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Ty Hartley is currently living in Palm Bay, FL with his wife and two daughters and works as a Systems Analyst for a local hospital. Although born in the Midwest, Ty calls the South his home, and most of his stories are based in the old South. |
Even as a small child I have always had a fascination with old buildings and architecture, particularly from the Civil War times. I have always loved touring old southern mansions and marveling at the attention to detail that the builders exhibited in their craft. Some of the art of this is lost forever, I’m told, seemingly vanishing with the passing of the artists themselves. It was with much elation then, that I was able to make a terrific buy on a mansion that was in good repair in the low country of South Carolina. This, in my mind, was the measure of worldly success, and upon moving into the mansion, I was overwhelmed with the sensation that I had finally arrived. The mansion was a beautiful example of the antebellum era, replete with majestic double porticos held up by wonderfully ornate columns, six main rooms and four bedrooms on the second floor. The rear of the huge structure faced the Edisto River, which wound lazily into the distance.
The mansion had been in the family of a personal friend of mine who was forced to move to California to further his career. He was the father of a young boy who had died just a year before, leaving him heirless and grieving since the tragedy. I had often alluded to the fact that I would love to buy the house if the opportunity presented itself. When it did, however, I almost felt I was taking advantage of my good friend’s grief, but he assured me he needed to get away, and the new job would keep his mind off his loss. I purchased the place without having seen it for quite some time, and upon arriving there, I noticed that the mansion had not been lived in for a while. I was surprised at this, thinking that the mansion was my friend’s only residence. I was also surprised to find most of the furniture still there, some of it dating back decades. All left, covered in dust and cobwebs.
My wife and I started our fall mornings by cleaning the place, dusting and rearranging, trying our best to be true to the era, and were looking forward to impressing our attorney colleagues with our latest acquisition. This would take place at a formal house warming which was scheduled for early December of that year.
We slept in a large bedroom on the first floor, which, in the morning, was bright and cheerful, due in part to the huge windows facing the east. The delicate lace on the window frames caught the light in the most beautiful way, lending a soft morning glow to the entire room. The rest of the house was much the same - bright with a subtle, natural light. I knew I was going to love it here.
On one particularly bright Saturday morning, I decided to investigate the grounds which were roughly ten acres, and look in some of the old tool sheds and other buildings I had been shown previously on tours of the area. There were only about two acres of cleared ground, the rest of the property being densely tree-covered. I was told at one time that the grounds had a few clearings in these woods with some old slave houses and such. I had yet to see any, though, and I decided that I would investigate by walking down the narrow stone path that led into the woods, which I had noticed the week before. I could clearly see the path from my bedroom window, and it seemed to be calling to me every time my eyes crossed it.
I walked quietly down the shadowy path, marveling at the huge oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, and wondering how far this path went and what I would find. The light filtering through the trees barely illuminated the path even in broad daylight and as I walked further, I turned and noticed that I had now lost sight of the mansion. I wished at that point that I had asked my wife to accompany me, but I was already committed and I was sure she was busy doing other things. A few steps further I noticed that off to my left was a well-worn path and what looked like a stone wall, about three feet high with an ornate, black, wrought-iron gate, which was open, almost inviting me to investigate. I walked to the gate and saw what had once been a beautiful flower garden, with lovely paths that wound their way through the area, and an old stone bench, which sat in a small shaded clearing near the middle. The flowers were choked with weeds, but were still flourishing, and even in its present state of disarray, the garden was very beautiful and peaceful. I made my way down the winding path to the stone bench and sat down. My eyes scanned the area and I resolved to restore this garden to its former state, but now was not the time. I was much too excited about exploring the rest of the area. Suddenly I felt like a child again, which was a change for me due to my stressful, fast-paced lifestyle. Listening to the river babble in the distance and the birds chirping in the trees, I sat in silence on the cold bench and noted that even in this forgotten place, it was a work of art in itself. It was made of cement and had ornate inlaid tiles of multiple colors, some which were broken and cracked, but this only seemed to lend to the character of the place. As I ran my finger over the edge of the bench, I heard a sound that seemed out of place here. It was the sound of an excited child, laughing and calling out. It came from deep within the woods and as soon as I heard it, I rose to my feet and watched. I heard a stick break in the same general area, and as I listened for any clue as to who this might be, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise. I made a quick exit from the garden and with hurried steps, wound my way back to the mansion to see if we possibly had company. Feeling a little better upon seeing the mansion, I marveled at how magnificent a structure it was from this view, with its massive, white, Greek columns rising from the ground to the roofline and its tall windows overlooking the river. I made my way into the house to find my wife and calling out for her, received no reply. After pacing through the house, I finally found her in the other bedroom on the first floor of the mansion, one I had yet to inspect. She was sitting in a beautiful room with ornate woodwork and light-colored walls stenciled with baseball bats and trains and other things that a young boy would be delighted in and it became instantly clear to me that this had been the deceased young boy’s room. My wife was sitting on the corner of the single bed, smoothing the sheets with her delicate hands, and staring out the dusty window. She seemed miles away. She started as I entered the room, and I decided that now would not be the best time to tell her of my strange experience in the woods. It would have to wait for a later time. I spent the rest of that day inside, painting and cleaning, and making plans for the renovation of certain rooms. The boy’s room would not be touched yet. It was not discussed; yet it was understood.
