State: Mississippi
Date: October 12th, 2012
At 3:12am, Steve reluctantly followed his whimpering dog into the hot and humid night air. Such weather was not uncommon for Mississippi in the summer. The magnolia-blossomed trees and indigo bushes loved it, Steve, on the other hand, just wanted to be back in bed. He lost his job, and his girlfriend five days earlier, and was feeling very sorry for himself. He walked down the street like a slow zombie, stopping every five paces to accommodate his curious dog.
So it went, until a cool wind hit his face, offering a deep life-giving breath. The howl brought him comfort, as well. As if nature called out in response to his sorrows. Then he could have sworn he heard something more…actual weeping…. a young woman’s voice.
"Sampson," the voice whispered, "Sampson." One would have thought the wind would drown out the voice, but as one grew louder so did the other.
“It can’t be a trick of the wind,” Steve thought, because his dog perked up his ears—he heard it, too.
“Sampson. Sampson.” The calls became more urgent.
Steve headed towards the voice, following his dog across neighbors’ yards, until a pitch-dark field lay before them. In the distance, Steve saw a lone light flickering.
“Someone must be exploring Lebeau-Blanc Manor,” he thought. This was not uncommon. The whole town grew up hearing of how the Lebeau and Blanc families united to establish the largest plantation in the state. The manor was “a colonnaded testament to their glory,” and a “remnant of simpler times.” Despite its history, local high schoolers claimed the manor before the preservation society. Steve attended parties there as a teenager, and marveled at the Georgian walls lined with bright graffiti, and dark ash from several small fires.
Steve often imagined what the house must have been like in its prime. He could almost picture the lavish parties with beautiful women in hooped dresses. They smelled like flowers, and played the piano, and had manners sweeter than a mint julep on a Sunday afternoon. Steve’s ex- girlfriend was neither sweet nor talented.
If a party was what Steve had heard, then he had no intention of busting it up. He was about to turn around, when he heard the woman’s voice again, mournfully singing:
A girl alone; a hollow home. / Sweet men have gone away. / They had no time to stop, or stay. / Her man has gone away. / When dreams are fading ever swift, / With love turned a rusty red, / Those who shared their little hearts / Must surely be dead.
There was no mistaking this for a party. Steve and his dog ran to the house—it seemed to take forever—and up several steps to the wrap-around porch. Together, they pushed the front door open.
"Hello!" Steve called out, his voice echoing. No one answered. “Hello,” he called again. He perked his ears, but there was no response. Then he heard a creak to his right. He turned quickly to find a young woman standing on the formerly grand staircase. She wore a white bustled gown. Moonlight shone in through missing patches of the roof, and reflected off her pale skin.
“That must be why she glows,” Steve thought.
"Sampson?" she asked, still sounding far away.
"No. It’s Steve. What are you doing here? Are you alright?" he asked.
"I will be when Sampson gets here," said the woman, "He’s terribly late."
"Were you the one singing the sad melody before?” Steve asked, trying to determine her mood.
"Oh, fiddlesticks," she said with a coy smile, “What cause would I have to be sad. It’s my wedding day.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, “I must have—“ but she cut him off.
"It’s not your fault. You're a stranger." She said, watching him curiously while descending the rest of the stairs. The new closeness allowed Steve to study the soft beauty of her face. Her lips and cheeks had the slightest blush of pink, but Steve wasn’t a fool. Pale woman, old house. He knew she might be a ghost. However, living or not, she was still a damsel, and she was still in distress.
“You look like him,” she said, gliding up to Steve, “A cousin perhaps? Not a Northerner, I hope? You seem surprised to see me. Aren’t I just like my picture? I’m sure he’s driven you mad with talk of his ‘sweet little Lizzie.’” She took Steve’s hands in her own. Her palms were freezing. Steve’s dog shivered, and hid behind him.
“Dear Cousin, please tell me you have brought word from my beloved?” Lizzie continued. Her coy smile turned to a desperate frown. Steve had no clue what to say, but he hated seeing her sad…
“He’s on his way,” Steve blurted out. Lizzie pulled him into a hug.
