I have always been a fan of ghost stories. They intrigue me. And, living in the bayous of Louisiana, I hear a lot of them. But nothing could prepare me for the day that I actually stepped into one.
At the ripe young age of twelve, I had a steady job as a paper boy. My route was a pleasant one, servicing many of the century-old plantation houses. That fateful day started no differently. It was just nearing sunrise and the humidity was high as always, causing me to run out of breath as I rode my bike past a plot of dense woods that separated two of the estates. I stopped in the middle of that familiar path to take a drink. It was the sort of thoroughfare that at one time might have been a major travel-way, but years of neglect had caused the surface to crack and become covered with foliage.
As I took a sip from my water bottle, I noticed something I never had before. Hidden by grass and leaves was a small pathway jetting from the main road. Old willow trees prevented seeing where the path led, but I was one for adventure.
I carefully laid my bike down on the side of the road and took my first step onto that hidden path. As I walked past those old trees and stepped over the weeds, something massive began to loom ahead of me. And, with one finally step past a dead oak tree, I saw it in its entirety.
Standing in front of me was the fabled Gracey estate. This mansion was the setting for many of the ghost stories told in the bayous. And it looked exactly as it was described in the stories. Surrounding the property was a rusted-out iron fence with several brick columns for support. The yard was magnificently overgrown, with weeds just barely hiding what used to be the property's pet cemetery.
I walked through the main gate to get a better view. The mansion itself was erected in typical antebellum fashion. Its walls were constructed of white clapboard that was now in dire need of a paint job. Four beautiful white columns came down the front of the building, creating a patio in front of the large doors. The various windows of the house were darkened, their shutters ajar and hanging off at odd angles.
As I was admiring the fine detail of the cupola atop the house, the front doors of the manor creaked open. I stepped onto the patio to take a peek inside. The beautiful candle chandelier was lit with gloomy, flickering flames. Off in the distance, a funeral dirge was being played on an organ. The sound was mesmerizing and caused me to lose all rational thought that should've told me to run. Instead, I stepped inside. Behind me, I heard the doors creak closed, but I didn't care; I was hypnotized by that music. The last thing I remember was an invisible presence greeting me in a low, gloomy voice.
"Welcome, foolish mortal."
To this day, I am not sure what happened to me after that unseen force spoke to me. Much later that day, I woke up, lying against the bike I had abandoned by that main road. For a minute, I laughed it off, thinking that I must've fallen asleep and was dreaming. But I know now that that wasn't the case. As I got on my bike to peddle home, I spotted that overgrown path which had led me to the mansion. I smiled to myself before riding off, knowing that I had just been part of a ghost story.