While lying in bed that night, my mind drifted back to the strange events of that morning, and I also began again to wonder how a sane person could sell a place that was in his family for generations, and leave all the furniture behind, including that which was in the boy’s room. The boy had died a full year before. Why hadn’t the room been cleared out? I was hard-pressed to understand the situation, but because I had never experienced a loss of that magnitude I considered that it might be normal, and with that drifted off to sleep.
I awoke with a start in the middle of the night. A feeling of dread came over me, almost suffocating me. I had heard a sound; was it part of a dream or was it something that had in fact awakened me? I heard the steady rhythm of my wife’s breathing, yet the sound of it did little to comfort me. I lay completely still in the darkness and listened. The whole house was deathly quiet. Then I heard it again.
I grabbed the firearm I kept on the bureau and racked it, putting the gun back on safety as I quietly got out of bed and flicked on the light. I peered down the hall and listened once more. There it was yet again! It was faint, but there was no denying its presence. I crept into the kitchen and peered into the darkness at the silhouette of the hall at the other end of the house and rubbed my eyes in disbelief. I could see a light in the vicinity of the boy’s room! It was not just any light, but a dancing array of colors that was reflecting off the hallway wall outside the room. I walked a few steps further and turned on the kitchen light hoping the reflection was a result of the moonlight glancing off the river, or some other easily explainable phenomenon. There was no change. The lights were still there, and so was that sound! It sounded much like an animal whining or crying. I was gripped with fear and, in a panic, quickly made my way back into the bedroom to wake my wife. I shook her, and she awoke, but as I was telling her what was happening, she rolled over and told me to wait till morning. I shook her again. She mumbled something unintelligible and again fell asleep. This was a very strange reaction, for she had always been a light sleeper.
It was obvious that I would have to face the situation alone, so I walked slowly through the kitchen and into the dining room. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, and I cautiously made my way down the hallway toward it. I was as careful as I could be, but as I hugged the wall, my shoulder touched a painting we had hung there a few hours before. It fell to the wooden floor with a deafening crash and as I looked up, the bedroom door flew open! There, not three feet in front of me, was a translucent, glowing figure. It was a dog, no question about it. It was a rather ugly, black-eyed dog. The dog took one look at me, stopped in its tracks, turned and ran down the hall, lighting the wooden floor and the walls around it. It stopped at the end of the hall, paused and turned once more. With a muffled growl, it vanished into thin air. All was now quiet again; the lights in the boy’s room were no longer present. I timidly reached in the room and switched on the light with my fingertips. Nothing was glaringly out of place, but I noticed in time that the sheets on the bed were indented as if - well - as if a dog had been sleeping there. I put my hand on the spot. It was as cold as ice. I walked back to the master bedroom and tried to rouse my wife once more. I could not wake her. I still, to this day, cannot figure out why she would not wake up. I lay back down in bed and grasped for my sanity. I had never seen anything like this before, and as much as I wanted to give the event a scientific explanation, it could not be done. I resigned myself to lying in silence in the darkness.
