The Final Verandah

The summer of 1982 found my companion, Alice, and me driving through the sweltering Louisiana heat, heading toward a plantation we’d heard about from a local antique dealer. My fiancé, Robert, was buried in paperwork in Baton Rouge for the day, so we had decided to explore the countryside. Our destination was a sprawling estate called Maison de la Rivière, which sat on a bend of the Mississippi. The earthen levee was so tall it obscured the river, but a narrow, moss-covered stone staircase climbed its face, inviting a view of the water. Time was short, so we forwent the climb and hurried to the house to catch the last tour.

We were the last to join the group, tagging along at the back as the guide, a wispy older woman named Mrs. Beaumont, led us through the grand foyer. She spoke of the original owner, a wealthy sugar baron named Julien Thibodeaux, and his wife, Celeste, who had died young. I was utterly absorbed by the intricate plasterwork and the antique furniture, my mind racing with stories. Alice, however, seemed restless, occasionally glancing out the tall windows toward the levee.

On the second floor, we moved from room to room, each one perfectly preserved. In the master bedroom, a four-poster bed draped with yellowed lace stood against the wall. Mrs. Beaumont told us that Celeste had passed away in that very bed. As she spoke, I noticed a faint, sweet scent, like overripe magnolias, wafting through the room. I dismissed it as an old house’s quirk, but Alice’s face grew pale. On the wall, there was a portrait of Celeste, her dark eyes seeming to follow us. I felt a sudden chill despite the heat.

We proceeded to the next room, a parlor with a view of the river. The guide was explaining the history of the Civil War era when a strange sound interrupted her: a low, rhythmic hissing, like water leaking from a pipe. Alice touched my arm, her grip tight. ‘It’s coming from outside,’ she whispered. Mrs. Beaumont paused, looked toward the window, then continued as if nothing had happened. But the hissing grew louder, like a serpent’s call from beneath the floorboards. The other tourists seemed oblivious, but I felt a creeping dread.

As the tour concluded, we were left alone in the parlor while the guide led the others downstairs. Alice rushed to the window and pointed at the levee. ‘There’s someone up there,’ she said. I squinted and saw a faint figure standing at the top of the stone staircase, silhouetted against the pale sky. It wore a long, flowing dress that billowed despite the still air. ‘It’s a statue,’ I said, but as I spoke, the figure seemed to move, lifting one arm as if beckoning. Then it was gone.

We decided to leave, but as we reached the foot of the stairs in the foyer, a sudden rush of cold air came from the second floor, and the sound of a door slamming echoed above. The front door was locked. The guide had already gone to her office, and the other tourists had left. We were alone with the house. Alice frantically searched for another exit, but all the doors and windows were sealed. My phone showed no signal. We were trapped.

Hours passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the house grew darker. The hissing sound returned, now more insistent, like a swarm of whispers. We retreated to the second floor, where we found a small library we hadn’t noticed before. On the desk lay an old diary, its pages brittle. Alice opened it, and we read a passage dated July 1879: ‘Celeste haunts me. She appears on the levee every night, calling me to the river. I cannot resist.’ The handwriting was frantic, almost illegible.

A gust of wind whipped through the room, extinguishing our flashlight. In the darkness, we heard a faint, melodic humming from the direction of the levee. Alice grabbed my hand. ‘We have to go up there,’ she said, her voice trembling. We stumbled down the back stairs and found a door leading to the grounds. The stone staircase loomed before us, shadowed in moonlight. The humming grew clearer as we ascended.

At the top, the Mississippi stretched wide and black, the water lapping against the levee with a sinister rhythm. And at the edge, a woman stood, her back to us, her dress soaked, her hair dripping. She turned slowly, revealing a face that was a grotesque parody of the portrait: hollow eyes, pale skin stretched tight over bone. ‘Julien,’ she rasped, but she was looking at me. ‘You came back.’

I tried to back away, but Alice was frozen. The woman stepped forward, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the stone. ‘I waited so long,’ she said. ‘The river took him, but now I have you.’ Her hands reached for us, and we stumbled backward. In that instant, the levee gave way beneath us, crumbling into the river. The cold water swallowed us, the woman’s laughter echoing in our ears.

We awoke on the bank downstream, shivering, the plantation house a distant silhouette. The sky was lightening, and we were alive. We never spoke of that night again. A year later, I passed by the plantation house on a business trip. It was abandoned, its roof collapsed, the stone staircase broken. And at the top, for just a moment, I saw a figure, watching, waiting.

I moved away, changed my name, tried to forget. But sometimes, when the night is still and the air smells of magnolias, I hear that hissing, that humming, and I know she is not done. She will always find those who climb her stairs, and she will never let them go.