Whispers Beneath the Spanish Moss: The Haunting Legacy of Myrtles Plantation

There is a corner of Louisiana where time itself seems to hesitate—where the air, heavy with magnolia and mystery, carries voices that do not belong to the present. This place is Myrtles Plantation, nestled in the sleepy town of St. Francisville. Though it stands today as a picturesque example of Southern antebellum architecture, it harbors within its oak-shrouded walls a legacy far darker than its elegance suggests.

Known as one of the most haunted houses in America, the Myrtles has become less a historical residence than a mirror of memory and myth, reflecting ghostly echoes that refuse to be silenced.

Built in 1796 by General David Bradford, the plantation was originally named “Laurel Grove.” From its earliest days, the land was marked by unrest. Bradford himself was a fugitive from the law—a participant in the Whiskey Rebellion—and the house became his sanctuary.

But the true legends began decades later, particularly with Clark and Sara Woodruff, whose family would become the central figures in the plantation's haunted folklore.

It is said that one of their slaves, a young woman named Chloe, was caught eavesdropping and punished by having her ear cut off. Seeking revenge—or perhaps desperate to regain favor—she allegedly baked a poisoned cake intended only to sicken the family. The result, however, was tragic: Sara Woodruff and two of her children died.

Chloe was hanged by fellow slaves and her body thrown into the Mississippi. Whether this account is truth or tall tale remains uncertain, but the ghost of a one-eared woman in a green turban has been reported wandering the premises ever since.

Visitors and staff alike have reported mirrors that trap souls, particularly one that is said to contain the spirits of Sara and her children. Tradition held that mirrors be covered after a death—but in this case, it was allegedly left uncovered, and the grieving spirits never escaped.

The grand staircase holds its own story—a supposed murder committed there bleeds into spectral reenactments seen by some guests: bloody handprints appearing, then vanishing, and phantom footsteps echoing without source.

In one guest room, known as the Judge Clarke Woodruff Room, visitors have reported waking to a spectral figure tugging at their blankets, cold spots, or the distinct sensation of being watched by something unseen. Many have fled the house in the middle of the night.

Historians have long debated the accuracy of the Chloe tale. Records show only one of the Woodruff children died young, and no contemporary documentation of a poisoning incident exists. Yet folklore, as ever, thrives in the absences of fact.

Psychics, investigators, and skeptics have all passed through the Myrtles’ wide doors. Some leave convinced it is all a grand illusion. Others leave shaken, pale, and unwilling to speak of what they felt—or saw.

What makes Myrtles Plantation so unique is not simply the quantity of alleged phenomena, but the consistency and intensity of the experiences recounted across generations.

Whether haunted by lost souls, restless echoes, or the collective guilt of an era, Myrtles Plantation stands as more than a relic. It is a sentinel—an embodiment of history’s refusal to be buried.

In the hushed moments before dawn, when the cicadas fall silent and the fog curls low beneath the trees, one might hear the faint notes of a piano playing in an empty room. Or see, for just a second, the figure of a child peering out from an upstairs window that no longer opens.

At Myrtles Plantation, the past is not dead. It lingers. It whispers.

Doktor Lazarus

Archeologist, Hystorian, Collector, Curator Indipendent