Swanwood

A Ghost Story

I enjoy reading ghost stories in the summer, and hopefully you do too. I wrote this piece one late night in warm Virginia, and it is inspired by true events. Get ready for Swanwood.

SWANWOOD

We were looking for a house.

Swanwood probably wouldn’t have happened. But our landlord raised the rent - again.

“Look Edie I have 8 tenants and I like you best,” Mr. Taylor said, “but I just can’t afford property taxes this year without raising your rent.”

I wrapped my arms around myself in the cold hallway and shivered. Landlord Mr. Taylor was at least 80 years old. He wore a battered green dressing gown everywhere. White dog hair from one of his three small dogs appeared on his collar. The hallway was always cold and the four units, piping hot. We had a gas stove and a refrigerator that didn’t close. None of the dryers worked so there was a frayed clothesline across the front balconies, which were so rickety and rundown you daren’t step on them for too long. Sometimes the postman delivered our mail and sometimes not. The hallway carpet stank of dog piss. Despite all this, we were content in our little apartment, and we liked Mr. Taylor.

His old frame shook slightly and I held my arm out to him. He waved his hand no and started walking back to his ground floor suite. “I will be sorry to see you go, Edie,” he said, and coughed. “But the rent will be going up by $450 on April first.”

April Fools, I thought grimly.

My husband Sam and I walked to our car in the four-car parking lot that Saturday morning. Every weekend was now a house hunting weekend. And it was getting old, two months in. Sam placed his coffee thermos on the sedan roof. Dew clung to the car doors.

“House number seven,” he said cheerfully as he escorted me into the passenger seat.

“Number eight,” I replied.

“That’s right,” he said, grabbing the thermos. We had found a realtor, she was the wife of one of Sam’s coworkers. Sam was excited to move closer to his work, where he could start earlier and come home sooner.

“This will be a good move for us.” He said as he turned the key. “I’ll be closer to the yard. I can work on getting my crane operator license. We’ll have more space, more room, even some land.” I stared out the window. “We can’t rent forever you know.”

“I know.” I said, turning to look at him. “But we’ve lived here for years. We know which grocery stores have the best fruit and which have the best meat, we know the neighborhood…we’ve even been getting to know our downstairs neighbor Mrs. Scary Lady!” Sam laughed. “I don’t want to move,” I muttered. Sam looked at me sympathetically.

“I know this’ll be harder for you than me. You’ve become pretty cosmopolitan. You work from home and have gotten used to the view. You have your schedule here. But we agreed we’d move out of the city at some point. I guess that point is now.” He shrugged and drank his coffee.

Dependable Sam, I thought. Every place is the same to him. He is like one of T.S. Eliot’s cats. I watched one of my favorite small gardens fly by. But I, I thought, shrinking into my seat, am like a bird, and I do not know if I can move my nest.

We were parked outside of a diner, looking through a printout Alex gave us. Today she drove the white BMW. Last time it was the black jeep. “They’re not hers,” Sam explained as he parked, “she rents them to impress her clients.”

“Ah,” I said, exiting the car.

“Ready to go?” She chirped.

“Alex this won’t work,” I said, waving the printout. “It’s in a HOA. And it’s too close to the highway.”

“Well I thought you might say that. So I lined up another one last minute. I don’t have a summary for you but it’s in your price range, huge yard, quiet street, you’ll love it!” I watched her clamber into the BMW excitedly. “Follow me!”

We followed her south down the state highway, turning into a little lane that looked like it was used for U-turns and little else.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“About a half hour from the yard, which beats my hour and twenty minute drive now.”

I looked into the tall hedge by the lane and thought I saw lemon trees. I rolled down the window. “Mmm, smells sweet.” Dust levitated off the road. Soon the gravel turned to dirt. Huge cedars lined our path. We approached two brick columns, with swan statues on top. “SWAN WOOD”.

“This cannot be in our price range,” I breathed.

“Alex wouldn’t show us something we couldn’t afford,” Sam replied. “She wants that commission bad.”

“Five percent,” I said, as a huge plantation home gradually towered into view. A two-story white beauty appeared before us, with seven Grecian columns in front. Wrinkled old boxwoods fell by the sides. Dust swirled and rose around our tires. None of the windows had screens, and they stared at us, silent, watching.

“Here it is!” Alex called out, disembarking.