I awoke with the light from the bedroom windows shining full in my face. I lay there for a moment, enjoying the beautiful sunny morning and anticipating the day ahead. All at once the realization of what had occurred the previous night flooded my mind and I turned quickly to my wife. I shook her violently and she awoke, wide-eyed, and asked what was the matter. I told her the story in its entirety and in particular how I could not wake her. She denied that I had tried and insisted it was a bad dream. I looked at the bureau where my firearm was kept, and there it was, back on top, and upon further inspection, I was astounded that it was not racked or even on safety. It was just as it had been the previous night. I thought that maybe I had, in fact, dreamed the entire incident, but as I told my wife the story again, I realized there was one way to know for sure. I took her by the hand and pulled her through the kitchen and dining room, now brightly lit with the morning sun, and down the hallway to the boy’s room. The picture was still lying on the floor, and the bedroom door was open. I looked in. Much to my surprise, the indention was still present on the bed! My wife found this interesting, but was not convinced it was the work of any “ghost dog.” I knew for sure that I had not dreamed it then, but I also knew there was no way I could prove it to my wife at this time. I would go about the day as usual and pretend it never happened. I honestly hoped with all my heart that it would never happen again. I soon found out just how little good all that hoping was doing.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening. The sun had just set, and my wife and I were finally relaxing from the seemingly endless task of cleaning up the place. Most of the first floor was now done, including the windows, and we were now on the back porch sitting at a small wire table, having our well-deserved cups of coffee. I gazed into the evening, rubbing my sore arms, and contemplated the events of the previous day and the night before. I watched as a dense fog rose over the river and curled its way into the back yard, an eerie sight to behold. My wife was noting what incredible patterns the fog made as the full moon rose over the river and cast its soft blue light upon it. It was a very relaxing place, indeed, and I have to admit, I was enjoying myself, listening to the night sounds - sounds that I was never accustomed to hearing, having lived in the city all my life. I held up a cigar to the moonlight, inspected it, and having put it in my mouth, lifted my gold-plated lighter to light it. A dog barked! I started and dropped the lit cigar. I left it lying on the ground; I was frozen in place. The bark was close. My wife also heard it and we both sat silently, waiting for another bark as the fog wisped around the yard, sending chills down my spine. Another bark was not to come, however, and I finally mustered up enough courage to reach down and pick up my cigar, which I promptly put out. I was now in no mood to spend any more time here, and I decided that I would retire early and save my “relaxing” for the next day.
I again awoke in the stillness of the night. I had heard the ghost dog in my dreams, and I was now wide awake, intent and listening for what I thought I might have heard. It was no mistake. I heard a dog howling and whining - this time from outside the mansion. I decided not to rouse my wife, so I eased my way over to the bay windows and pulled back the lace just enough to see the back yard. It was aglow in moonlight, the fog having dissipated somewhat, and what I saw made me weak in the knees. There was the transparent figure of the ghost dog, the same one that I had seen the previous night, standing at the edge of the wood line at the entrance of the stone path that led to the garden. The dog-specter was glowing with a pure, white light that lit the path under it and the trees that were near it. The dog, previously facing away from me, now turned and looked straight in my eyes. With a lone howl, it turned again and ran down the path, lighting it as it went. Just as it was rounding a bend that would curve out of sight, the ghost dog melted into the night, leaving only a wisp of fog in its place, which rolled into the woods toward the river. I was visibly shaken, and as I turned, there was my wife, sitting up in bed. She confirmed that she too had heard the howling, and we were both now too alert to sleep. I glanced at the clock and noted that it was 4:30am. We both decided that we would rise early and watch the sun come up.
As we sat at the large mahogany dining room table watching the sunrise, I related to my wife what I had seen through the window that night. She wasn’t nearly as skeptical as she had been before, and as the sun crested the river, we decided that a fact-finding “mission” was in order.
