This is a ghost story. Nearly a year ago, Fred and I were planning a trip to St. Francisville, Louisiana, about 25 miles north of Baton Rouge, to an inn called Myrtle’s Plantation, which calls itself, “America’s most haunted hotel.” I’d gone so far as to book us two rooms, but when KM started telling me she didn’t want me returning home with an invisible entity attached to me, I backed out.
Then, last August, Fred’s fiancé, Robin, got in touch with me to see if I’d go down to Myrtle’s with Fred on a date near his birthday, which is Nov. 7. The fear of forever being haunted by a ghostly attachment having worn off, I agreed.
It was to be a surprise to Fred, and Robin and I were able to pull it off, with me telling him the plan at lunch, less than an hour before we were supposed to head south.
Fred drove, which was scarier than what awaited for us at Myrtle’s. I had scheduled us for the Ghost Tour at 8:00 and we arrived a little before 7:00, in time to check in and have dinner in the restaurant. My steak was good, bloodier than I normally like it, which put me in the right frame of mind. The lady working at the check-in desk took us up to our rooms. I was in the Ruffin Stirling room and Fred was across the hall in the John Leake room. After she opened the door to my room and I set down my bag, she said to me, “This is the only room here I wouldn’t spend the night in.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked her.
“Because strange things happen in here and this is the room where Katy died.”
I locked my door, to hopefully keep Katy, but more importantly, her killer, outside. We walked across the hall to the room Fred was staying in, where we found him checking for spirits in the large antique armoire. “No TV?” He asked our host. “No,” she said, “but the wifi works well.”
Fred locked his door and we headed down for the tour of the house. When we returned we found Fred’s door was unlocked and slightly ajar. “You watched me lock this, right?” He asked.
“I think so,” I told him. “Why don’t you go see who’s in there waiting on you.”
I walked over to my room and thankfully found it locked. But when I walked inside there was a strong, unpleasant smell that hadn’t been there earlier. Fred was behind me and smelled it too. It was now about 10:00 and I told Fred I was going to bed and he went back to his room. I had my iPad and was able to get a football game, which kept my mind off shadows in the corners. Around 11:30 the guy in the room next to me began a loud, terrible snore, but I found a fan app on my iPad which drowned him out. Then I fell asleep.
At 3:42, the sound of my phone buzzing woke me up. It was Fred calling.
“What?” I asked him.
“Oh my God! Have you not been hearing those noises out in the hall?”
“No, I was asleep.”
“And you won’t believe me but I swear to God someone pulled the covers off my bed! Twice!”
“Come on man,” I drowsily answered.
“Not only that, but I’m hearing very loud snoring coming from somewhere!”
“Why don’t you call and wake him up too,” I told him.
The next morning Fred was eager and ready to get out of there. When we got back home that evening he sent me a text of a photo of the back of his leg, where there were two large red scratches.
“How do you explain this?” He asked.
“Don’t know, guess you should have shared your covers.”