“Whoa,” Sam said, shutting the car door. I agreed.

Alex fumbled with the lockbox and front door key. “Just came on the market. The flipper gave up and wants to sell. Needs a good pressure wash. One of the rooms needs to be insulated and completed and everything needs paint. Get a good mason for this brickwork. The well works,”

“Deep well?” Sam asked excitedly.

“Nope, shallow. But the brambles in the back indicate good water.” Alex pushed the door open with a grunt. “Welcome!”

We walked inside. A grand staircase met us and led up to the second floor. A large living room, bathroom and kitchen sat on the first floor. Four bedrooms were on the second floor. “Enough room for a home office!” Alex said sparklingly, looking at me. She opened one of the doors. “Solid oak. Would take 50 years to build one like that.”

“Smells sort of damp,” Sam said, looking around. Alex nodded.

“Yup all these houses have issues like that. A dehumidifier in the crawl space will fix you right up.”

“Well we’ll need an inspection regardless,”

As the two discussed this, I approached the kitchen window. A lush lawn of clover and dandelions spread before me, and beyond that, a marsh. I turned the faucet on. Clear cold water. I looked up. Fresh drywall.

In the marsh grass, I saw movement. A burly yellow dog appeared and was sniffing around. It wore a tattered leather collar. I had seen no neighbors, but somehow the sight of the dog comforted me. We weren’t totally alone out here. Dogs got loose in the area regularly, and even Mr. Taylor lost his dogs occasionally.

I turned back to join Sam and Alex. “How’s the wiring?” I asked when I caught up with them.

“The flipper did that first,” Alex flipped a switch on and off and then stared at her phone. Her lips pursed. “His realtor wants me to tell you there’s nothing wrong with the house. The project just got too big for him. That’s all.”

“Well we’ll get an inspection anyway,” Sam said, knocking on a wall.

“It’s in the Elmer school district, which is what I know you were looking for. Walmart, Food Lion, and Walgreens are all just twenty minutes’ drive away,” she continued, staring at her phone. She drew breath sharply and then fell silent.

“How old is the house?” I asked.

“1840.” She answered.

“Wow. I’m surprised the family let it go.”

“You know how it is. When the big farms started dumping all their shit into the Bay the oystermen starved. So the town moved into pigs and lumber, but couldn’t compete. The wood doesn’t grow fast enough around here. Then heroin moved in, and OxyContin, and we had that quack foreign doctor handing out pills like candy,”

“The one who just got pardoned,” Sam interjected. “Bobby said he told his girlfriend he could pay for her appointment by sleeping with him. What a dirtbag,” Alex nodded.

“You know I heard that too,” she said. “Anyway there’s an old slaughterhouse about a mile up the lane if you’re interested, been on the market forever -”

“What about neighbors?” I asked. Wind came and stirred the house. Its wide floorboards creaked.

“Neighbors?” Alex asked, blinking. “None around here. You’ve got nearly two acres all to yourself.”

“But how could that be? We’re right off the main road. There has to be someone else,” I asserted. Alex shook her head.

“Nope. The marsh is protected and you can’t build on it anyway. That slaughterhouse has been empty for years. The family who owned this place had all the land but after the Civil War, no one to work it. So it’s all just sort of sat here, or been carved up by the department of transportation.” Alex looked at her phone again.

I wanted to bring up the dog. But I didn’t. I didn’t know enough about dogs in this part of America. I didn’t know about hunting dogs, birding dogs, or any of that. The yellow dog looked healthy. It had a collar. I tried to push it out of my mind.

Sam must’ve seen the look on my face because he said, “it’s getting late. We should probably head back. Can you send me the paperwork on this place tonight?”

“Sure can!” Alex replied.

“Well!” Sam exclaimed in the car. “That’s the best one yet. Plenty of land, house is big, in our price range, nice and private and the school district is top notch. I can finish that one room upstairs and we can get the painting done no problem. I can pressure wash it myself too. It’s far enough from the main road, close to work…”

“Hey,” I said as we were well on our way back to the apartment, “did you see that dog?”

“No. What dog?”

“Nevermind.”