Together we walked quietly out the back doors, through the yard and out to the same narrow stone path that I had explored several days before. We walked the path in complete silence and I couldn’t help but marvel at the surreal nature of the area, as the morning sun streamed through the trees. The area was so humid, it was almost suffocating, and while the sounds of nature were all around, I was convinced that if I decided to scream out loud, the noise would never leave my lips. I showed my wife the garden in disrepair, and again we sat on the old stone bench in the center and contemplated our surroundings. As I turned toward the river, the sun hit me full in the face though an opening in the trees - an opening I had not noticed the last time I was there. We eventually made our way out of the garden and upon arriving at the stone path to the mansion, we noticed a smaller well-worn dirt path, seemingly leading from this place to the river, and I felt it calling me. There was an irresistible nature to the path, and as we slowly made our way through the narrow opening in the trees, I felt the air itself pressing against me. The path soon opened up into a small clearing on the edge of the river, and what we discovered amazed us. There, in the middle of the clearing was a small cemetery with no more than ten or fifteen graves encircled by another small stone wall. The black wrought-iron gate at its entrance was similar to the one in the garden, and was hanging crooked on its hinges. I would not have been able to take one step further had the river not been visible in the background with the sun glaring off the slow rolling waters. For some reason this comforted me, and taking my wife by the hand, I entered the gate and proceeded through the cemetery. There was a peaceful air about the place, and as I walked, I noticed that the previous owners of the mansion had at least attempted to maintain the area. Flowers, although now wilted, had been placed on some of the newer tombstones and the grass was trimmed. I glanced at a large, moss-covered monolith to my side. I read the words inscribed in the cracked stone.
SACRED.
Robert WindBrook.
1817 - 1898
I knew the history of the WindBrook Manor; I had studied it intently when preparing to buy this place. I was standing at the grave of the builder and first owner of the mansion. I was not aware of the presence of any cemetery on these grounds, and I was bewildered at the thought of my friend leaving the graves of his forefathers and not even mentioning that they were buried here.
I heard my wife call. She was kneeling at a gravesite at the other end of the cemetery. I walked to her and knelt down beside her. There in a quiet corner was a rather new grave adorned with a beautiful black marble tombstone. The grass over the gravesite itself was still new, and I reluctantly looked up and read the inscription on the monument already knowing what would be written there.
SACRED.
Jimmy WindBrook.
1991 - 1998
I was shaken. As I was trying to digest the flood of thoughts that entered my mind, my wife called my attention to a smaller grave beside the boy’s. The marker was laid in the ground, and was made of the same black marble as the boy’s. The inscription simply read:
Savannah
1998
We left the cemetery and walked down a path on the river’s edge toward the mansion. I could not help but wonder if the small grave by the child’s side had been that of a beloved pet. Deep down, I knew what kind of pet it might be.
It was not quite nightfall, and my wife had left town for the weekend to spend some time with her parents in Greenville. I was not at all excited about staying at the mansion alone and even contemplated calling some of my good friends in the city to ask if they perhaps wanted to stay here. I realized that I was foolish to be apprehensive about staying there alone, and I made up my mind not to succumb to my fears. I would brave it alone for just three short days.
