in preparation for his arrival, but the roof sagged, and he cringed as he imagined the water damage digesting the rafters. A roofed porch ran the length of the front of the house, with pine steps leading the way to the front door. Two dark windows glared at the road. Between them, the front door stood fast, locked with a heavy deadbolt. The screen door smacked against its frame in the light breeze that eddied about the house. Tim had listened to the door drum out its erratic, sullen beat for nearly an hour, and it was slowly driving him insane.

A big plantation house stood on the hill, surveying the entire estate like an aging queen on her battered throne. It was built in the fine old Southern style, with marble steps climbing up to a huge front porch. Colossal pillars lined the front of the house and provided support for the second floor patio and the roof above that. A heavy iron gate blocked the road to the grounds, and the Jew had made him promise to meet at the smaller farm house. Tim dared not walk to see the old gal up close, for fear of missing the Jew. Even in the fading light, he could tell that the she was in worse shape than the farm house. Her days of wild parties with gambling, drinking and music till dawn were long past.

Tim had expected worse from his correspondence with the Jew, but it was still disheartening to see the decay first hand. He figured it would cost into five digits to get the place back to its former glory, and he was unsure if it was worth the expense. He hoped to sign the papers and sell the place to some sap back in New York.

His musings were interrupted as a panel wagon roared up the road towards him. The heavy truck eased to a stop beside his Studebaker and shut off. A thin, bald, short man climbed out of the truck and approached Tim with a brisk walk. He was clean shaven and wore a stark white cotton shirt unbuttoned at the neck and tucked into a pair of light brown trousers. He carried a leather satchel case in his left hand. He extended his right hand. Tim took it with is own and gave it a hearty shake. Tim smiled.

The short man did not. He sat his satchel down on the ground and rummaged though it. Without looking up, he said, “I take it you are Mr. Flanagan? I am Ellis Greenburg. Please to finally meet you, sir.”

Tim stared at the man for a moment before he recovered himself with a laugh. “Greenburg? I figured you’d look-”

“I know, I know. Traditional Jewish? A beard? Funny hat? Long curls and side burns? This is the Delta, Mr. Flanagan. It’s too hot for that. Let’s just get to the matter at hand so we can both get out of this God-forsaken place and return to civilization.”

Tim nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me. You said in your last letter that the will specified that I had to sign over my grandfather’s land after dark, and I had to do it in person? Do you know why he wanted such a thing?”

Greenburg found the papers he sought and stood up. He shook his head. “I am sorry, Mr. Flanagan, but I did not know your grandfather personally. I only work for the firm that handled his final affairs. Even so, I imagine it is due to the hauntings.”

Tim waved his hand impatiently and smirked. “Yeah, I know the old ghost story. My dad must’ve told me about the haunted plantation a thousand times, but come on now. I’ve lived in New York City most of my life and I can tell you this world has enough monsters among real folks, without needing spooks from beyond. Stop wasting my time, Greenburg. It’s late, and I need a drink.”

Greenburg said flatly, “I already told you, Mr. Flanagan. This is the Delta. Things work differently here.”

As he said the words, the last rays of the sun slipped behind the horizon, and the house on the hill flared to life. Tim twirled around on his heel as the house lit up and music soared. His jaw dropped open, and he stared, struck dumb with wonder.

The plantation was illuminated like Times Square at Christmas. Light poured out of every window. The walls and pillars glowed pure white, and the overgrown shrubberies about the base of the house writhed and shriveled back into shapely, sculpted hedges. Silhouettes of people danced in their finery on the first floor, and still others twirled about on the upstairs patio. Men smoked and drank outside on the first floor porch. Some one inside pounded out a lively old tune on the piano while a number of people clamored in an attempt to sing along, wailing away as only drunks can sing. All along the front, drivers tended to their carriages and horses. Tim turned slowly to look at the old farmhouse. The roof no longer sagged. The porch was white washed instead of painted, and the front door stood open.

Greenburg motioned towards the open door. “It is time to see your new property, Mr. Flanagan.”

Tim shook his head. “I am not going in there. Not until morning.”

“Sir, the will is quite specific in this matter. If you do not enter the farmhouse, I cannot sign the property over to you. If you do not sign for it tonight, it becomes state property at midnight tonight, and you will also forfeit your claim to your grandfather’s very respectable bank accounts and offshore holdings. The entire package is contingent upon you going into that house and signing these papers. I assure you the farm house is quite safe.”

Tim looked back to the plantation. He motioned towards it with a jerk of his head. “What about up there, Greenburg? Is it ‘quite safe’ up there?”

Greenburg smiled a wicked grin and laughed. “Certainly it is, sir. During the day. If I were you, I wouldn’t let any force on earth keep me anywhere near that house at sunset. But we’re safe down here. Come now. Let’s go see the farmhouse so I can sign this over. If we hurry, I can still make it home to hear the President’s fireside chat.” Tim settled noticeably at the reference to the radio and real world affairs.

“I haven’t read a paper in days,” he said. “How goes the good fight?”

“They say we’re winning, but who really knows for sure? Shall we?” Greenburg gestured towards the house.

Tim glanced back at the lively plantation house, swallowed hard, and followed Greenburg up the steps.