Sam left the house paperwork on my desk for me to peruse. I flipped through one of Alex’s many summaries. Price, square footage, acreage, tax estimate, school zone, year built, photos…I sat up. In one of the photos, a blur appeared, almost like a dog had jumped out of frame. But this dog was white, not yellow. I looked closer. It certainly looked like a dog. I rubbed my temples. Why was I seeing dogs everywhere? Did I want a dog? Was I missing a dog?

I got up and made my way down the hallway. Down to see Mr. Taylor.

“Mr. Taylor,” I called out, knocking. I heard shuffling and yapping.

“Oh Edie,” Mr. Taylor said, undoing the chain, “it’s you.”

“Yes, good morning. I have some questions for you. Have you ever heard of a house called Swanwood?”

“Swan what?”

“Swanwood.” Mr. Taylor stared at me, mouth open. He stuttered,

“Y-yes. Come in, come in.” I squeezed through the opening in the door. The entire apartment reeked of dog. Two of his animals barked at me.

“Tiny! Rufus! Quiet!” Mr. Taylor ordered. He sat in a comfortable chair by a window, where he collected books and newspapers. I sat across from him on a sagging couch. We were both silent.

“Swanwood. I haven’t heard that name in years.” He said, staring out the window.

“We might buy it.”

“What?” He spun to look at me. “It’s for sale?” I nodded.

“Yes. A house flipper wants out,”

“Hmmm. Does it still have those swans in the front?”

“Yes. Two.”

“And the boxwoods?”

Mr. Taylor’s eyes were full of memory, and as he spoke, I know he did not see me. He saw Swanwood as it was, as he knew it, when the air was full of spirea and wisteria scent.

“I knew the last owners, the last of a long long line. Harry’s family helped build the town. But he spent too much time and money drinking, and he died in that house.” Mr. Taylor inhaled sharply.

“I walked there after school to help Harry and his sister with their math homework. They hated math, but I was good at it. They gave me pocket money to do it. Swanwood was off the main road from the schoolhouse. It wasn’t a far walk. We sat at this great oak table,” he gestured with his hands, “and just puzzled out sums and what have you.” He sucked his teeth. “Sometimes Mrs. Fayre made us a pie, chicken or pork. We would run along the marsh grass. It was so tall it would tickle our chins. I think there were hogs in a barn on the side of the house and there were definitely chickens. Maybe ducks too. And one yellow dog, one big yellow dog who used to roll his head in your lap.” Mr. Taylor coughed. “Mrs. Fayre would open the window in the spring, and oh you could smell the spice bush. There was nothing like it, we used to crush the leaves and run them through our hair…

“Harry’s sister grew up and married a military man. Don’t know where she ended up. But Harry stayed in that house. He went to Korea and came back.”

A shadow fell on the newspapers, and on Mr. Taylor‘s hands.

“Well anyway. Harry didn’t like what he saw over there. Men knee deep in mud, shot and calling for their mamas. I had it bad but Harry had it worse than me, on account because of how he talked like the old timers. He had an accent like you just don’t hear no more. He wasn’t great with numbers so they figured he’d be infantry just fine. But he wasn’t just fine…”

“Then Mrs. Fayre died while we was outside of Seoul. She was lonesome. I think it was too much house for her. Mr. Fayre was long dead. And by the time Harry could get back and take care of Swanwood, it was falling apart. Some kids broke the windows, the barn was a wreck. And the spice bush died and nowhere around here sold them no more.

“So Harry tried to do as much as he could, but he didn’t sleep much and of course he drank. Boy how he drank! I would come visit when I could but I was busy with this place, miles away. I was fixing up this entire building, getting tenants, getting permits, it was a haul. And I didn’t like to see Swanwood then, the barn collapsing and the hogs and ducks all gone. The dog died and you know nothing seemed to live there anymore.

“Harry got harder and harder to talk to. He insisted the dog was still around. He even thought there was more than one dog. Five of them, he said. ‘Don’t you see them??’ He would ask. ‘No, no, Harry, I don’t,’ And I couldn’t see them. Harry said they lived on the stairwell, but you never could see anything, no paw prints nothing.

“Well anyway, we Southerners are hard on each other. I didn’t want to talk to Harry when he was going on about a buncha damn dogs. I was too hard on him. I didn’t see him as much. Occasionally around town, you know. But I was angry at him. That proud family, and Harry at the end of it drinking. That made me mad. He was better than that. His face would change when he drank. Sweaty and twisted, something awful.”

