“I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps that Henri would come back, but he did not. I sat right where we are now.”
“And what happened?”
“I thought I heard a noise coming from the well.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran. That’s what I did.”
Onita looked at him accusingly. “And later you began to think that Jean-Claude might have killed him and put his body in the well. Is that right?”
“Yes. I thought of that and also that he might not have been dead. Perhaps I could have saved his life.”
They both fell silent. It was almost midnight, time to take Onita back to the village, thought Jacques.
“Hush! Do you hear something?” Onita whispered.
“Yes. Like something scraping against stone?”
“Do you know where it is coming from?”
“My God! Do you mean the well?”
“Yes.”
The clock struck midnight.
And then, as the pair watched horror-stricken, the fingers of a blood-stained hand crept very slowly over the side of the well. A second hand scrabbled over the rim. Now the forearms of a man emerged, dressed in a soldier’s uniform. The arms appeared to pull mightily, and as they did, the shoulders and upper portion of a man’s body rose out of the well. Where the neck and head should have been, though, there was nothing at all, only a bloody stump.
Jacques and Onita fled, terrified. There was no doubt in their minds that Jean-Claude had murdered Henri and dropped his headless body into the well. Nor did Jacques keep what he had seen a secret. The well was explored, the body of the dead man was found, and Jean-Claude was hanged.
But those who have been there when the full moon is high over the Castle say that, exactly at midnight, the ghost of the headless Frenchman begins to claw its way slowly but surely out of the well. After resting from its efforts, the ghost of Henri Le Clerc rises, dripping, and moves slowly and awkwardly through the dark halls of the Castle in search of its long-lost head.
Old Fort Niagara is a State Historic Site opened by the Old Fort Niagara Association, Inc., in cooperation with the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation, and Historic Preservation. The address is Old Fort Niagara, Fort Niagara State Park, Youngstown, New York 14174; visit www.oldfortniagara.org/ or call (716) 745-7611 for more information. Tours and events are conducted throughout the year.
THE DREADED MEETING
WHITE OAKS, CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA
White Oaks, a historic Charlotte house where a promise resulted in a startling, macabre experience.
It is hard to live for a quarter of a century in a city the size of Charlotte, North Carolina, and not hear some fascinating ghost stories. But when that city is home, you know its family connections, and you are aware that others do, too. Will they recognize someone or even themselves, and how much embarrassment will a story cause?
Keeping to the facts, but with some disguising of names, we will take that risk and relate a story for those interested in the supernatural. Since I was a confidante of the woman in this story, I was able to keep up with the events. She was a writer, and her occupation caused her to meet many well-to-do Charlotteans—but it would be far better if I were to let the young woman, whom we will call Karen, tell the experience in her own words.
I had an assignment to do a story on an historic house called White Oaks. My interview was set for late in the afternoon, and the hostess had told me that there would be a party going on for a performing-arts group.
“Your presence won’t be any inconvenience at all, Karen. In fact, why not plan to just be one of my guests and enjoy yourself,” she suggested graciously.
When a story subject had to cancel, I decided to go home early and change from a tailored suit into a new red cocktail dress that was infinitely more flattering. I remember thinking how foolish it was, but something overruled my usual practicality, and as I drove down Providence Road in all my finery, I was excited about the evening ahead.
When I first saw the colonial mansion, I thought that Scarlett O’Hara would certainly have felt at home here. Once owned by the late James Buchanan Duke, this stately sixty-five-year-old house in the heart of Charlotte’s Eastover section stands almost as tall as the branches of the towering trees that surround it. White Oaks, as it is called, was part of that grand scale of living to which Duke, a tobacco king, was accustomed.
I knocked, thinking the butler would answer. The door opened almost immediately, and there stood not the butler, but the most handsome man I had ever seen. He had dark, curly hair with a distinguished hint of gray, expressive blue-green eyes, and a dazzling smile. In a charming and amusing fashion, he pretended to be the butler. We were both laughing as we walked together down the white-and-black-marble entrance hall. He introduced me to a group of other guests, who stood chatting and sampling hors d’oeuvres at one end of an elegant room the size of a ballroom.
My impromptu escort was obviously the center of the women’s attention, and he had no sooner introduced himself to me as Jon than two plump ladies came up and, with an arm through each of his, carried him off. He appeared to be drifting away on a pair of water wings and looked back as if reluctant to go.
“Oh, here you are,” said my hostess, appearing at my elbow. “Everyone seems to be entertaining themselves. This is a good time to take you on a tour of the house. It has changed considerably since Nanaline Duke lived here, but I doubt if she would mind the changes we’ve made.”
“Oh, did the Dukes live here long?” I asked.
“Only for about six years, and Nanaline far less than her husband or daughter. She made no bones about finding Charlotte dull, and when they visited here, she usually left before
