Grayson Mansion

by Teresa Tallman

The house was haunted. At least that’s what some people said. That was great news for me. Not that it was haunted. I certainly didn’t believe in hauntings or poltergeists. I was looking for a property in the Charleston area. I’d grown up in South Carolina and had always dreamed of living there. After finding the property listed on the internet at a ridiculously low price, the only information I could find was that it had been built in the 1850’s and had been a remarkably fine house in its day. It sat on a bluff overlooking the Ashley River. There were a few obscure comments by a real estate agent, who under pressure reluctantly shared a vague comment of rumors of suspicious deaths at the house during the Civil War. Although it had been occupied by many families through the years it now sat empty and in a state of disrepair. It was a perfect investment opportunity for me. As long as the basic structure was sound, I would enjoy restoring it to its early elegance.

Arriving in Goose Creek, and parking several yards from a dusty, gray, panel van on Main Street, I stepped out of my glistening 1947 Buick Roadmaster convertible. Taking my handkerchief out of my breast pocket, I carefully wiped off a splash of yellow bug splattered on the hood. I’d just purchased my dream car with some of the inheritance I’d received from my Aunt Hazel and I wanted the car to look its best. Seeing the businesses, I realized I probably could have driven a ten year old farm pickup and improved the town appearance. Overhead, the sign to the real estate office, with its chipped white paint and faded red letters hung precipitously over my head. Squeaking hinges announced my entrance as I turned the brass pitted knob and pushed the door open. Gouged, stained floor boards were warped. Papers and forms were stacked on a huge legal desk. A black chair, whose seat was torn and had a wheel missing, was parked next to the dusty desk. A faded photograph of President Roosevelt hung on the paneled wall. Stale coffee attacked my senses. Or was it that musty standing water odor? I couldn’t quite make out which it was.

“Anyone here? I’m Ted Hackster. Hello? Anyone here?” I called.

I heard steps coming from the back. A confident, thirty something woman appeared. If I needed to choose a word to describe her it would be fresh. Her pert nose was sprinkled with freckles that spread faintly over her cheeks. Slightly frizzy, ginger colored hair was pulled back to the nape of her slender neck with a blue ribbon. Wearing crème colored slacks, sensible shoes, and a wide gold bracelet she reminded me of my favorite younger sister. My gaze couldn’t linger too long. Her radiant smile had lips that were moving.

“Mister Hackster? Hello? Mister Hackster?” She was looking intently at my face with incredible green eyes as she extended her hand in greeting.

“Uh, hello. Yes, I’m Ted Hackster. I’m here to see the Grayson mansion. I’ve an appointment for someone to show me the house.” I came to my senses rather well I thought, as I shook her hand.

“Yes, I’m Savannah. I would love to show you the house! You won’t be disappointed. Would you like to take my car or yours?”

“Mine is fine. I’m parked right outside.”

On the way out of the office, she grabbed the typical tan real estate folder filled with house facts. I opened the car door for her. It’s always a pleasure to have an attractive woman sitting beside you on a drive. As the car weaved down the country road she filled the conversation with little known anecdotes about the area. I felt strangely drawn to her.

The house was located at the end of a long overgrown lane. It was worth the wait. A deep yard, with exploding shrubs bearing yellow roses climbed the house. A broad, cracked sidewalk drew my eyes up to the front veranda. Dragon flies buzzed above the weeds and large black butterflies landed on forsaken daisies. The house was three stories high with a widow’s walk and had a stately front dotted with large windows. Sure, it needed some paint and elbow grease. I could handle that.

I glanced at Savannah before getting out of the car. Her face seemed transfixed on the property. Frankly, if it had been a woman and she a man, lust would have better described her expression.

“Savannah?”

She shook her head gently and turned to smile at me.

“Sorry, I get lost in my thoughts. I just love it here. I wish it could find an owner for it.”

“How is it that it’s been empty so long?”

