Jamie Davis Writes


Myrtles Plantation

A Night at The Myrtles Plantation

Last month, Bob and I had the chance to investigate The Myrtles Plantation on a private overnight stay (this was complete chance, as it was a Sunday night just after the New Year’s holiday). We were booked in the General Bradford Suite for the night, and had the run of the upstairs as well for the entire night. I was surprised to see that the entire house was covered in Haint Blue paint!

The first thing we did after we checked into the room was take the Mel Meter out for a walk around to see if we could get any hits or changes in temperature. Right off the bat, Bob watched the Mel Meter jump to a 6.8 when he held the device against the door leading into our room off the front porch. When we completed our circle of the property, we checked the meter against the door once more. No changes occurred. Also during our walk around the property, my phone went from 60% to completely shutting down. When we got back to the room, I was able to plug the phone in and power it back up. It was immediately at 61% power!

Porch views – day and night shots:



The stay included a tour of the house, and some of the ghost stories are told during this tour. I have read a lot of criticism about these stories, but I am going to reserve comment on all of that for now. I will share our personal experiences for what they are worth.

We spent some time investigating the upper floor, in particular, this creepy blue doll room that I was drawn to. But nothing happened. Not one blip on a meter, not one strange noise, not even a weird feeling to speak of.



Bob speculated that maybe these highfalutin aristocratic ghosts might not be impressed with my requests to “turn on the flashlight.” He makes an interesting point. Asylums and prisons seemed to be filled to the ceiling with entities anxious to make contact. But here, well, we were in someone else’s home. Maybe there were different rules. We cooled it with the ghost hunter schtick and returned to the General Bradford Suite.


Besides sleeping in a real life haunted mansion, all alone, without a living soul in sight and no snacks to speak of, the night passed uneventfully, or so I thought. Bob would report otherwise.

My first strange experience was being awakened around 5:00 a.m. to the sound of clothing rustling near the bed (specifically – rustling skirts), followed by heavy boot steps approaching the room to the door via the front porch. I then heard what sounded like about four wild cats just losing their minds, howling like they were facing death itself out there, while at the same time maintaining a constant run away from whatever was on the porch. By this time I was realizing just how cold the room was. It was down to around 55 degrees but the heat was still running. The front parlor was down to the mid-sixties. The heat was just fine at 72 degrees when we arrived and the time we went to bed. People hear weird stuff when they think they are awake, but really dreaming. Old wooden houses get cold and old heaters break. But why in my almost 33 years on this planet can I not recall a dream where I have had auditory hallucinations? Do I only hallucinate while sleeping in haunted mansions, or was something really going on FOR REAL? Who can say. The mind is a powerful thing (especially mine – I just inserted that to check and see if you are still reading this post, Bob).

Seeing that I was awake also, (and freezing), Bob let me in on what happened to him earlier during the night while I was sleeping peacefully. Bob drifted off around 11:30 p.m. and was awakened by a howling wind. He heard the large shutters banging against the house. He felt the room get noticeably colder by the second, so he reached over to the bedside table and switched the Mel Meter on. He watched the temperature drop 6 degrees right before his eyes. He eventually fell back to sleep, but left the meter on. When he next awoke, he looked at the meter and saw that there had been a 6.8 spike some time in the night. RIGHT BY HIS HEAD.

I noticed a large and very fresh scratch on his head (the right side, closest to the table where the meter was kept) and asked him about it. Neither one of us could figure out how he could make a scratch like that in his sleep. I guess it’s possible I did it somehow, although usually my nails are kept proper ghost hunter style (read:  bitten to the quick).

An entry from my journal on the morning of our departure:  “When I woke up this morning, I felt really sad. All these places we’ve gone to, I’ve never really felt my own death, but it was very much on my mind this morning, and I was concerned about losing Bob. Wonder if I was being an empath to one of the widows – Mary Catherine or Sara Woodruff? We’re both feeling better as we get further and further away from The Myrtles.”



Weird Weekend in New Orleans

To ring in the new year in proper Jamie Davis fashion, Bob and I took off for Louisiana to investigate the famous Myrtles Plantation for our haunted hotel book. But first, I had to see New Orleans.