One day had passed and the evening of the second day was approaching. I had been in the city all day and had just arrived home. I discovered during that morning that my wallet was missing and I had searched the house for it for hours. I surmised that I must have dropped it while kneeling in the grass at the old cemetery and I dreaded the thought of having to go look there, but I simply had to have it by the next day. The sun was still setting slowly over the manor, so I deduced that I had a half-hour or so before it would be completely dark. I made my way down the path at the river’s edge at a brisk pace, talking and humming to myself and singing old hymns to drown out the crescendo of dusk sounds. The cemetery fence was now in sight, and I was hoping I could find my wallet in short order and make a quick exit from the area. The cemetery itself soon came into full view and what I saw made me freeze in my tracks. The tune of the old hymn I was singing caught in my throat. There in the center of the graveyard were two glowing figures, unmistakable in detail. There was a young boy throwing a bright red ball into the air. As it left his hands, a dog - the same familiar ghost dog - leapt into the air, and caught it gracefully in its mouth. The dog gently landed in the soft grass, ran to the boy and jumped into his arms. The boy wrestled the ball from the dog’s mouth and repeated the throw, laughing and jumping as the dog performed another perfect catch. The boy sat down in the cool grass and when the dog returned slowly back to him, he held it close and caressed it lovingly. I stood there till the darkness surrounded me, watching the unreal scene and trying to convince myself that I was not seeing what was before me. The boy’s image grew more faint by the minute, while the dog’s image seem to grow brighter and stronger. As the boy’s image vanished entirely from my visibility, the dog curled up in the grass in front of the boy’s grave, and began breathing deeply, as if it were asleep. It did not vanish. I became suddenly aware of the pain in my legs caused by standing in one position for such a long time and realized I would soon have to reposition myself. As I took a step off the path into the woods a stick broke under my feet. I apparently startled the ghost dog itself. It rose to attention, turned its crimson eyes in my general direction and growled a low menacing growl. I turned and ran back down the path toward the manor. I would do without the wallet. I didn’t have the nerve to look behind me and prayed out loud that I would not trip and fall on some tree root or something. I ran around the front of the mansion where my Mercedes was parked and wasted no time driving out the main gates, fishtailing the car on the dirt road and leaving a dusty plume behind me as the mansion disappeared in the distance.
I awoke the next morning and struggled to get my bearings. The events of the previous evening were still fresh in my mind, and I soon came to the awareness that I was still in my parked Mercedes at an old Presbyterian church on Edisto Island. I looked at my watch. It was nine o'clock in the morning. I was an hour late to work and I was still dressed in casual clothes. I would have to go back to the mansion to change and hopefully make it in to work by noon. I called my secretary on my cell phone and had her cancel the deposition scheduled for that morning and as I hung up the phone, I decided that I would call my wife in Greenville and tell her what had transpired the previous evening. There was no longer any doubt in her voice as I relayed the event. We both agreed that something must be done. We couldn’t go on this way. We agreed that I would call my friend in California and ask him if he had any insight as to what was happening at WindBrook Manor.
I drove down the dirt road leading to the manor, cussing at myself and determining to be as quick as possible about changing clothes and getting to work. When I entered the gate, I was more than astounded at the scene that was unfolding at the front doors of the mansion. There on my porch was James WindBrook, the former owner. An undertaker accompanied him, as I gleaned from the presence of a back hearse parked in the grass on the front lawn. Several workers were leaning against the pillars on the front porch. I shook his outstretched hand and waited for him to speak.
“It’s good to see you again, Marcus. I am truly sorry about dropping in like this, but there is a critical matter that we have to discuss."
I nodded in shocked agreement.
“I’m just glad you’re home,” he said.
I invited the entourage into the house, made coffee, and then ushered them all out to relax on the front porch while I spoke to James in private.
“I have come to get the body of my son. He is buried here on the grounds,” James declared. “I would like to move his burial site to California. I simply cannot bear the though of leaving his body behind.”
I quickly agreed, but as I looked in his eyes, I knew there was more to the story than he was saying. I finally had the chance to ask him everything that was on my mind. I told him of the strange specters, sights, and sounds I had witnessed in the last month, and asked him why he had neglected to tell me of the cemetery and why he had departed in such a hurry, leaving all the furniture behind. He took a deep breath and sighed.
“I really don’t know where to start, Marcus,” he said. “I guess I’ll tell you the whole story from the beginning.” He paused and gathered his thoughts. “I inherited this manor from my father as he did from his father and so on. My wife had always had trouble carrying a pregnancy to full term. She miscarried four times before the birth of Jimmy. Jimmy was my only child and I loved him dearly. We were always close while he was growing up and we spent many happy hours fishing and boating and doing all sorts of things that fathers and sons normally do together.”
I looked in his eyes, now fully clouded over with grief.
“We bought Jimmy a dog a few years back. The two were inseparable from the very beginning. As my career furthered, I spent less and less time at home with Jimmy and the dog seemed to fill in the gaps, being his true ‘best friend.’ One Saturday morning about a year ago, I promised Jimmy I would take him fishing, but found out that I had a court appearance scheduled and I had to go in to work.” James stopped talking and pulled out a handkerchief. Dabbing at his eyes, he continued. “Jimmy decided he would take the dog and go fishing alone on the end of the pier over the river. As he stood up to bait his hook, he lost his balance and fell into the river. He couldn’t swim.”
