with Author Deborah LeBlanc

Proof Please

Ghost stories in Louisiana are as common as gumbo in winter. I grew up listening to them at the foot of my grandmother's rocker. Even now, I can still hear the creak of that old chair as she'd rock, telling the tales in French, her voice almost a whisper, her eyes wide with fervor, and her hands animated as she neared the climax of the story. Each tale fascinated and terrified me because I knew they were true accounts of either my grandmother's experiences with the supernatural or those of someone very close to her. Since I'd never known her to lie or even stretch the truth, my grandmother's stories should have been proof enough for me to believe that ghosts did exist. But I'm a classic Doubting Thomas, and as I got older, figured I should go out and experience the 'truth' for myself.

Initially, my ghost hunting adventures were done alone and with little more than a disposable camera and a set of brass balls. Over time, I collected more sophisticated tools of the trade: an electromagnetic field meter, infrared thermometers, 35mm camera, digital camera, EVP recorder, camcorder with night vision capabilities, flashlights, compass, and a first aid kit. The set of brass balls became a given. Eventually, I joined two professional paranormal investigation teams, began traveling to purported haunted locations throughout the country, and even did some scouting for MTV's Fear program.

In my many travels, and with the aid of this fancy equipment, I've managed to capture dozens of disjointed voices on tape and hundreds of pictures containing unusual blobs and orbs, swirls and squiggles. But after fifteen years of hunting, I still can't give testament to having seen a real ghost. Maybe I'm too much of a Doubting Thomas for them to even bother materializing when I'm around. I did learn the hard way, though, that you don't have to see a ghost to piss it off….

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to visit the Nicholson House, which is located in Washington, Louisiana. The two-story clapboard is relatively plain but in decent condition, considering it was built in the mid-eighteen hundreds.

The first clue that caused me to suspect the house might be a hot spot (a location with real paranormal activity), came the moment I stepped onto the porch. I felt a pulling sensation throughout my body, as though an unseen magnet lay hidden beneath the porch and my innards had suddenly morphed into metal. Judging from the earnest whispers coming from the rest of the investigation team, I knew they were experiencing the same phenomenon. We snapped a few pictures of the surrounding area, then I made my way to the front door on wobbly legs.

(Nicholson House- Front porch on the left.)

I had called the day before to set up our arrival time, so it didn't surprise me when the owner answered after only one knock. Mildred Nicholson, dressed in a cornflower blue house dress and white tennis shoes, greeted us with a warm, toothy smile and after a short round of introductions, welcomed us into her home.

The pulling sensation vanished as soon as I crossed the threshold.

From inside, the house appeared much smaller, with its low ceilings and clutter of memorabilia that stemmed back to the mid '40s, when Mildred reigned as the first Miss Louisiana.

As the elderly woman led us through the living room, all the while chattering about the "ghost friends" who lived with her, I noticed a portrait hanging on the wall beside a narrow staircase. It appeared to be a version of the Madonna and Child, but something about it felt 'off.' When I asked Mildred about the picture, she explained that back in the late '40s, a family member had set out to paint the portrait of a demon he saw regularly in his dreams. When he finished the portrait, however, it so terrified him, he quickly painted over it with an image of the Madonna and Child. The holy image was his way of repenting for having painted the demon in the first place. The revised painting didn't stick, however. Over time, the faces began to change, taking on shadows, as though the original painting wanted to bleed through.

After telling her story about the repentant artist, Mildred motioned for us to follow her into the kitchen. I asked if she'd mind me going upstairs to check out the room right above us, which had served as a makeshift hospital during the Civil War.

Mildred shook her head. "I wouldn't go up there right now if I were you. That's where most of 'em live, I think, and they're not exactly thrilled about all the extra company today. Give 'em a little time to get used to ya'll hanging around." With that, she flashed me one of her brilliant smiles, then headed for the kitchen.

We reluctantly followed, each of us throwing furtive glances over a shoulder, itching to know what didn't want us upstairs. Curiosity finally got the best of me, and I began to lag behind. After all, Mildred didn't specifically tell me NOT to go upstairs. She'd just sort of suggested it.

When the coast finally cleared, I snuck back to that narrow staircase. The moment I touched the first step, I felt the same pulling sensation I'd experienced on the porch. I hesitated for a moment, and the pulling grew stronger. With every hair on my arms standing on end, I pressed on, taking another step, then another. By the time I reached the sixth step, the pulling sensation was so powerful, I had difficulty breathing. I stopped, reassessed my ascent for a second or two, then picked up my foot to take the next step. No sooner did my sneaker hit the cypress plank than something unseen shoved hard against my left shoulder. I gasped and reached for the banister. Before I could grab hold of it, I was shoved again, harder this time, and I found myself stumbling down to the last step, one arm windmilling for balance.

Okay, I may be a Doubting Thomas, but I'm not stupid. I took the hint and hurried away to find Mildred and the rest of the crew.

(Note the banister to the right of the Madonna and Child picture. This is the staircase that led to the upper room. Strangely, this was the only part of the staircase that showed up on film. All the others came out extremely blurry, even the digital.)

I never did let on about what happened on the stairs, but Mildred must have suspected something because later on, when she gave us the all clear for the second floor, she looked directly at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

(Upstairs room where emergency surgeries were done during the Civil War and where Mildred said "they" lived. Surgical tools are on the table in the forefront, Confederate uniform on the table next to the window.)

(Three crew members checking out a hideaway beneath the Nicholson House.)

Unfortunately, our equipment didn't capture any paranormal images that day. But I didn't need pictures to prove what I already knew. Something lived in Mildred Nicholson's house, and it didn't appreciate nosey guests.


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