Engaged couple makes the mistake of visiting a haunted Louisiana plantation. Ghost story written by Cheryal Hussain.
Conjurin’ woman’s daughter was kidnapped on the eve of her weddin’ day. Drums said it was the white ghosts men who had taken her away.
Drums don’t lie!
Conjurin’ woman’s daughter toiled her life away amisdt tears, pain and sorrow. The earth she walked was wet with her tears, blood and sorrow. Folks called the plantation Terra Rouge, because of all the blood red clay, said to be stained with slave blood. No other place could be found, as such.
As conjurin’ woman’s daughter laid on her death bed, she cursed ol’ Master Pressqueet for generations to come, sept one. Generations of Pressqueets would be cursed and know tears, pain and sorrow.
Time passed, the plantation fell to ruin. No one spoke the name of Pressqueet, in that town, in the backwoods of Louisiana. Old timers about town said the lands and plantation house was haunted by the ghost of conjurin’ woman’s daughter, and previous generation of Pressqueets who dared to set foot in there!
The family had moved up north, but some made there way down south, as the curse had prophesised.
The myth said that on one night, the plantation would come alive and be as it once was. The freshly plowed earth’s scent would be carried on the evening breeze and be smelt by the folks sittin’ on their rockers in the warm evenings. The folks would shake their heads and say “Terra Rouge lives again.” Clinkin’ of glass and ghostly whisperin’ of woe to come, with the faint drum beat of long ago!
The country folk knew it was time to turn in, lock the doors and turn down the lights!
Conjurin’ woman’s daughter walked the night. Lookin’ for a Pressqueet soul to rob.
Vernon Presscott on the eve of his marriage, with his fiance, had travelled down south to see the plantation mansion. Vernon being young and progressive, had changed his name from Pressqueet to Presscott, thinking he could be the one to outdo the family curse. Anyway he thought it only a myth. The day was turning into evening as Presscott and his bride-to-be drove along in silence.
As he and his bride-to-be turned on to the long dirt road that led up to the mansion, the stately magnolias draped in spanish moss moved in the breeze, giving a hypnotic effect on young master Prescott and his bride-to-be. Though the mansion was in ruins and deserted, the mansion was lit up and as they drew near, the plantation servents met them with much pomp and ceremony. It was the eve of Master Pressqueet’s weddin’. In their hypnotized state, young master Presscott and his fiance danced throgh the ruins of the once grand mansion. Their eyes seeing only what the spirit of conjurin’ woman’s daughter wanted them to see.
“Dance, dance, dance your life away!” she whispered. “As you are now, so was I, and in a little while, as I am, one will be.” Her ghostly whisper echoed through the chambers and halls, as the host of ghostly denizens looked on.
Prescott awoke on the debris laden floor and tattered surroundings, howling in despair: “My bride! My bride! Where do you hide?”
Nothing could be heard, except the early moning breeze, carrying the faint drum beat from a distant place and time.
Drums don’t lie.
Folks around those parts, never heard or seen of ol’ Master Prescott again. Some claim he died of grief. Others say they seen him sittin in the moon light, on conjurin’ woman’s dauther grave, waitin for absolution.