“I don’t think we should try to go down there. Do you still hear anything?” asked Bart. Marion shook her head, and he turned to go back.
Suddenly, her hand seized his arm. “Now! That’s the voice. Do you hear it?” Bart stepped over to the edge of the tunnel, and his face changed. “Who in the devil . . . that is one of the most evil voices I’ve ever heard, bar none.”
“He’s calling me!”
“Tell me what you hear.”
“He’s calling ‘M’Graw’ over and over. That was my maiden name! I must go down there!”
“He doesn’t mean you,” said Bart, grasping Marion’s arm. “See if you can make out any other words.”
“‘Darby . . . Darby M’Graw’ is what he is saying.” By this time they had been joined by Jack.
“What else do you hear?” persisted Bart.
“This is crazy! Let’s get her out of here,” interrupted Jack, seeing his wife’s terrified face.
“Wait a minute, Jack. Now, listen hard and tell me what else you hear, Marion.”
She stepped closer to the tunnel. “Just the jumble of voices. No. He’s shouting again!”
“And he’s saying . . . ?” prompted Bart.
“‘Fetch aft the rum, M’Graw. Fetch me the rum!’ That’s what he’s saying, but why my name?”
“It’s not you he’s calling. Let’s get her out of here, Jack.”
“What in Hades was all that about, Bart?”
“Yes, what was it about?” echoed Marion weakly.
“Marion, tell me something,” said Bart. “Do you have unusually sensitive hearing? Do noises bother you that don’t bother most people?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t explain what happened back there, but perhaps we can put some of it together.” Bart spoke quietly, his voice subdued. “There are many stories about the Pirate’s House, but probably the best-authenticated one is that the infamous Captain Flint died there and that his ghost still haunts the rooms of the old building. It’s not surprising that his ghost can’t rest, for Robert Louis Stevenson wrote that, in sheer wickedness, ‘Blackbeard was a child compared to Flint!’
“And Stevenson was right,” Bart continued. “Some say that Flint was a fictitious pirate, but I think he was real! On the night he died, he was delirious, and he shouted again and again to his shipmate, ‘Fetch me some rum.’ The name of that shipmate was Darby McGraw!”
“But it seemed to come from the passageway,” said Marion, puzzled.
“You heard it when we were sitting at the table, too, didn’t you?”
“That’s true, I did.”
“Have you had experiences like this before, hearing sounds that other people can’t?” asked Bart.
“Yes.”
“My father was like that, and I share it, but to a much lesser degree. Haven’t you seen a flock of blackbirds covering an entire treetop, the tops of several trees, all singing? Suddenly, at exactly the same moment, there’s a fluttering of wings and they all soar into the air at once. Above the racket, there must have been some signal, and they all heard it.”
“Of course, I’ve seen that.”
“I’m a seaman, and I know that a school of whales playing on the surface of the water, with the curve of the earth between them, will sometimes dive simultaneously. The signal has sounded, but it is too deep for us on deck to hear, although we may feel the vibrations.”
“And that is what you think about the voice in the Pirate’s House?”
“I only know that there are sounds that most human beings can’t hear. The pitch is too high or too low, or, perhaps, too far away in time.” Bart reached for his watch and then rose. “I’ve enjoyed my supper, but now I must go.”
“I wonder if there are things that human beings can’t see, too?” said Marion.
But Bart was gone.
The Pirate’s House, now a famous restaurant, is located at 20 East Broad at Bay Street in Savannah, Georgia. It is surrounded by a ten-acre historic area. The Herb House, said to be the oldest building in Georgia, is part of the complex. For reservations, visit thepirateshouse.com or call (912) 233-5757.
THE HOUSE OF SPIRITS
THE MYRTLES, ST. FRANCISVILLE, LOUISIANA
Each room at The Myrtles has its own resident ghost.
St. Francisville, Louisiana, is a charming old town some seventy miles north of New Orleans. It is built on a narrow ridge and said to be “two miles long and two yards wide.” There are many beautiful plantation homes there, but the only one with eerie happenings that have reverberated throughout America is The Myrtles.
The Myrtles has been featured in Life magazine, Southern Living, The Wall Street Journal, USA Today, Family Circle, and many other publications. Many television networks have also done features on this house. The Myrtles is also, according to the U.S. Tourist Bureau, one of the authenticated haunted houses of America, and it has sometimes been called America’s most haunted house.
The Myrtles contains some of the most interesting architecture in the South. The outside of the home, built by General David Bradford in 1796, has lacy, ornamental ironwork; inside, the large rooms, with their high ceilings, are graced by outstanding plaster friezes. The Myrtles is surrounded by immense oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, and beneath their shade, the house appears to be in perpetual twilight. “Unlike other houses, to me, The Myrtles is an entity,” said one of its former owners, Frances Kermeen.
How did a vivacious blonde from the West Coast with hazel eyes, an attractive smile, and the voice of an engaging teenager become the owner of a house like this? And what eerie experiences has she encountered? Ms. Kermeen shared her story.
While I was on a cruise to Jamaica and Haiti and then on to Acapulco, I became friendly with a couple who talked me into skipping Acapulco and coming back to Louisiana with them. Because this is such a lovely place and, really, just for fun, I decided to look at real estate. The day I was looking was the day that the listing on The Myrtles came into the office.
I later found out that a couple who lived directly behind my parents’ house in San Jose had gone on
