The Perfume of Drowned Lilies

Two autumns ago, I was living in a coastal town in Maine, a place where the fog rolled in off the Atlantic like a grey tide. My partner, Marcus, and I decided to spend a weekend exploring the historic district, and the centerpiece of our itinerary was the Merriweather House, a sprawling Victorian that had been converted into a museum and was said to be the most haunted residence on the entire New England coast.

Before we even reached the property, the guide at the visitor center told us the story. The house was built by a wealthy shipbuilder named Obadiah Merriweather, who had made his fortune in the clipper trade. But the original structure was erected on a site that had once been a potter’s field, a mass grave for the unnamed poor and unclaimed. Worse still, a massive, gnarled oak tree had stood there, and it was used for public hangings until the town outlawed them. They say the tree’s roots still writhe beneath the foundation, feeding on the residual pain.

The Merriweather family themselves had a tragedy. Obadiah’s wife, Eleanor, drowned in the tidal river behind the house, and her body was never found. Obadiah, in his grief, sealed her bedroom and never allowed anyone inside. He died within the year, and his heirs claimed the house was cursed. A series of suspicious deaths followed, including a nephew who fell down the grand staircase, and a maid who hanged herself in the attic.

We took the night tour, hoping to catch a glimpse of something otherworldly. The house was lit only by gas lamps that cast long, dancing shadows on the peeling wallpaper. As we climbed the main staircase, a sudden, crushing weight settled on my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath, and I noticed several other tourists were also gripping the banister, gasping. The guide, a stern woman with silver hair, told us we were passing through the ‘suffocation point,’ a spot where visitors often felt an invisible pressure, as if the air itself was being squeezed from the room.

We entered the parlor, which they called the ‘Music Room’ because of the grand piano that stood in the corner. The guide explained that Eleanor Merriweather had been a talented pianist, and her ghost was often heard playing at night. She pointed to a chair near the piano, a high-backed wing chair that faced the corner, away from the room. She said that the chair was where Eleanor would sit and watch her husband entertain guests, never joining them, always silent, always watching.

As she was speaking, I felt a cold draft, and then I smelled it—a sickly sweet perfume, like lilies soaked in saltwater, mixed with the metallic tang of river mud. The smell was so strong it made my stomach churn. I saw Marcus wrinkle his nose, and a woman behind me whispered, ‘Do you smell that?’ The guide paused, her eyes widening slightly. She said, ‘That is Eleanor’s perfume. She wears it whenever she is near.’

Suddenly, the perfume intensified, and the temperature plummeted. The piano keys began to move on their own, playing a slow, mournful waltz. The notes were discordant, as if played by fingers that were numb and clumsy. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped. The scent vanished, and the room felt warm again.

The guide quickly moved us along, but her composure was shaken. We went upstairs to the sealed bedroom, which had been reopened years ago after a psychic claimed to have made contact with Eleanor. The room was preserved exactly as it had been on the day of her death. The bed was made, a flannel nightgown laid out, and a vanity with a silver hand mirror. On the nightstand, there was a tintype photograph of a man with a stern face, heavy beard, and eyes that seemed to follow you.

The guide told us that visitors often see the reflection of a woman in that mirror, even when no one is standing behind them. I was hesitant, but I approached the vanity. I leaned in, expecting to see my own face, but instead, the glass clouded over, and a message appeared in the condensation: ‘LEAVE.’ My heart froze. I turned to tell Marcus, but he was already looking at me with wide eyes.

‘Did you see that?’ he asked. I nodded. The guide rushed over, saw the writing, and whispered, ‘She doesn’t want us here. We should go.’

But as we turned to leave, the door slammed shut, and the gas lamps flickered out. Panic rippled through the group. Someone screamed. I fumbled for my phone and turned on the flashlight, illuminating the room. The message on the mirror had changed. It now read: ‘DIE.’

We were trapped. The guide tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She began reciting a prayer, and I felt a cold hand grasp my shoulder. I spun around, but no one was there. The hand was gone, but the faint smell of lilies returned, now tinged with the rancid smell of decay.

Then, from the corner of the room, I heard a woman singing, a lullaby, sweet and sad. The voice drew closer, and I could hear the swishing of a wet skirt on the floorboards. A figure began to materialize in the dim light—a woman in a white dress, dripping with water, her hair hanging in wet ropes over her face. She was transparent, but the details of her dress were clear, and there was a terrible gash on her forehead.

The figure glided toward the group, and people pressed against the walls, screaming. She stopped in front of me, raised a skeletal hand, and pointed a bony finger at my chest. Her lips moved, but the words were a whisper that I felt rather than heard: ‘You have my scent. Now you must join me.’

I felt a push, and I stumbled backward, catching my heel on the hem of my coat. I fell, hitting my head on the edge of the vanity. My vision swam, and the last thing I saw was the figure bending over me, her face inches from mine, her breath cold and smelling of the sea.

I woke up on the floor of the Music Room, surrounded by paramedics and police. The tour group had apparently carried me down, and the door had opened as suddenly as it had closed. Marcus was frantic, telling me that I had passed out, and that they had been unable to rouse me for almost an hour. The guide was being questioned, and she kept saying, ‘She touched her, she touched her,’ over and over.

I was taken to the hospital, and I was diagnosed with a severe panic attack and a mild concussion. But I know what I saw. And even now, two years later, I can’t shake the feeling that Eleanor Merriweather followed me home. Because sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up to the smell of lilies and river mud, and I hear a faint lullaby echoing through my bedroom, and I see the silhouette of a woman standing at the foot of my bed, dripping water onto the floorboards, just waiting for me to make a move.