Day 1

I went straight to the Garden District. I wanted to walk around and take in all the historic homes on foot. We had a completely random and fantastic lunch at Magazine Po-boy Shop. Muffaletta salad and Fried Shrimp Po-boys – tastes like happy. Café Au Lait purchased at a shop across from Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 so I could keep up the pace while strolling through one of the many cities of the dead. My phone went from 68% to being completely drained and turning off the instant I crossed through the entrance gates, by the way.

Once we began to get closer to our car, I reflected back on our walk through the Garden District. I told Bob it was like a snake wrapped up in baby’s clothes, hiding in a bassinet. That was my initial gut statement of the place. I thought it was beautiful, but I felt something lurking underneath, something that did not feel at all welcoming to me.

Even while shopping on Magazine Street, and going in and out of antique stores and galleries, and even sampling some gourmet chocolates (wedding cake truffle?), something was off.

By the time we walked into the Cole Pratt Gallery, and I laid my eyes upon an abstract painting by Mike Williams, I had been completely infected by the atmosphere. At first glance, the painting appeared to be a New Orleans swamp, with ruins of an old plantation rising out of it. We could make out the image of a waterfall, and a woman raising her hands up in the air. Bob saw all of that in the painting too. Then it got a little eerie. I began seeing some other images in the painting. A grim reaper holding a scythe. The devil himself. I should have kept that one to myself, or at least not said it within the range of the gallery owner. She immediately took a step back and gave me the eye. I recovered by smiling and quickly saying:  “Look, there’s a kitty.”

Luckily, the New Orleans Museum of Art was open late that night, and we got to see some more art, this time without someone trying to sell us something (I’m not saying anything about Cole Pratt, that place was lovely. I’m just saying it gets exhausting interacting while shopping in general).

Day 2

New Orleans is the only town I have ever been to where I’ve seen a vampire, a werewolf, and a zombie all on the same day.

The day began with us setting out from The Dauphine Orleans over to Decatur Street for some of Café du Monde’s famous coffee and beignets. It was probably about 8:30 a.m., and the French Quarter was still asleep. I loved exploring the city in the morning when it felt as though it was our own. It started getting crowded again though, once we made our way to the Café. We got our goods to go and set up shop on a bench right in front of the Mighty Mississippi. This is where the vampire comes in. There was (an assumingly) innocent man who was also relaxing on a bench near ours. Out of nowhere, the smallest and shortest vampire I have ever seen walked up in broad daylight out of nowhere and lured this man off the bench. The vampire was white as a sheet as you would expect, but he had also dyed his hair yellow and it was cropped very much in the style of a young Mr. Mathers. He appeared to me to be of Asian descent, and he wore a very smart and expensive looking 3/4 length black velvet coat. The innocent man followed a few feet behind the vampire, as he walked in his hypnotic state to his destiny.

Royal Street is a real riot. I saw some Picasso’s, Miro’s, a Dali, and some Chagall’s, plus an assortment of mysterious long lost family heirlooms. I also saw a real life transformer, a wedding parade, and a werewolf playing the violin. Sadly, I was not quick enough to capture the werewolf.

I was forewarned by a man trying to sell us a bus tour. He told me “Be careful out there. This city is the murder capital of the world. People look the same out here, but they’re not.” Within a few short hours, we met the zombie when fate crossed our paths upon exiting one of the galleries. I thought he was cursing and following some other tourist in front of us, but I think he was stuck on us the whole entire time. He was having a heated debate with someone we could not see. We dipped down a side street beside the Cathedral to avoid him. He followed just the same, but passed us by. He got about 50 yards ahead of us, when he suddenly turned around and locked eyes with me. His warning? “You staring, you’re next.” It was time to check in for the night. The Bourbon Orleans awaited us this time, and we were craving a quiet night in.

The next day would take us to St. Francisville, to the Myrtles Plantation, where we would be the only guests for the night. I could not know it at the time, but things were about to get even weirder.

As always, our travels are indexed inside our “Play” Journal, by Stealth Journals. A sample entry page is pictured below:

stealth journas
Louisiana: Indexed in Play, by Stealth Journals

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