“Oh, bless you,” she said. “Now I’m crying. I must look a mess.” She stepped back, and wiped her eyes. “Never mind. You have come all this way, and I am being a terrible hostess. What would Sampson say?” From that point on, Lizzie was the most gracious of hostesses. She led Steve on a tour of the house. Mostly pointing out objects and portraits that were no longer in place. Over the mantelpiece, where “a portrait of Martha Lebeau” once must have hung, was now merely a spray-painted heart with the words, “LC + MR.” The last stop on the tour was the ballroom, which, even with its large windows now broken, proclaimed the beauty that once was.
Steve found himself getting angry at a world that could destroy such a place. From above, he thought he heard the notes of a piano, but before he could inquire as to the player, Lizzie took him in her arms, and danced him about the room. He was under her spell. No longer did he hear the creaking planks, or the pigeons in the rafters, or the shrieking barks of his dog. He was lost in her eyes--in the way it felt to be needed. She no longer felt cold.
Then the sun rose, and the music faded.
“It appears you must be going,” Lizzie said, “I hope you will come back tomorrow night.” Steve assured her he would, and the next day, he could think of little else.
At exactly 3:12 he awoke, and, leaving his dog behind this time, headed back to Lebeau-Blanc Manor. The air was just as humid as the night before only it didn’t bother him this time. Once again, he walked up the houses illustrious steps, but this time he knocked before entering. He waited a bit, hearing nothing inside. Then, the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged woman. Where once her skin must have been black, it had turned a sad grey. She wore a long skirt and apron with her hair tucked back in a scarf.
“Come in Sir. The Missus will be down shortly,” she said. Steve was surprised. He wasn’t expecting someone new to answer the door. Who was she? Had she been there the night before? Had she played the piano? Were there others? Steve had so many questions, but the house was too quiet for just one person to be talking. So, he followed the woman silently into the drawing room.
“Would you like anything?” the woman asked.
“Like what?” Steve thought. “They couldn’t possibly have running water, let alone soda.”
“No thanks,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Cisley,” the woman said, “Let me know if you’ll be needing anything.” She nodded her head and left Steve to explore the room on his own. There was a solarium in the back filled with untamed plants, watered no-doubt through the missing glass slates of the roof. Steve didn’t sense Lizzie until she was right behind him, taking his arm. He shivered, and turned slowly towards her. There were tears in her eyes.
“Sampson. I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.
“I’m not Sampson,” Steve said. “Remember. I’m his cousin.”
“Oh, of course. Any relation of Sampson’s is one of mine,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?” She pointed to a half-filled, moldy beanbag chair resting beside a low coffee table.
“Don’t you remember me,” he said. “We met last night.”
“Fiddlesticks,” she said. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
“I’m not the groom,” Steve repeated.
“I know,” she said, heartbroken. She turned her face away to hide her sobs. “He’s never coming back.”
“Don’t cry,” Steve said, taking her in his arms. He wanted to dance with her like last time. But the music didn’t play.
“You have me,” he said, “and Cisley.”
“Cisley is a very helpful sort of person,” Lizzie whispered, “but she’s not like us.”
“How do you mean?” Steve said, but he feared he already knew the answer. The thought came to him when Cisley opened the door, but he pushed it back, begging it not to be true. Was it possible that the laws of a time long past could apply in death? Could Cisley still be tied to the family? The thought made Steve sick.
“I should go,” he said.
“You can’t leave now, silly.” Lizzie said, “Cisley’s bringing tea,” At that moment, as if on cue, the door creaked open and Cisley stepped in carrying a grill top with two red plastic cups.
“Here’s your tea, Miss,” Cisley said.
“Bring it here,” Lizzie said, waving her hand at the coffee table. “What took you so long? Our guest was readying to leave.” Cisley set the tray down as gentle as possible, but the tiniest clatter was heard, and sent Lizzie back into sobs. Cisley, acting quickly, attempted to give Lizzie a hug. Lizzie pulled back, appalled.
“How dare you pity me,” she said, “Pour the tea, and leave us.” In that moment, any sympathy Steve felt for Lizzie disappeared. He couldn’t believe the scowling, nasty, look that had taken over her once-gentle face, like the graffiti on the walls.
