He might start his writing career simply by doing an article now and then, perhaps a story about Cedarhurst. This was a delightful place, and such a story would give other Philadelphians an opportunity to experience vicariously a taste of what the Old South had really been like. He was sure that he could convey its gracious ambience in a manner that would arouse his friends’ envy.
Stephen’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of distant thunder. The sheer white curtains at the open windows rippled as wind rushed through the trees. A summer shower was on the way, and that would cool things off nicely for tomorrow’s activities with the other guests. Stephen fell asleep contentedly.
When he awoke, it was to the sight of one brilliant flash of lightning after another. Each sharp, explosive clap of accompanying thunder was followed by a succession of gradually receding rumbles. Stephen had been responsible for supplies at an ordnance department during World War II, and he recalled some explosives going off like that. The lightning and thunder continued, sounding uncomfortably close.
In his childhood, when he would visit his great-aunt and there was an electrical storm, the white-haired old lady and the little boy would retreat to her big bed for safety. Piling feather pillows all around them, she would hug him and reassure him that the pillows would keep the lightning from striking. The curtains at Cedarhurst were now standing almost straight out, and gusts of rain had begun to pour through the windows onto the beautiful, wide-plank floors. Stephen thought of closing the curtains, but at that moment there came a crash of thunder so loud and so close that he felt it must surely have split the house asunder.
Sitting bolt upright in the big four-poster bed, he felt like dashing out into the hall to get away from the lightning. Instead, he closed his eyes and braced himself for the next detonation, but it did not come. It was passing over, he thought, and he opened his eyes.
Then he closed them tight, and next he blinked, but it did no good—for a girl in a long white dress was standing near the windows.
He buried his face in his pillow, and when he finally dared look again, the girl was gone. With a deep sigh of relief, Stephen pressed his arms close to his chest, hugged himself to keep from shaking, and started to lie down.
“Help me. Please, help me,” came a feminine voice, and there she stood again, this time right beside his bed. Tall, with long, dark hair, she was very lovely, but Stephen was too shocked to appreciate her beauty.
“What kind of help?”
“This terrible wind has blown my tombstone over.”
He was unable to reply.
“You aren’t very gentlemanly.”
“I’m sorry.” He apologized, dimly aware that the wind had begun to blow again.
“You must come to the cemetery with me and set it up again.”
Now Stephen knew what had happened. He had been struck by lightning and was dead. He was just as dead as the girl who was standing there speaking to him. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone. At that point he felt as if he were on a cloud drifting up in the air and through the sky—he didn’t know where, and he didn’t care.
The next morning was a glorious, sun-drenched day. Breakfast was served out on the side porch. It was nine o’clock, and everyone was there—with the exception of one guest, Stephen Scott.
“Shall we wait, or shall we eat without the sleepy sluggard?” joked one of the men.
“Let him sleep on. He was too popular with the ladies, anyway,” laughed another.
“I think I’ll go knock on Stephen’s door,” said their host.
At that moment the screen door to the porch opened, and everyone turned to look. It was Stephen, but his appearance was quite different from the night before. He was pale, and his hair and clothing were disheveled. Jokes about his late arrival evoked no answering smile.
“Did you rest well, Steve?” inquired his host.
“The storm woke me up.”
“Quite something, wasn’t it?”
“Ghastly, I’d say.” Leaving his breakfast almost untouched, Stephen wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose from the table.
“Where are you off to, my friend?” asked his host.
“I want to walk out to the cemetery.”
“At this time of morning? We were out there most of the afternoon yesterday, but if you want to go, I’ll walk with you.”
When they reached the cemetery, Stephen went directly to one grave. There, flat on the ground, lay the toppled tombstone of Miss Sally Carter, the sixteen-year-old sister of Mrs. Ewing. Miss Carter had died in 1837. He was certain now that it was Sally he had seen in his room.
Stephen’s face grew pale. Pleading the sudden onset of illness, he terminated his visit to Cedarhurst well before nightfall.
It was odd, thought his host, that a man could be so shaken simply by a toppled stone on “Miss Sally’s” grave.
In the early 1980s Cedarhurst, the historic Stephen Ewing house, and the land around it were sold. A developer has built private homes and town houses in the immediate vicinity. The restored house sits at 2809 Whitesburg Drive in Huntsville, Alabama, and its interior remains much the same. The cemetery was moved in 1983 to an undisclosed location. We wonder whether the move was as unsettling to Miss Sally Carter as was a fallen tombstone. Will she appear some night to another guest at Cedarhurst and tell him she needs his help?
THE GHOSTLY GREETER
LUCAS TAVERN, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA
Old North Hull Street Historic District in Montgomery, Alabama, has a haunted house for a welcome center. How appropriate that it is the home of a ghost said to be unusually cordial.
The most frequent accounts of seeing this ghost—the friendly Eliza Lucas—come from people who pass the house at night and see a woman, dressed in the style
