Chapter One

The Past
Mid-1800’s

The white plantation house stood proudly if not gloomily, high on a hill; standing guard over the now desolate landscape. It had been many decades since there was laughter or love in this house, and from the cracked slate tiles on the roof to the peeling and faded whitewash on the siding, to the sad tilt of the black-painted wooden shutters around the house’s window-eyes, to the sagging bricks of the porch steps, the house seemed to know it and all but sighed with misery.

Built in the early-1700s by a prominent Southern businessman of wealthy English heritage, the home was once grand. Standing proudly at three stories tall, it featured a deep wrap-around porch, balconies on the second floor demarking the various bedrooms, and cheery dormers for the house staff on the third floor. Tall, graceful columns stood six feet apart all around the home, giving it a secure and stately appearance.

Beautiful hedgerows had encircled the estate like a graceful necklace; the only breaks were where the stairs descended into a sea of grass. Lush green lawns, perfect for summer picnics, had graced the front acreage. Majestic oak trees provided dappled shade from the heat of the sun, as they stood like soldiers in twin rows, leading guests from the lane to the cobbled area in front of the house. The stones continued around to a massive stable where a full complement of stable hands treated the guests’ horses like kings.

In the back of the house, a formal English garden entertained and amused many a guest throughout the spring and summer months. Leading from the porch's back stairs, partygoers found winding brick pathways, outlined with low rows of trimmed English Boxwoods. Helleri holly shrubs sat just beyond the Boxwoods, outlining colorful flower beds. Fragrant Jasmine, lavender and bay were interspersed with colorful marigolds, pansies, and hibiscus. Here and there, hydrangea-covered trellises provided shelter from curious eyes, and benches behind these floral walls were perfect for brief romantic trysts.

Beyond the low gardens was an elaborate maze, sculpted from privet hedge, and interspersed with sweet honeysuckle. As guests would navigate the maze, their clothes would brush against the blooms, releasing a heavenly scent. Those lucky enough to find the center found an elaborate fountain waiting for them – the sound of the gently falling water mesmerizing.

A long, winding flagstone path, edged by six-foot tall rhododendron bushes, led out the back of the maze and down a sweeping hill to a lake that always seemed to glow from within. The cool, clear water offered relief from sticky summer afternoons, and more often than not, the family of the house would seek the shade of the immense oak and willow trees that lined its shore.

Music, light, and laughter poured from the windows on hot summer nights, and beautiful people, dressed formally in long coats and sweeping gowns, would dance and twirl in the grand hall. Delightful children would dart in and out among the adults, chasing each other with the abandon only the young and innocent can show.

The couple who last lived, really lived, in the house was young, beautiful, and utterly devoted to one another. They met by chance when their families attended the same Christmas celebration. The very definition of ‘love at first sight’, the pair had eyes for only one another, and the girl found her dance card was filled with only his name. Geoffrey was descended from a long line of farmers who had refused to keep slaves. His family did not believe that one could own another man, regardless of skin color, and was of the mind that if the land was to be truly theirs, it needed to be worked by their own hands. Kirsten was of English noble descent. Despite living in America for ten years, still had a light, charming accent that positively enchanted Geoffrey when they first met.

They shared a connection that was deeper than even they could understand. During their courtship, Geoffrey had been injured when thrown from his horse. His dearest heart Kirsten had felt a sharp cramp in her leg at precisely the same moment, cried out in alarm, and gracefully slumped to the floor. Doctors were summoned, but nothing was found to be physically wrong with her. When it was discovered that her beloved had broken a leg, the same one that had so pained her, whispering of true love and of one soul sharing two bodies began.

The pair was inseparable, and wed on a midsummer’s night in 1855 surrounded by family and friends. They were gifted the house by Elizabeth Thompson, a maiden aunt who wanted to see the house come to life under the aura of love and tenderness that surrounded them. Under their care, the lawns and gardens flourished, the trees blossomed and bore incredible fruit, and their animals were healthy and strong. The home was called the Thompson estate in her honor.

A year after their marriage, they were blessed with twin daughters, whom they named Hope and Joy, and a year after that, a strapping boy called James. No children on God’s green Earth were loved more than these three. The young family attracted attention wherever they went; their obvious love for each other and their good looks making even the old curmudgeons who sat in rocking chairs outside the general store smile.

Their house, their home, was a happy place; full of joy and the promise of tomorrow.

Then, one mild October night in 1861, tragedy struck. The mistress of the house disappeared, and with her went all the happiness from the home. Local authorities searched for clues to Kirsten’s whereabouts, but to no avail. Friends and family of the young woman scoured the house’s forty-odd rooms, from the highest attic gable to the lowest corners of the root cellar for any sign of her, but found nothing. Men from neighboring plantations helped search the acreage and outbuildings, and rowed boats up back and forth across the property’s lake, but found no trace of her. The war had just really started to take hold, and though the South firmly believed they would emerge victorious from this frivolous squabble, there were murmurs that Northerners may have taken her.

