Night Chere (18+)

Chase Fuller felt a shiver creep up the soft invisible hairs along his spine as he stared at the ancient white-washed plantation home framed by the setting sun and two centuries-old oak trees on either side. The home leaned a few degrees to the right, a lonely second-floor porch pressing softly on the encroaching tree whose thin branches lingered outward as curious tentacles looking to grab hold.

The property rested on only fifteen of its original 3,000 acres, yet for a young writer from Nashville, fifteen was as good as 3,000. The home had been on the market for nearly three years, as was evidenced by the wooden "for sale" sign overcome by brush. In fact, the entire property could use a good chop and scrub. Chase noted pruning back the brush from the gate as his first task once he owned the property. He stood under the tall wrought iron gate whose doors were splayed open, one of which an above-ground tree root had engulfed. Thorn and vine had overtaken the other gate, holding it tight to the ground like a rusted lock without a key.

Despite the work and money, he knew that, when done, he would have restored one of the great forgotten Antebellum properties in Louisiana. The word “forgotten” being an understatement. He’d come upon Bellafont Plantation by accident after rifling through dozens of old magazines, newspapers, and his best friend Google. Of all the places, he found a short article about the property in Lost Treasure magazine. The article title wasn’t lost on him either—Treasure Abounds at Forgotten Bellafont. Although the story itself seemed a bit far-fetched and something to the far side of psychics, mediums and ghost hunters, it made for a good read.

A couple weeks of investigation led Chase to a real estate posting. A few photos and he was sold. The hard part was getting to see the place. The owner couldn’t be reached and neither could the real estate company. In fact, neither the broker nor the agent were listed online. But, Chase was sure his cash offer, ten-percent over asking, would make the owner jump to sell. Just because he couldn’t reach the owners didn’t stop a man like Chase Fuller from taking a weekend away from Nashville’s nightlife to drive nine hours for a visual of the place he intended to make a home.

Chase reached into his rental car to fetch his cell phone. He faced the dying mansion feeling good about speaking to his fiancé Rachel after such a long absence.

Her phone rang four times before going to voicemail and Chase both smiled at the sound of her voice and rolled his eyes knowing she was never too far from her phone. He paced in front of the car as he waited for her message to end. “Well, you said to call when I got here. Just as we thought, the house is falling apart, which hopefully helps with the offer. Its location is perfect. Just have to make them a deal they can’t refuse. But where are you? I know my fiancé keeps her phone attached to her ear, so call me ASAP. Love you. Bye.”

“I could build something great here.” He said out loud as he tossed his phone back into the car and grabbed a beer from one of the cup holders between the front seats. He took a final warm swig, grateful to feel the liquid temporarily quench his thirst, yet not so thrilled at how quickly it had warmed in the Louisiana heat. “I guess I’ll have to get used to the heat down here.”

He looked back toward Bellafont. How could anyone let a beauty like this place fall into such shambles? His only hope was that he didn’t have to remove too much of her charm. He wanted to preserve as much as possible. He wanted to feel the home in its original 1858 charm, a simpler, yet intense time just before the war that ripped the nation apart. This plantation was an all-too-close reminder of those days. He tipped his head back and allowed the last two drops of beer to hit the back of his throat. “Then again, maybe I’m looking at you through beer goggles.” He said to the house and laughed as he placed the empty bottle to one of his eyes. “Nope, still eerily ugly and beautiful at the same time.”

He tossed the bottle into the tall grass behind him and walked toward the house. A cool wind caressed reeds standing on edge along the bayou. Uncertainty stopped him in his tracks as if the wind were more than simply a rare reprieve from the heat. That’s silly, he thought, and the leaves of the oaks danced in the wake of the breeze. Again, Chase shivered, not accustomed to the awkward feeling now spoiling his approach to the home.

“Okay,” he second-thought his decision to linger any longer, “Maybe I’ll look next time. The place isn’t mine yet. It’s probably rude to go looking through windows without permission anyway.” Still, the nagging wouldn’t die away. He wanted so bad to look inside. If only the knot in his stomach weren’t a stronger will of force, he might have hung around longer.

Instead, he moved to turn around. But, before he completed his tipsy little twist something caught his eye. Squinting into the bright orange sunset falling to the side of the home’s widows watch, he swore he saw a figure standing in a second-floor window. Then as quickly as it appeared, the figure was gone.

It was enough for him to step up his pace and quickly open his car door, being careful to close it as quietly as he could. Thoughts of gun-toting serial killers and Deliverance banjo music played on his mind. “I need a drink,” he said as he plugged the key into the ignition, letting loose a sigh of relief when the engine started up. He slipped the car into gear and backed out of the driveway, pulling into a Y-turn on the way out and then speeding up put some distance between himself and the house.

“I’ll be back darling with the deed and an army of contractors,” he said watching the house fade away in the rearview mirror, completely unaware of the set of eyes curiously watching him leave.