Out of the Delta and closer to our intended destination, we stopped at the Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville, Louisiana. I had given up plantation visits after a trip a couple years ago to South Carolina, but I put that prejudice aside so that I could stay in a real, honest to goodness haunted house. I had the idea that if there was a ghost there, I would know. You see, I've met with a ghost or two in my lifetime. One came into my body while sleeping in a hotel in Oxford, England. I was sound asleep, felt it come in, sat bolt uprught snd said, 'did it come in through the window?' My mom, who I was also traveling with at the time, told me to go back to sleep. I'll never forget that feeling. The second truest sense of something paranormal was when a good friend died, and I found that he stood in the corner of my bedroom for a good many night until he determined that I was going to be okay. Ah, you may think that I am nuts, which I may be. And I am susceptible.
Our tour guide for the main house was wonderful. She didn't only tell the story, she acted it out. The ghost in the house is that of Chloe, a former slave. She was the owner's concubine who, legend has it, liked to snoop. Her snooping cost her her ear, which the master cut off and a banishment to the kitchen. Trying to get back in the good graces of the family, she hatched a plan to poison the children's birthday cake so that when they fell ill, the children would call for her. Sadly, she didn't understand the potion that she concocted and it killed the two children and the master's wife. Her peers hung her and sunk her to the bottom of the Mississippi River. It is said that she and the chilfren are what haunt the old house. The docent had plenty of proof. But my dreams were not interrupted nor did my flesh goose.