The Myrtles

One of the Louisiana must-dos I’d never knocked out was a trip to The Myrtles, the ghost-strewn plantation in St. Francisville that regularly tops lists of America’s most haunted locales. 

I recently had the chance to visit the property, as twenty-six-year-old proprietor Morgan Moss repositions the family business to draw in locals, schoolchildren, and foodies—while staying sensitive to the spirit world.

I’ve never been a big believer in ghosts—I’ve gotten two tattoos since my grandmother died, and if she could have said something she certainly would have—but the writer, Southerner, history major, and gossip in me all love a good story, the worse the better. I knew vaguely that Something Had Happened at The Myrtles, but I didn’t know the story and it seemed too late to ask, so I assumed I’d just figure it out the way I ultimately picked up the pronunciation difference between Conti and Tonti. Longtime employee Hester Eby saved me—in an abridged tour she graciously stepped away from her work to give me, she told me of the doings and travails of the house’s former occupants—both pre- and post-mortem.

The best-known story of The Myrtles is of Chloe, the poisoner. An enslaved woman kept as a mistress by Judge Clark Woodruff, then-owner of the home, she had been caught eavesdropping and lost an ear to her master’s spite. Chloe distilled an extract from the oleanders that grew on the property—those pretty flowers conceal a potentially heart-stopping poison—and baked it into cake. Her unloving lover was spared; his wife and children were not, and Chloe was soon hanged for her vengeance. According to Eby, their faces and fingerprints can still be seen in the front hall’s mirror from time to time—and Chloe, stylish yet practical even in death, occasionally helps herself to an earring if she sees a pair she likes. (She only needs the one.)

...some people think they’d be delighted right up until [a ghost sighting] actually happens, some people swear they’ll never see a ghost until they do, “and some people have a few mint juleps and see anything.”

Chloe and her victims aren’t the only ghosts The Myrtles’ staff and guests have seen or felt over the years. William Winter, who was shot on the porch by an unknown attacker and died on the seventeenth step of the staircase (no, I don’t know if that’s where his feet were or where his head was) has appeared, as has his widow. Guests have reported a mournful, elderly African-American man, who speaks little but mentions “the wallow,” as the pond on the property once was. The private tragedies of slaves’ lives were seldom recorded, so whatever befell him or his family there is not known. Eby herself has had experiences in her forty-four years working at The Myrtles; she regularly used to see uniformed soldiers standing near the main staircase, though this is rare now that her peripheral vision is weaker. She notes that reactions to the ghosts and to the ideas of the ghosts vary—some people think they’d be delighted right up until it actually happens, some people swear they’ll never see a ghost until they do, “and some people have a few mint juleps and see anything.”

While the allure for me was the stories that live in its walls, The Myrtles could get by on its looks alone. I actually gasped at crown molding, something I thought myself incapable of, and was transfixed by the sinister glamour of doorknobs made from mercury encased in glass. Money ostensibly does not buy happiness, but it can buy awfully pretty things. As fascinating are the telling little relics of how people used to live: Eby called my attention to a petticoat mirror, a low-set glass where ladies could check the edges of voluminous skirts for misalignment or schmutz.

After the tour, Eby delivered me to the main courtyard, where I talked to Morgan Moss about his plans and direction for the property—we were joined by an officious little lizard that scuttled over the table and, eventually, over Moss himself. Moss, whose parents were long-time owners of The Myrtles and who lived there for a while as a boy, recently took over management of the property from his father. The elder Moss had relied on managers to run the business, but Morgan saw opportunities for growth. On the pragmatic side, he modernized a number of processes, making reservations available online and setting up social media pages; on the big-picture side, he envisioned a development of the historic property that would maximize the pleasure it gave to its guests and community, sharing the place he loves with more people—and more demographics.

[Also read: Alabama's Ghost Capital: Almost-vanished Cahawba contains treasures of history]

Tapping into the enthusiasm for place and the enthusiasm for fresh ingredients that have informed the modern farm-to-table movement, Moss is planting fruits and vegetables to provide produce for the new on-site eatery, Restaurant 1796; another plot attached to the property will be leased to farmers under terms that give The Myrtles rights of first refusal on purchasing the produce and allow guests to explore the working fields. Restaurant 1796 will also boast a massive open-hearth cooking space, complete with adjacent seating for a chef’s table experience from Chef Ben Lewis; the first six months’ worth or more of the wood needed will come from The Myrtles itself, a side effect of felling trees to open the “face” of the property more to the road. After that, Moss expects to work with local arborists to use fallen trees and boughs that will be cut and dried on-site. 

In a changing tourism environment that sees Old South nostalgia with increasing squeamishness, Moss plans to entertain more than to educate. The necessary and difficult interpretive work is being done at other sites; Moss instead looks to the best of the Southern traditions, hospitality, as a guiding spirit for the refreshed property. “I asked myself, how can I share this place with more people?” He hopes that, in addition to the out-of-town tourists who come to The Myrtles for a cozy-yet-spooky escape, The Myrtles can also become more deeply woven into the fabric of St. Francisville, welcoming more people from the town to its restaurant and weekday events. “I hope people will just come by in the evenings to have a drink on the patio and play bocce ball.”

Between Eby’s encouragements to come spend the night and Moss’ excited explanations of the further developments at The Myrtles, I know I’ll make time to visit again soon. I’m looking forward to exploring the new restaurant, relaxing on the grounds, and getting another eyeful of the house’s striking contents. I won’t expect to see a ghost, but I can’t think of a place I’d rather be proven wrong.  

themyrtlesplantation.com