James stopped talking and stared at his hands. After a few minutes of silence he spoke again.
“We found his limp body on the bank of the river about a half-mile from here at the Miller’s place. The dog was standing guard over him.”
I realized that I was forcing this poor man to talk about something that he had never discussed since the incident. I stopped him and told him he didn’t have to continue.
“No, No,” he said, “I need to tell you the story so I will.” Another pause. “We buried Jimmy by the banks of the Edisto, a place he had always loved. We took the dog in our arms and brought her home with us. She was the last remnant that we had of Jimmy’s life and we loved her very much. Every night the dog would make her way to Jimmy’s room and curl up in a ball on his bed. It was the only place the dog had ever slept. One morning, we called the dog and there was no response. I went to Jimmy’s room to check on her and she was dead, still curled up in a ball at her usual place on the bed. We buried the dog next to Jimmy at the old cemetery. Her name, by the way, was Savannah. Not long after that, we too experienced Savannah’s manifestations and left the mansion. I took a job in California and you know the rest. I never returned here to get the furniture and quite frankly hoped I would never have to set foot on this place again. It will never bring me anything but sorrow.”
With that he stood up and we all walked in silence down the river path to the old cemetery. As we walked through the gates, I spotted something out of place on the boy’s tombstone. I walked closer to the stone and there, on top of the monument, was my wallet. I could not imagine how it got up there. I decided that now was not the best time to try to retrieve it.
I stood at the cemetery gates as the digging commenced and within an hour, both the grave of the child and the grave of the dog were exhumed. I marveled at the fact that the dog had been buried in an ornate gray coffin – the exact same style as the boy’s. After much discussion with the undertaker as to the condition of the bodies, it was decided that the boy’s coffin would be opened. As the seal on the coffin was broken and the lid lifted, the father fell to his knees. The undertaker lunged forward to steady him. His face turned white. He looked my way and motioned for me to witness the sight myself. I was not sure my reactions would be any different from James’ so I stayed where I was. Again, he motioned. I approached the open coffin slowly and what I saw made my eyes widen and my ears ring. The hair on the back of my neck was at full attention. There in the coffin lay the perfectly preserved body of the young boy, seemingly in a deep sleep with a red ball clutched in his right hand! It was all starting to add up, but I still could not fully understand James reaction. He was trying to talk. He wiped the sweat off his face and weakly announced, “The ball was the dog’s favorite toy. It was buried with the dog!”
After everyone present had recovered to the point where we could once again think, it was decided, against the warnings of the undertaker, that the dog’s coffin would also be opened. As the lock was unlocked and the seal broken, James’ face again turned ashen white. The dog also was as perfect as the day it was buried! James insisted that it had not been embalmed! The ball that had been placed in the coffin when the dog was buried was nowhere to be found! I was about as shocked and shaken as humanly possible by this time, so I went numb when I saw James reach into the coffin and gently lift the body of the dog. It was not stiff. He held it close to his chest as he walked to the boy’s open coffin. He placed the dog in with the boy and slowly closed the lid. I felt a warm tear course down my face and realized that on this earth, only James and I knew that this was the right thing to do. James knelt over the boy’s coffin, rested his arms on it and said a short prayer.
I took my wallet from the tombstone as the dog’s empty coffin was placed back in the ground. The boy’s coffin was then transported to the awaiting hearse. James hugged me with tears in his eyes, told me to take care of the place, and drove away. I stood there staring at the cloud of dust and wondering how this could be anything but a dream. It was not. It was, however, the most amazing event in my life.
We have been in the manor for almost a year now. There are no more strange happenings. The cemetery and the garden are weeded and repaired and my wife and I still spend many hours in the peacefulness of that place. The boy’s bedroom is now my study, and every time I enter the room, I almost expect the ghost dog to be curled up on the corner of the Oriental rug there. I know she will not return, and has finally found a peaceful resting-place in the loving arms of her best friend.
As for WindBrook Manor, it will always be a spectacular place.
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