“I really have to go!” Steve said, trying to find an excuse. “I have a…wedding present to buy.”
“Of course,” Lizzie said, smiling again. She escorted him out of the room, “I’ll accept anything but a cake tin. I’ve received five by post already.” When they reached the front door, Steve noticed that Lizzie stopped abruptly, as if she could go no further. Whether it was her delusions, or the laws of the dead, that kept Lizzie prisoner, Steve’s gut told him that to free Cisley, he must free Lizzie first.
* * *
The next day, Steve drove to the town’s archives office, and asked to see all records on the Lebeau-Blanc family. This request thrilled the librarian far more than he anticipated.
“We have almost too much information on that family,” she said, pulling down boxes from high shelves.
In a book marked “Family tree”, Steve found the name, “Elizabeth Lebeau-Blanc (1844-1862).” Also amongst the pages were scattered photographs. Steve flipped through them until he recognized Lizzie’s face. She wore the same gown, and was captured in an instant of laughter. The young man beside her; however, looked stern and proud in his Confederate enlisters uniform.
“That must be Sampson,” Steve thought, “but if Lizzie thinks we look alike, then she’ll believe anything.” This gave Steve an idea. He immediately set out to find a costume store.
By nightfall, Steve looked just like a Confederate general. He wasn’t usually one for performances, but this was a matter of afterlife and death. He marched over to Lebeau-Blanc Manor and positioned himself on the front lawn. There, spotlighted by the moon, he sang a newly written verse to Lizzie’s hypnotic song:
On the hunt; returned from the front. / Oh, where is my sweet love? / With hair of gold, our hearts are wove. / A pretty, winsome dove. / Spring bells will ring, and rice be thrown, / When our sweet vows are said, / My love for you, like spangled flags, / Goes on after we’re dead.
No sooner had he uttered the last syllable than the front door swung open.
“Sampson?!” Lizzie said, “My darling, is it really you? And they made you a General?”
“Do I not get a hug?” Steve asked. Lizzie looked down at the porch, then back at him.
“Come here,” Steve beckoned, “Let me hold you. I’ve missed you incredibly.” Lizzie still didn’t move. Steve continued, “Did you receive all my letters?”
“What letters?” Lizzie asked, in her excitement, she forgot herself, and took two steps out on to the porch.
“I wrote to you every single day. There were sonnets, and odes, and dried flowers.” Steve said. Lizzie moved almost to the porch’s edge.
“Oh, how I would have loved them,” Lizzie said, “It’s so unlike you.”
“I’m a changed man, Lizzie. Now come here, and make me the happiest man.” This time Lizzie didn’t hold back. She ran from the porch to receive her love’s embrace, but before she could reach her goal, a light opened in the sky. Steve looked on in amazement, as it carried her up like a dandelion seed.
“Closure is a beautiful thing,” he thought, but then he grew scared. “Where’s Cisley? This is her light, too!”
“Cisley! Cisley! You’re free.” he called, and moments later she appeared out of the darkness.
“It was a nice thing you did for her.” Cisley said, “but that’s not my light.”
“What do you mean?” Steve said.
“Miss Lizzie wasn’t my reason for staying. I don’t reside in this house. I walk the land a mile off where my quarters used to stand. I visited here merely out of kindness.”
“But she was awful to you,” Steve said.
“At times.” Cisley said, “but I practically raised Miss Lizzie, and it wasn’t right what that Mr. Sampson did to her. Whether she was willing to admit it or not--after all these years--she was as much mine as I was hers.” Steve was relieved to hear that his horrible notion had been wrong, but he was confused as to her staying, and the light was fading fast.
“Why are you here?” Steve asked.
“Love,” she said, “It’s the only thing that truly binds one person to another. My family was torn apart by civilized people. I will have no rest until I know what became of them.”
Steve was at a loss. He thought the task of finding her relatives would prove impossible. Where would one begin? But then he recalled the mountains of paper in the town archives. There was more than a little chance he could find a registry of the plantations holdings, and from there, who knew what else.
So, on that night, with the glint of hope in his eyes, and the moon as witness, a Confederate soldier promised freedom to a slave.
The End
Story by Alex Schattner