You step into a photograph-
where Your reflection is not your own but that of two hundred years past, a mixed up dissolution of historic proportions, war, pain and suffering. An unspoken secret wanders its corridors, alone with a faint paleness. People died here. People good and evil and we know that in its thick walls their was no ordinary part to any place in the house for which we would be spending the night alone...
And when we crossed its soil, we new that we were indefinitely apart of its bewitching gaze and we were forever chained to it.
From the windows that watched as you walked past,
to the uneven and miniature stairway up, you could smell the scent looming past your doorway.
the old portraits hanging misfortunatly with the unbalance of their time, the creaking of old doorknobs as they turned hesitantly.
Charlie and I could feel that Mertyles was no ordinary place,
No place for a child to run aimlessly,
This was a place with rules and power, it had a magnitude of strength you could feel and a heaviness that explored.
Meryles, was so still but yet so solid, if you could imagine her walls had been clinging to this world since 1794, and her woe of her fruitful labors were still thick with the grim demise of it's slave stricken history, you could surely feel your patience being tested, a uncomfortable reminder almost instantly.
There are many legends that grace the plantation, one of which was about a slave woman named Chloe who was owned by Mark and Sara Woodruff. She was soon to become his mistress and while one day ease dropping on the family affairs, her punishment was loss of her left ear, which was cut off by Mr. Woodfuff himself. It also accounts that Chloe had poisoned Sara and her children by accident while placing oleander leaves in a cake one evening. Her plan was too put very little in it, nurse them back to health and win back the families affections, however her plan supposedly backfired and she ended up killing Sara and her young children. She was hung for her crime.
There have been many accounts, some of which involve the deaths of many slaves on and around the grounds. Mertyles is also known to have been originally and Indian burial ground, where an apparition of a young indian woman can be seen.
Our experience at Mertyles was entirely unique, as we were granted the opportunity to stay within the original area of the plantation home. This made our experience very authentic, but I must admit uncomfortable knowing the accounts. There were no tv's, no radios, no connections to the outside world. You could feel the still moodiness from the home, the creaking and yawning of the wood and old frames. There were no people that night after 11pm as Charlie and I looked out the window onto the courtyard. The wind blew gently and the only lights around were faint and dim. It felt really unruly and actually very uneasy at a certain point.
We were guest in their home dated back two hundred years and it almost felt as if we would be caught by someone or something. Just after 11pm we had grown a bit tired, we decided to lay back in bed and rest, when we heard three taps at the door, a strong hit in a timely manner, as if someone from death was coming home. The staircase leading down towards the door was pitch black, as it was around us, and we could see nothing. Throughout the nights restlessness, we could hear many things, from footsteps, foreign noises, shuffling, chiming from down below us similar to an alarm…but there wasn't one accounted for..
We also took pictures, a few of an orb I captured within our room and the scent of cigar smoke during witching hour made us sea sick. The night was full of phantoms and one I can admit, made us feel reassured we were trespassing on someones sacred grounds. Our two worlds appeared to collide, whether we were entering their dimension or they were in ours it was something to think about. Something you had to experience on your own. The town would have nothing to do with the place after dark, and maybe we were crazy for walking into its path, but no matter the haunting romance of the period or the devils could shake us. We wanted to seek truths and we wanted to find answers. When we drove up the first day, the sent of sugar scented flowers masked the home in a dreamy affair, just like the day we left, the night was its own prisoner and the legends are what made our mind spin and run wild. Was it just a home of sincere majesty, or was it a monster in southern charm. Its indefinite we conclude that it was residual, due to the same occurrence interacting over and over throughout the night, a rerun being expressed and the haunting land it feeded on.