Neither of us spoke. The dogs scratched themselves on the carpet. Mr. Taylor’s head dropped to his chest. “And one day Harry was dead. He drank too much. Everyone said it. If he hadn’t been drinking maybe he could’ve done more on the house, fixed it up. Brought it back to what it was.

“I went to the auction, the one to help pay his debts, and wouldn’t you know I did see a dog that day. A yellow dog, just like Harry said. But he disappeared into the swamp, and dogs on that side of town run wild and have pups and you know.

“I wanted to buy something, a little thing to help Harry out after he was gone. But everyone in town must’ve thought the same. Because there was not one item in auction that wasn’t sold. Not one. So the house was empty except for some old family papers, and shut up, until your ah - flipper was it?”

“Yes. Flipper,” I answered. Mr. Taylor nodded.

“Until he showed up.” He leaned forward. “But you know, I’ll never forget what we all noticed at that auction. Every one of us who knew Harry heard about those dogs from him. He told absolutely anyone who would listen, about those dogs. He said there was a big burly yellow one. A gray skinny one, like a greyhound. A black and white sheepdog. A wiry brown one, like a terrier. And a white one, that he could never quite see.”

My blood ran cold.

“Five dogs. Five dogs living on his stairwell!” Mr. Taylor shook his head. “I don’t know what that was all about.” He yawned, and leaned back in his chair.

“Would you like me to get you some water?” I asked, jumping up.

“No Edie,” he answered softly, “but I am tired. Please excuse me.”

As I closed Mr. Taylor’s door, I wondered about what he said. It’s just a yellow dog relative like Mr. Taylor said, I thought. And the white dog was just a zoom blur. I think.

Checking my phone back in our apartment, I read a text from Sam:

“Hey. Can you go to Swanwood today and text some pics to our home inspector? Will send you number, lockbox code from Alex and address. Thank you <3”

I sighed very deeply. I wanted to say no. But I looked at our bank accounts every day. We needed to move out. I grabbed my pepper spray upon leaving.

As I approached Swanwood, shadows from its avenue of trees fell across my hood. I felt my car roll along the gravel. Swanwood’s bright white columns shone in the sun. Heat rippled across its facade. The wind seemed to wrap itself around the house and walk its porch. Exiting the car I tried to spot where the spice bush had been. No luck. I paced the perimeter of the house, snapping photos of the foundation and brickwork like Sam asked.

“WOOF!”

A terse bark sounded from the other side of the house. Oh no. “Woof woof!” I gripped my pepper spray, hurtled onto the porch and fumbled with the lockbox. I thought I heard a great ripping and tearing coming around the corner. Then it was underneath me, underneath my feet. The noise was deafening. I could barely breathe. I pushed my way inside and locked the door behind me.

The house was cool and quiet. Its new marble countertops glittered in the afternoon sun. Trees in the marsh swayed in the wind. I turned and stared out one of the front windows.

The dog. The yellow dog with its bedraggled leather collar. It was looking around. Now it was sniffing around my car. Sniffing, running, it stopped. It looked at the house. It looked at ME.

I felt a sharp stab in the back of my head. I reached around, nothing. What was going on? I loved dogs and dogs usually loved me. Then, movement. A gray skinny dog trotted up to the yellow dog and brushed its side. Behind it, a black and white border collie with a fluffy coat. Then a sinewy brown terrier, its nose to the ground. Finally, just past where the window stopped, a white dog.

Five. Five dogs. They formed a pack. Horsing around with each other, gamboling in the dust. I watched them, spellbound. For living in the marsh they were pristine: no mud, no dirt, no stickers. I peered into the border collie’s long coat, looking for burrs. Nothing. The dogs were healthy and immaculate. After awhile they turned and stared at the house. Stared at me.

My breath caught. I didn’t know what to do. I fumbled for my phone. Take a photo. Prove they’re here. I dropped the phone, grabbed it, looked up…they were gone.

I moved from window to window. Searching, peeking, I couldn’t see hide nor hair of one dog. I ran upstairs. Surely I would see them from the second story. Nothing. I stared down at my car. It looked like nothing had walked there at all.

I braced myself. I would have to go outside now, and leave. I pulled out my phone to call Sam. He thanked me for the photos and asked when I was headed back. I thought about it. What was I going to say? Some dogs were here, I think? I was going crazy and seeing a bunch of rural dogs? We needed to leave the apartment, it was now outside of our budget. This house was our best option by far. I was going to scuttle it for…what? Ghost dogs?

