GHOST OF WAR
by Cynthia Falconer in Fate magazine
On a hot summer day in the middle of August, my husband, some in-laws, and I were traveling the back roads on the way home from a family wedding in Louisiana. We had agreed to take our time on the return trip, to look for antiques and nose through the towns that were no longer on the beaten path. We meandered through aging schoolhouses and abandoned church buildings, all of which had been converted into flea markets and antique shops. Large window fans sucked warm, humid air into the high-ceilinged rooms. We sipped ice-cold Nehis and RCs that we had purchased from an old-fashioned grocery store.
In Washington, a small town about 10 miles north of Opelousas, stands the Nicholson House of History. Locals told us that the house had been used as a hospital during the Civil War, and that a fort was maintained beneath it. "And it's haunted, too," one of the men said. We asked for directions. At the house, no one answered our knock. We were about to leave when a woman drove into the driveway and came up the stairs. Her name was Mildred, and it was her house. She was very friendly and invited us in for a tour. It was hot. Mildred asked for three dollars a person for the tour, and while we were dropping the money into the jar, she went about turning on the air conditioner units in the windows. We all felt faint.
Mildred directed us to a front room filled with early-1860s furnishings. She showed us a secret passage that led down to the fort. She told us interesting stories about the Civil War and about how the house, built on an Indian mound in 1812, held many memories. Mildred claimed to have seen the spirit of a Confederate soldier in full dress uniform coming down the stairs a few days before.
We were wiping sweat off our faces, wishing the air conditioning would kick in, when I felt the damp hairs on the back of my head rise. It startled me. I watched bumps form on my arms and felt them crawling slowly up the skin of my bare legs. I looked to the others, expecting to see a similar reaction. Jane, my sister-in-law, looked like she'd been picking cotton in a hot Louisiana field. The others were also sweating. I folded my arms for warmth. Mildred stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth formed around some unspoken thought. "You!" she exclaimed. "Ooh, the Colonel must really like you." I just stood there, leaning on my husband, gathering my thoughts, and watching Mildred smile. I felt the weary scent of the Colonel's dampened woolen coat, the pungency of tragedy collected in its gray threads. I sensed anguish, a never-ending sorrow. Mildred assured us that the Colonel was a gentle ghost that would not bring harm to anyone. "We may even be able to see him, if this keeps up," she said.
The attic was even hotter, at least it was for the others. Mildred said that wounded men were treated there during the war. Men who died were taken down and buried after dark. During this time she kept smiling at me. I was still chilled while everyone else was sweating. My husband demanded to know exactly what the Colonel was doing with me.
"Well, he likes her," Mildred said. My mind wandered during the remainder of the tour. I never felt frightened, but the presence of a ghost from the past was disturbing. I remembered the words to a song I'd once heard: "Memories can't ignore/The anguish of before/Rise, ghost of war..."
Standing out on the big front porch, getting ready to leave, I felt the cold crispness in the air all around me. "Well, it's obvious how much he likes you, but I think he'll stay here," Mildred said. "He's lived here for so long." I stepped off the porch. The walk to the car was warm. Settling into the back seat, I turned to look at the house as we pulled away from the curb. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there — a tall, handsome Confederate soldier standing proudly on the porch in full dress uniform.