“Well, different things. It was the finest house in Charleston before the war. The family who built it really loved it.” Her voice became soft.

Leaving the car, we wound our way up the walk.

Pointing to a sullen, sinking gazebo on the edge of the woods, Savannah’s face beamed. “I imagine the parties they had. The young people. A young lady dressed in a white gingham dress, with a sky blue sash with five or ten beaus fighting to bring her a lemonade. She had shimmering black curls with a matching blue ribbon in her hair. She would smile at all the young men, but wouldn’t give a hint about who was her favorite.”

Her expression grew cold. “Then they left to fight in the war. None returned.”

“Who left, Savannah?”

“The men. They all left.” Her expression clouded and her green eyes stared into the distance.

“Savannah, it certainly is a historic house.”

She did a slight shake to her head again and turned to smile at me.

“It was lucky to escape burning by the Northern Soldiers. But it did. The original owners, the Grayson family, had to sell. It’s been owned by different families since.”

“Why did it change hands so often?”

“It’s a big house, Mr. Hackster. It takes substantial resources. Do you have the resources to bring it back to proper condition?”

“Yes, I believe I do, Savannah.”

Looking around the once great house, with a tear glistening in her eyes, Savannah spoke quietly.

“I hope so, Mr. Hackster. I love this house.”

Entering, we came directly to a stately grand staircase with faded floral carpet. I loved it. We walked through the rest of the house, but I knew from the first moment that I was going to make an offer. The walls were covered with dirt and handprints from many. The flooring was wildly stained with soot and oil. The pungent stale aroma scented all the rooms. In spite of all this, I could see that it had been a house of value. We strolled from room to room. Savannah pointed out the workmanship of the scrolled woodwork, the placement of the huge windows overlooking the garden, and flow from the sitting room to the parlor to the kitchen with twelve foot ceilings. I was amazed at Savannah’s ongoing descriptions. Her ease and manner spoke to a comfort as though she intimately knew the house.

We climbed the spiral staircase to the upstairs rooms. There was a master room with an attached sitting room and several smaller bedrooms.

“This is my favorite room in the house,” Savannah said as she swung open a broad white door. Sunlight sifted into the room through two oversized windows that crowned a padded sitting bench. An ornate candelabra hung from the tiered ceiling. The carpet was a faded pink with small pale yellow roses climbing along its border. The walls were covered in dim white wall paper with matching yellow sweetheart roses. A small evening table stood in the corner. It was marked through years of use and abuse. Savannah walked over to it and drew her hand slowly, lovingly along the edge. Walking to the window, I looked down the green height of the bluff to the river. After all these years, a stone covered path still wound its way, disappearing into murkiness.

Savannah came to stand next to me. Her terse lips were set in defiance. Her freckles had brightened. In the light, I noticed a few irregular marks blended with them.

“That’s how the soldiers came and went during the war. This house was used as a refuge for wounded soldiers. The family nursed them, and when they were well, they escaped to the river below.” During the war, I knew many of the plantation matriarchs were chief doctor along with their daughters to serve as nurses. I thought of the young girl at the gazebo and all she had experienced living at this magnificent house.  How her life must have changed in those few short years of the war.

I pulled open a stiff closet door. Looking up from the floor was a pair of crinkled white dancing slippers. In a pile next to them, on the floor, was a stained white dress with a blue sash.

“Have you seen enough, Mr. Hackster?”

Looking at Savannah I was drawn to her face. Her wide eyes saw the house when it was still alive with people and voices and music. I could almost hear the music myself and smell the gardenia scent coming in the windows. I could see the young woman with the shimmering raven curls, and dancing eyes and red ruby lips. She had all of the future waiting ahead of her. Savannah could see it too. I knew she could. Her eyes seared into me, meeting me with her mutual understanding. We left the room, and walked down the staircase together, slowly, step by step.