They stepped through the threshold and seemed to jump back in time a hundred years. The packed dirt floor was hard as concrete. The walls of rough-hewn planks and naked rafters in the ceiling told a tale of simpler times, times of hard work and harder living. The place smelled of baking bread and tobacco smoke, and the over all down to earth feel of the place would have been comforting, except Tim could still hear the phantasmal party frolic along the hilltop outside.

The front room had no furniture in it, only the dirt floor and white washed walls. A room to the left contained the remnants of a feather mattress on the dry rotted bones of a homemade bed frame. A single wicker rocking chair occupied the room to the right. The room to his front turned out to be the kitchen. A deep tin basin stood on its base under a small window that had a view of the hill and the plantation house. A large, heavy table dominated the center of the room. It was made from the same rough planks as the rest of the house. A single wicker chair rested at the head of the table, facing towards the window. A beeswax candle resided in the center of the table, sitting in a crude clay candleholder. Its dim flame burned steadily.

Greenburg laid his papers on the table and handed Tim a pen. “If you’ll just sign every line that is marked with an ‘X’, we can finish our business and be on our way, Mr. Flanagan.”

Tim made no move to take the pen. “I’m not signing anything until you explain to me what the hell is happening! What is going on up there?” He stabbed a finger towards the kitchen window. “And what,” he continued, “Does this farm house have to do with anything? Dad never mentioned it.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.

Greenburg sighed and put down his pen. “Well, you obviously have never been told the real story about this place, Mr. Flanagan. I will tell you the highlights of it, if it will soften your resolve.

“A hundred and forty years ago, this place was a thriving rice plantation, owned by your great, great, great grandfather James Flanagan. Like all of the plantations up and down the Delta, it existed solely through the use of slave labor. Your grandfather James was legendary for two things: his love of a good party and his cruel hatred for his slaves.

“August of 1806 was a particularly hot and humid month. The rice market faltered and tempers throughout the county soared with the heat wave. One blistering afternoon, your grandfather caught one of the young black men looking at his daughter. He confronted the boy, who swore he had not been looking at the white girl, that he would never even dream of looking at her. James took it to mean that the boy thought his daughter was unattractive. Enraged, he beat the man nearly to death and finished his assault by castrating him. They took the young fellow to the slave woman who raised him. She laid him out on that same table there, in this very room, and sat up with him all night long. He died just as the sun rose the next morning.

That day, the woman slipped away to see her mother, a powerful old hag among her people, with strong ties to the dark ways.”

Tim interrupted with a wave of his hand. “What do you mean, ‘dark ways’? Witchcraft?”

Greenburg chuckled softly. “Oh no, Mr. Flanagan. It begins with a ‘V’ and rhymes with ‘hoodoo’.”

Tim’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “you mean Voo–“

Greenburg clamped his hand across Tim’s mouth. For the first time that evening, the Jew looked truly annoyed. He looked Tim in the eyes and quietly hissed, “Don’t even say the word, you fool. Especially not here.”

He took his hand away from Tim’s mouth and stepped back, regaining his composure. Tim had more trouble recovering from his indignant surprise. Greenburg looked at him apologetically. “I am sorry for that, Mr. Flanagan, but certain forces should not be teased or provoked.”

Tim rubbed his face with his hands and struggled to comprehend. He shrugged and finally grinned. “Don’t worry about it, Greenburg. Just tell me the rest of it.”

“Where was I? Oh, that’s right. The grieving slave went to her mother, who had already heard what had happened, and already knew what her daughter wanted. She had the brew waiting when her daughter arrived. It is said that neither spoke. Her daughter took the potion and left without a word.

“James threw his biggest party of the year that night. The woman knew all of the house slaves, and she managed to get her potion into the huge bowl of punch before the party started. She lit a candle at sunset in memory of her son. Then she sat in that chair there and watched the house all night through that window.

“Just before sun rise, the potion took effect, and madness erupted in anyone who had tasted the punch. They tore the house apart from the inside out, and then slaughtered each other in a terrible frenzy. Those who had left early also went crazy, and were hunted down and put in asylums, where they all died shortly after. Your great, great grandfather William had been in Europe on business. When he returned a few weeks later, his father’s house was deserted. No one had dared to even try to clean the place up. His slaves were scattered, and the family business was ruined. He straightened the place, leased it to northern investors, and moved north himself, with the hopes of starting over.

“The plantation never made any money, because on this night, every year since, the entire horrific tragedy is re-enacted. Anyone who is in that house at sunset becomes engrossed in the party and part of the massacre. No one that has ever gone in there on this night has ever been seen again. Just before sunset, that candle lights of its own accord, and then the party starts on the hill. Just before sunrise, the joyful sounds of the party will turn to bone chilling screams, and inhuman sounds will tear through the night. The last screech will fade with the new day, and the candle will go out as the first rays of sun hit the plantation house. That is the curse of this place, and the true legacy of your bloodline.”

A thick silence settled between the two men, fractured with laughter and music that drifted down off of the hill. Tim walked to the window and watched for a moment. He returned to the table and signed the papers. Greenburg placed them in his satchel and regarded the Yankee. “Can I expect you at the bank tomorrow morning, Mr. Flanagan?”

Tim only nodded his head and extended his hand. Greenburg shook it, and left without another word, leaving the northerner alone in the house. Tim sighed as he thought of New Orleans and Bourbon Street. He knew they would have to wait until tomorrow. He shook his head in disbelief at his own actions and sat down in the wicker chair. He fixed his gaze on his old plantation house in the window, and waited for sunrise.

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