Plantation Shudders Read Online Free
about the pirate and his treasure again,” Sam begged. The other diners joined him in encouraging Gran’s return to the buried treasure legend.
The rest of the meal was uneventful. Poor Gran’ was held conversational hostage by Hal Clabber as he boasted of the expertise in twentieth-century American theater history that had won him tenure at Conway College, a small school in Nebraska. Maggie imagined that there were a lot of Conway parents who owed Hal thanks for being so boring that he propelled students out of theater and into more lucrative fields.
Hal finally dozed off in his chair and was helped to his room by Bud and Marie. Beverly followed, smiling as always. As soon as the last guest was gone, Maggie and the rest of her family retreated to the kitchen to clean up. Tug and Ninette then retired to bed, and Maggie walked Gran’ back to the house the two shared. It was a shotgun house, the name inspired by a layout where a bullet shot from the front door would go straight out the back door. Dating back to the 1820s, it was the oldest building on the property and the original residence of the Crozats before they decided to celebrate their sugarcane wealth with a fancy showplace.
Maggie kissed her grandmother good-night and then retrieved the oil paints and portable easel that she kept in her bedroom. With the help of a small flashlight, she made her way through the dark to woods at the east end of Crozat land, where a stream fed into Bayou Beurre. Green branches hung heavyover the lush waterway, and an occasional cypress popped out of the water like an arboreal jack-in-the-box.
As she set up her supplies, Maggie’s eyes adjusted to the dark. The outside world fell away as she focused on her canvas. She had taken to painting at all different hours, capturing the way light and dark played with the lush Louisiana landscape. She particularly loved the plantation grounds at night, when clouds, stars, and the moon competed for space in the sky. The evening’s full moon provided the scene with highlights and shadows; Maggie filled in the rest with her imagination.
A long gray cloud wandered over the evening’s full moon, and she took a brief break to let her eyes readjust. She heard leaves crunch nearby. An animal, she assumed, probably a neighbor’s dog. There was another crunch. Then another. And Maggie realized that she wasn’t listening to an animal. She was hearing footsteps.
Maggie was no longer alone.
Chapter Three
Maggie froze, heart pounding. Should I scream? she wondered. No. Relax. It’s probably just a guest who can’t sleep. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself.
“Hello, who’s there?” She called into the darkness. “It’s me, Maggie Crozat. Is everything okay?”
The footsteps stopped. Then they resumed at a quicker pace, fading as whoever it was took off in the opposite direction. Maggie packed up her supplies and hurried home. She checked out the main house and outbuildings to see if the late-night visitor might be one of Crozat’s guests, but all was still in both buildings. She scurried inside her house, double-locked the door, and rested her ear against it, listening for any sound that indicated movement outside. There was a rustle of leaves, and Maggie tensed. She peeked out the front window and noticed Spanish moss swaying from a slight breeze. I must have heard the wind picking up the leaves , she thought. She waited in silence, but there were no more footsteps.
Maggie sat on the couch and tried to calm herself down. The event spooked her. Why would anyone be wandering around Crozat in the middle of the night? And if they weren’t “up to no good,” as Gran’ would say, why was there no response when she called out? Maggie fussed over these questions and more as she readied for bed. She checked to make sure her window was secured, crawled under the bed covers, and fell asleep clutching the gris-gris bag Lia had given her for protection.
*
Maggie woke up a few hours
The rest of the meal was uneventful. Poor Gran’ was held conversational hostage by Hal Clabber as he boasted of the expertise in twentieth-century American theater history that had won him tenure at Conway College, a small school in Nebraska. Maggie imagined that there were a lot of Conway parents who owed Hal thanks for being so boring that he propelled students out of theater and into more lucrative fields.
Hal finally dozed off in his chair and was helped to his room by Bud and Marie. Beverly followed, smiling as always. As soon as the last guest was gone, Maggie and the rest of her family retreated to the kitchen to clean up. Tug and Ninette then retired to bed, and Maggie walked Gran’ back to the house the two shared. It was a shotgun house, the name inspired by a layout where a bullet shot from the front door would go straight out the back door. Dating back to the 1820s, it was the oldest building on the property and the original residence of the Crozats before they decided to celebrate their sugarcane wealth with a fancy showplace.
Maggie kissed her grandmother good-night and then retrieved the oil paints and portable easel that she kept in her bedroom. With the help of a small flashlight, she made her way through the dark to woods at the east end of Crozat land, where a stream fed into Bayou Beurre. Green branches hung heavyover the lush waterway, and an occasional cypress popped out of the water like an arboreal jack-in-the-box.
As she set up her supplies, Maggie’s eyes adjusted to the dark. The outside world fell away as she focused on her canvas. She had taken to painting at all different hours, capturing the way light and dark played with the lush Louisiana landscape. She particularly loved the plantation grounds at night, when clouds, stars, and the moon competed for space in the sky. The evening’s full moon provided the scene with highlights and shadows; Maggie filled in the rest with her imagination.
A long gray cloud wandered over the evening’s full moon, and she took a brief break to let her eyes readjust. She heard leaves crunch nearby. An animal, she assumed, probably a neighbor’s dog. There was another crunch. Then another. And Maggie realized that she wasn’t listening to an animal. She was hearing footsteps.
Maggie was no longer alone.
Chapter Three
Maggie froze, heart pounding. Should I scream? she wondered. No. Relax. It’s probably just a guest who can’t sleep. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself.
“Hello, who’s there?” She called into the darkness. “It’s me, Maggie Crozat. Is everything okay?”
The footsteps stopped. Then they resumed at a quicker pace, fading as whoever it was took off in the opposite direction. Maggie packed up her supplies and hurried home. She checked out the main house and outbuildings to see if the late-night visitor might be one of Crozat’s guests, but all was still in both buildings. She scurried inside her house, double-locked the door, and rested her ear against it, listening for any sound that indicated movement outside. There was a rustle of leaves, and Maggie tensed. She peeked out the front window and noticed Spanish moss swaying from a slight breeze. I must have heard the wind picking up the leaves , she thought. She waited in silence, but there were no more footsteps.
Maggie sat on the couch and tried to calm herself down. The event spooked her. Why would anyone be wandering around Crozat in the middle of the night? And if they weren’t “up to no good,” as Gran’ would say, why was there no response when she called out? Maggie fussed over these questions and more as she readied for bed. She checked to make sure her window was secured, crawled under the bed covers, and fell asleep clutching the gris-gris bag Lia had given her for protection.
*
Maggie woke up a few hours
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