THE TABBY HOUSE

Fort George Island is one of the Talbot Islands up by Jacksonville just off A1A. On the section owned by the National Park Service there stands the Haunted Tabby House and the Kingsley Plantation. A few weeks ago I read about Fort George Island in Joyce Moore's excellent book, HAUNT HUNTER'S GUIDE TO FLORIDA. I called the National Park Service to get permission to visit after dark; the hunter's moon was just a few days away.

The following Saturday night I found myself driving down the winding, shaded roadway toward the Tabby House. Small pin points of moonlight knifed through the thick canopy above and created an eerie glow, made even more ghostly and macabre by long strands of softly swaying Spanish moss which hung thickly from the trees and by the thick palmetto scrub which lined both sides of the road. I was alone, because no one would come with me, and I began to feel a little claustrophobic.

I also began to feel something else. Fort George Island has been continuously occupied by humans for five thousand years. Traces of every period remain. There are thirty some archaeological sites on the island, including the old tabby slave quarters, and I can almost hear the big old bell clanging, calling the slaves in from the fields. Is that what I feel? Or is it some pre-historic Indian?
I drive on and suddenly I am in a clearing and there stand the ruins of the Tabby House, washed in the whiteness of the full moon. Tabby, as you know, is a mixture of sand, water, and lime made from burning oyster shells, which is then mixed with whole shells and poured into forms to make a serviceable concrete. The moonlight reflecting off the shells makes the ruins fairly sparkle.
Not much is left of the house. The walls have eroded, and there is a gaping hole in the middle of the front wall where once stood a door and behind it another wall with a smaller hole, presumably once a window or another doorway. About ten or twenty yards in front of the house there is a low wall, also of tabby, which once surrounded the house.

I stopped by the wall and got out of my truck. All was quiet. I was alone, just me, the crumbling ruins of the old house, girdled by weeds and bathed in the ghostly light of the moon, the dark, forbidding trees which seemed to envelope the whole clearing, and whatever else was out there which I could sense but not quite see. Beads of sweat formed quickly on my upper lip, yet I was freezing cold. My heart pounded loudly in my chest, and I was shaking. I stood there motionless by my truck for a few minutes staring at the ruins and wishing I had enough sense to climb back in and drive away.

Finally, reluctantly, I took a deep breath, climbed the low wall and started walking slowly, softly toward the house. I left my truck door open. The night was deathly quiet, no crickets, no frogs, no birds, not even any man-made noises in the distance. It was like I was the last person left on the Earth, and I was walking toward the extinction of the human species. Maybe I was. I have never been so scared.

But I continued on and finally got to the house. I stopped at the wall and looked around. Nothing but decaying tabby I told myself, trying desperately to believe it. I looked more closely at the construction of this building and marveled at the ingenuity and cleverness of these people. I also thought about the planter who had started this house. It was to have been a home for his married daughter, but before it was finished, he died a violent and mysterious death. Was he murdered by a slave? Perhaps someone from a former time? Was the house ever finished? Did the daughter make this place her home? Or did unearthly spirits descend and take possession? No one knows, but as far back as 1877 this place was known as a haunted house, and many of the locals who live on another part of the island have seen ghosts in the vicinity.

I sat in the doorway, closed my eyes, and listened, trying to hear, trying to feel this place. All I could hear was ringing in my ears. I sat that way for a long time, even leaned back against the wall. I was starting to relax, even though the rough surface of the wall cut into my back. My mind wondered, thinking about what might have gone on in this place, the people who might have lived here, the slaves, the children, hurricanes sweeping across the place and dumping heavy rains on this house, the family warm and cozy inside, soft summer nights with tree frogs chirping and a cooling ocean breeze whispering through the trees and the palmettos. Funny, there was no breeze tonight.
I sat there, calm now, with eyes closed, daydreaming, when suddenly I heard a noise out near my truck. I looked quickly in that direction. I stared for a long time into the moonlight but saw nothing. At length, I turned back towards the building, and my heart jumped into my throat. My body turned to ice and I could not move.

But, when I turned back to the building I was chilled to the bone, frozen in terror, for there in the window stood a huge wolf. His mouth was closed and his face expressionless, but what was so terrifying were his eyes. His eyes seemed larger than normal and they glowed with laser-like brightness, yet they also flickered like the flames from a small, hot fire. He was not twelve feet away. I could smell his wildness. He just stood there, his enormous paws resting on what once was a window sill or door stoop, looking at me and I staring back at him. Finally, I screwed up enough courage to move, and I began backing slowly toward my truck, my eyes riveted on his. Step by step by step, slowly, slowly, I backed. I wasn't watching where I was going and just before I got to the wall, I tripped over a large chunk of tabby which had broken off and fell to the ground, my head landing barely four feet from the wall. I looked up and to my horror standing above me on the wall was a woman in a white flowing dress, waving her arms at me. I could not tell how old or young she was, only that she was not a real person, or no longer a real person. I rolled twice to my right, jumped up, vaulted the wall, and bounded into my truck. Thank God I had left the door open! Within seconds I had spun around and was headed back out to the highway, my accelerator pressed to the floor.

I went back there the next day. It was quite serene and peaceful, completely different from the night before. I plan on going back again at night. Only this time, I think I'll take a friend. Only this time, I think I'll take a friend.

Just e-mail me at dave@davidlapham.net