I took a deep breath. I looked out the windows once again. Nothing. I opened the door, locked it and ran to my car. No paw prints in the dust. Nothing.

As I hurriedly drove away, I heard nothing but the wind whispering to the cedars.

“Sam and Edie,” Alex said over the phone a few nights later. In my pajamas, I had dissolved an aspirin in my hot chocolate. “I have something to tell you.”

“The inspector’s heading over there Wednesday with me.” Sam replied. He placed the call on speakerphone. “I sent you the pre offer letter already - “

“Yes well this is about the previous owner. The flipper,” Alex interrupted.

“Ok?”

“He’s in the hospital. I should’ve told you.”

“Oh no, what happened?” Sam asked. Alex sighed.

“Look before I tell you, I think this house is great for y’all. It’s big, spacious, private and historic. It’s a beautiful home that just needs a little love.”

“Yea…”

“So,” Alex sighed again, “the flipper visited Swanwood a few days ago. He had to grab some of his tools. While he was there he was attacked.”

“Attacked?! By what??”

“Apparently he was attacked by a pack of dogs. Five dogs. They nearly ripped him to shreds. He managed to crawl to his truck and call 911. He’s in the hospital with multiple punctured blood vessels in his legs. I guess they just missed an artery.”

“Holy mackerel. Is he going to be alright?”

“Yea he’s going to pull through. But as he’s been recovering he’s demanding you know something about the house.”

“What?”

“It’s something he was warned about by a note he found in one of the bedrooms when he bought it. I guess the old guy who lived there left some notebooks.”

“What is it?”

“…”

“Alex?”

“There’s a curse on the place. The family that owned it - Fay or something - built it before the Civil War. Times were good, cotton could be grown on the land, squash and radishes and beets. The family had all kinds of animals, including five dogs. One to herd the livestock, two pets for the lady of the house, one greyhound for catching rabbits and one guard dog, a mean yellow mutt. During the Civil War, Yankees had no problem making their way up the river. They burned down Glencoe, which isn’t far from here. They thought Swanwood was a pretty sweet spot, off the main road and full of cool airy rooms. So they commandeered it. But this Fay family, Fayre or something, all the men were fighting for the South. So the women were home alone, year after year. One night, one of the Yankees, he was Hungarian or something, not American, attacked one of the girls. He knew the dogs would give him trouble so he locked them outside the house. There was a huge uproar, and the dogs knew something was wrong. You could hear the barking for miles. After the attack, the Yankees left with a bunch of provisions and nearly burned the barn down. The girl, the victim, shot herself in the marsh. According to this notebook, the dogs slept beside her until she was found by her mother. Now every time a newcomer with bad intentions came to the house, the dogs attack them mercilessly. So the house remained alone, without neighbors, for decades.”

Mr. Nolan and his own Swanwood (Georgia)

“But dogs don’t live forever right? I mean how long could this go on?”

“Well it’s not really clear. Those dogs might’ve had pups and so on. And the family might’ve trained them to be that way. But Swanwood and the dogs, they go together. So when the flipper came to get his tools, maybe he felt guilty about something or who knows, he was attacked.”

“Wait a minute. This doesn’t make any sense. The flipper didn’t have bad intentions. He tried to flip a worn-down old house.”

“Well I guess he’s been complaining about you two. He didn’t want the house to go to locals. He said it’s just more poor White trash. He wanted to sell it for more money to some out of towner.”

Sam and I said nothing.

“So he was hurt but he’s going to be ok. There. I’ve told you.”

“Ok. Thanks Alex. Wow. We’re going to talk about it and we’ll get back to you. Thanks. Good night.”

Sam ended the call. He looked at me. I looked at him.

“Didn’t you say you saw a dog? Over there?”

“Oh yeah, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“I don’t know how I feel about a pack of ghost dogs in our new house.” Sam shivered.

I sipped my hot chocolate. What an insurance policy this was. Any malice, any ill intent, and a group of dogs would resolve it. I already knew they liked me. I looked over at my husband.

“It’s like you said. It’s the best option we have. We can’t afford this apartment anymore.” I took another sip.

“Let’s make an offer.”