Geoffrey, with three young children to rear, and no female relations to assist, avoided fighting in the war. As a Northern Sympathizer, he tried to do his part, opening his home to the Underground Railroad to help enslaved men and women escape their bondage, but once the war ended in April of 1865, and with nothing to take up his time, he found he could no longer bear to be in the house without his love. The children didn’t understand where their Mummy had gone, and why she hadn’t written in the years she had been away. Sad and broken, they finally left the house, taking with them precious few reminders of their once-happy lives.

For a time, friends of Geoffrey and Kirsten kept up the house and grounds in the hopes that Kirsten would someday return. As the months and years went by with not so much as a word from her, however, they eventually stopped. Soon the gardens were overrun with weeds that choked all the beauty from them. The trees, which had once borne such succulent fruit as to be the envy of the other farmers, were now barren. The topiary maze grew into one large shrubbery, its fountain run dry; and the once-clear lake had a haze of grief just beneath the surface.

The Present

The current resident of the once-grand house, a lone soul, a young woman, wandered from room to room, looking mournfully out the windows. The woman was in her mid-twenties, with long dark hair arranged in a complicated up-do and haunting gray eyes. Her complexion was as smooth and pale as porcelain, and nearly blended into the muted peach summer-weight gown she wore over her slender form.

She could feel the sadness of the house all around her, pressing on her like the thick clouds of smoke from a dense forest fire. Nothing could soothe her restlessness, and as she moved from one window to the next in the once grand great-room, the house seemed to bristle with agitation along with her.

She sighed as she glanced around the vast empty space. The rooms had all been stripped bare years ago, and the faded, peeling wallpaper lent an air of hopelessness to the already stifling sadness. A fire hadn’t graced the grate for decades, and she couldn’t remember the last time there was laughter.

A noise from outside jarred her from her reverie and brought her back to the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. Sitting gracefully on one of the window seats, she gazed through one of the few clean panes of glass to see two unfamiliar men walking around the grounds. One man, tall and dark like her lost love, had a look of apprehension on his face as if he, too, could feel the air of despair that surrounded the house. The other man, who was shorter but obviously the one in charge, gestured this way and that, pointing at different areas of the house and landscaping. The young woman sighed, wishing she had known they were coming; she would have tried to set the front gardens to right.

As the men approached the porch, the woman put a delicate hand to her hair, checking for strays and stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her gown. She crossed to the door, but before she could reach for the knob, the handle turned, and she had to jump back to avoid being hit by the heavy oak-paneled door.

“You can see the house also needs some attention,” the smaller man was saying as they entered, his soft southern drawl sliding from between thin lips.

“Uh-huh, that’s putting it mildly,” his companion said, with an accent that was most decidedly that of a Yankee.

“But, if a person happened to have the time and money,” the speaker paused briefly, “then this place could be grand again.”

“Excuse me?” the woman said indignantly. It was simply unacceptable to walk into a woman’s home uninvited. There was a time when she would have lectured this so-called Southern gentleman on his manners. But, she supposed, that time had passed many years ago.

“Can I see the rest of the place?” The tall man asked. The woman studied this Northern stranger. He had hair past his shoulders, and an odd black banded hat pulled down low over his eyes. He doffed the hat as he looked around, revealing gorgeous soft-brown eyes – sad, beautiful eyes.

“Sure thing, Mr. Sambora,” the real estate agent said.

“Please, I insist you call me Rich,” Richie answered. He had spent the better part of the last three days with the Realtor, traveling from one end of the county to the other, and still the man would not call him by his given name. They had looked at small homes and large estates, but none of them was what he was looking for. When they pulled into the end of the lane at this latest house, Richie’s spirits sunk. The place was in such a state of disrepair, it would take him months or maybe even years to get it to where it should be. Richie was ready to give it up, and go looking elsewhere in the country. Then the Realtor started the property tour. And he saw the possibilities. More than ‘saw’, he ‘felt’ them. Something about this place spoke to him.

“EXCUSE ME!” the woman yelled angrily, stomping her foot. The men stopped, startled, and looked around the room for the source of their disquiet.

“Did you feel that?” Richie asked. A gust of cold air had blown across him, raising gooseflesh on his forearms.

“Feel what?” the agent responded distractedly. He tilted his head sideways and furrowed his brow, but made no further comments.

Richie shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. He must have been imaging things. Damned stupid stress. “Never mind. C’mon, let’s see the rest of the place.” He consulted his watch. “If we hurry, I can still get over to Leland and take in some of the Blues Festival.”

Marty Halstead breathed an inward sigh of relief, glad his client dropped the matter. He didn’t know too much about this Northerner, but he did know wealthy people, and no matter how ‘quaint’ a haunting may sound, he knew that in reality, a ghost was not high on the must-have list for any home buyer. He could only hope that this particular haint would leave them be – at least until the papers were signed.