At the front door, I turned to Savannah. I smelled her fresh scented hair mingled with sweet perfume. A straggler of ginger hair kissed her cheek. Gently, I brushed it from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Her skin was soft. So soft. Her hand took mine. Warmth shot up my arm. Leaning into her, our breaths mingled and quickened. Slightly parted lips drew my own to press hers and envelope them. The kiss drew me and melded her to me as surely as the house had captured me. I belonged here in this house. Savannah belonged in the house.

I drove her back to her office promising to be back in a week with an offer. Driving home I brought her face to mind again and again. Suddenly, intruding sharply was an image of another with greasy black unkempt hair, dark eyes, and skin pitted with scars. She was sneering at me. Repulsed, I put this image from my mind.

A week passed, and I returned with the offer. The door to the real estate office was locked. I went to a café across the street. Worn red leather seats surrounded cream colored, laminate tables. Three men looked up from their coffee. Their faces had patient looks, knowing that I would ask them my question soon enough.

“Hi, I’m looking for Savannah. From the real estate office?”

“Real estate office. Wow, there’s one up in Cranston, but there hasn’t been one here for, oh, ‘bout 15 years now,” a heavy man in worn, stained overalls answered.

“Yeah, fifteen, maybe even twenty years, now Gus.” A thin pointy man agreed.

“No, I met her last weekend…she took me to see the Grayson Mansion.”

“Naaah, remember, Jim…there was that woman here last weekend. Savannah something she said her name was. I think she came down from Cranston.”

“Yeah, that’s right, now that you mention it. There was a woman. You thinking about buying the Grayson place, young feller?”

“Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact. Maybe she’s gone ahead to meet me up at the house. If she comes by, tell her I’ll meet her at the mansion.”

“You know it’s haunted!” The thin pointy man called after me as I headed towards the car.

“So I’ve heard,” I smiled. It has certainly bewitched me, I thought.

With that I got into my roadster and headed up to the mansion. As I drove the winding roads, trees and vines lined the narrow road like sentries. Nature’s explosions of lights bounced on my eyes, as expectations wove their way through my mind. I was going to purchase my legacy home and propose to the woman of my dreams.

Reaching the house, I parked on the circle drive. Although there were no other cars, the massive front door was ajar. Savannah must be here.

Stepping over the weeds growing in the cracks on the sidewalk, I called, “Savannah?” Widening a door hanging on crooked hinges as I entered the house, I saw papers and dented beer cans strewn along the hall. A hole in the carpet showed a blackened spot that looked like fire had been burned there. Was that here last time?

“Savannah? Are you here?” I heard a rustle that drew me into the parlor. A huge portrait filled the room. Black eyes smiled at me. The young debutante wore a white dress, with a sky blue sash. Her obsidian curls, were held back from her peach colored face with a blue ribbon. Delicate hands with slender fingers held the family bible.

“Hello, Mr. Hacket? Are you here? Mr. Hacket?” A voice called from the front of the house.

“In here. In the parlor.”

A short, pudgy middle aged woman with frizzy brown hair and an overpowering smile entered the room.

“I see you’ve found the portrait of Miss Grayson.”

“Is that who this is? She’s beautiful.”

“Yes, she was. That portrait was painted in late 1859, I believe. Shortly before the war broke out. Unfortunately she met with a tragic end. You see her family took wounded soldiers in during the war. One of them infected the whole family with the plague. The story goes that although she survived, she was horribly disfigured with the pox, and lost nearly all her hair. She went mad. One night Savannah threw herself off the bluffs behind the house.”

“Savannah?” I asked.

“That’s why people say the house is haunted. They say Savannah appears to people she thinks love the house. She takes the forms of many different women. All young beautiful women.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m Lois from the real estate agency.” Reaching forward, Lois extended her pudgy hand. “I’m sorry for the mix-up about last weekend. I’m glad you got my message and could rearrange your schedule to meet this weekend instead.”

Ted stiffened. Slowly he turned to meet Savannah’s smiling eyes.