The Tignon - Full Version
A ghost story inspired by true events
NOTE: I have added a content warning to the END of this story, because it contains spoilers. Please feel free to scroll to the end if you would like to read the disclaimer before proceeding.
The large SUV rumbles down the bumpy country road, its engine a low growl against the fading light. For the three occupants, this journey is a familiar ritual, a monotonous trudge repeated countless times.
Twilight deepens. The light fades too much for clear vision, yet it’s not quite dark enough for headlights to be truly useful. The familiar landscape begins to distort, ordinary objects seeming to morph and shift, donning more sinister costumes.
In the cab, the conversation follows its usual, banal course. The boy in the backseat, fresh from basketball practice, recounts the trials of junior high, while his parents in front engage in the familiar banter of politics and daily life. The most pressing question, as it often is on evenings like these: what's for dinner? It’s just another trip home, punctuated only by each passenger’s desire to reach the end of their day.
As they approach a familiar bend in the road, the man driving catches a glimpse of something at the edges of his vision—a vaguely human form crossing the road in front of them and vanishing into the tall grass bordering the blacktop. He unconsciously touches the brake pedal, slowing the vehicle slightly. Had he really seen something, or had it been merely an illusion, a trick of the fading light? Why would anyone be walking along this desolate road at this hour? It’s a reckless act tantamount to suicide in this part of the country. Yet, an inexplicable urge, a primal instinct, compels him to stop, to investigate, to understand the anomaly that has disrupted the familiar rhythm of his journey.
Since they are so near their house, he makes the quick decision to continue slowly, his gaze now more drawn to the rearview mirrors than to the road ahead. He realizes with a flicker of amusement that neither his wife nor his stepson has questioned the sudden deceleration. They are always quick to offer commentary on his driving skills or lack thereof. Why not now?
He glances into the backseat and notices the boy has turned almost all the way around in his seat, neck craned, searching intently through the rear window. He sees his wife’s eyes fixed on her sideview mirror, mirroring the boy’s focused gaze.
From the backseat, the boy asks, “Did you guys see that?”
“See what?” his mother replies, desperately trying to banish the ghostly image from her mind.
“I don’t know, a lady, I think. She was—”
“I saw her too,” his stepdad confirms. “An old woman in some kind of pioneer-looking getup.”
“Oh. My. God, Dan. You guys are nuts and just trying to give me the willies. Stop, okay?” she says, her voice betraying a hint of genuine unease.
“You know you saw it too,” Dan says as he pulls into their driveway, hopping out to grab their mail. Turning back to her, he says in an undisguised accusatory tone, “I saw you staring holes through the mirror.”
She rolls her eyes, and despite her best efforts to look anywhere but there, her gaze inevitably falls again on the sideview mirror.
Once Dan is safely out of earshot, the boy leans forward over the front seat and whispers conspiratorially, “So you saw her too, right?”
After a contemplative silence, she concedes, “I saw something. Probably just a shadow from a tree branch or something. It’s really hard to see this time of day, and with the headlights—”
“Come on, Mom! Quit being such a scaredy cat. It doesn’t have to be a ghost. It could be someone who escaped from that foster home down the road. There’s old folks wandering around there like zombies all the time.”
“Tommy! That’s rude. You’re gonna be old someday, too,” she admonishes. “And I don’t recall ever seeing any of them dressed like that,” she adds, instantly regretting the unintentional admission. Shit.
“I knew you saw her!” Tommy exclaims as Dan slips back into the driver’s seat.
“Saw who?” he asks, his tone more triumphant than intended.
“We think she might be from that foster home, the one with all the old folks. She might have wandered off, and now that it is dark, she’s lost,” Tommy explains, cleverly implicating his mother in his theory with the use of we.
“So now there was someone there?” Dan asks, his eyes narrowing as he turns to his wife.
“Bite me!” she snaps. “You want my buy-in on this or not?”
Dan chuckles, mentally tallying the rare win as he reaches for the gear shift.
Tommy places a hand on his stepdad’s shoulder and stops him. “Mom thinks we should go back and check on her,” the boy fibs again. “She might be having a cognitive event.”
Tommy’s use of the medical term leaves his parents bewildered, their eyebrows furrowing as they exchange a confused glance.
“Okay, Doctor McWordy, why don’t you walk back and check on her yourself?” his mom retorts, firing back at his betrayal.
“Okay, okay. Since mom wants to, let’s swing back by and see if we can spot her,” Dan says, shifting the vehicle into reverse. He turns to his wife with a cheeky grin and says, “Wow, Sarah. You guys are gonna have to chill with all of your paranormal stuff. It’s going to your heads,” he parrots her frequent warnings to himself and Tommy.
As dusk makes its way to cold darkness, they turn the SUV around and head back to where they had seen the figure they thought was a woman.
“So, we’re all in agreement that it was a woman?” Dan probes.
“An old black woman,” adds Tommy.
“How could you tell she was black? I barely got a glimpse,” Sarah asks, puzzled.
“I saw her out the back window. She…She looked at me.”
“Okay, now that’s pouring it on a little thick, don't you think? Stop trying to scare your mom,” Dan says as he pops open the center console, extracts a flashlight, holding it under his chin and flipping it on. “Anyone for some ghost hunting?” he says in his best menacing voice.
“Now who’s trying to scare me?” Sarah says, raising an accusatory eyebrow.
Dan hops out, and Tommy follows enthusiastically. Sarah cracks her door, a shiver running down her spine—was it the cool night air, or something else? She swings her legs out, but decides to stay close to the warmth of the vehicle's heater. Crossing her arms, she waits impatiently for the boys to scratch their itch, determined not to let this get the best of her.
“Hello?” Dan calls out, swinging the flashlight over the area where they had last glimpsed the figure they believe to have been an old woman.
“She couldn’t have gone far, it’s only been like ten minutes,” Tommy reckons.
“If that. And no, I wouldn’t think so. She was moving pretty slowly.”
Dan makes a quick reconnaissance of the area across the road, then up the powerline right-of-way, in case the old woman had wandered farther than they thought. If she was disoriented, she could have backtracked and crossed her own path many times in that short period.
Twin pinpricks of light pierce the darkness, slowly resolving into the distinct headlights of an approaching vehicle. A pickup truck, its headlights washing over them, pulls up alongside their SUV. The driver, an older man with a kind face and a weathered cap, leans out of the open window, his expression a mix of curiosity and neighborly concern. “Y’all alright?”
“Yeah,” Dan answers, extinguishing his flashlight and approaching the pickup. “We thought we saw an elderly lady cross the road and walk toward the right-of-way.” He indicates the direction with the butt end of the flashlight. “Thought she might be one of the residents of the foster home down the road.”
“That’s my neighbor, Mrs. Dawson that runs that place,” the man intones. “Ya want me to give her a shout and make sure she’s not missing anyone?”
“That would be awesome. We’re just worried about her being out here in the cold,” says Dan.
The man grabs his cell phone from the passenger seat, swipes the screen, locates the desired number, then punches Call.
“Hey Annie, it’s Jim. I’m up the road by the powerline and some folks here said they may have seen an elderly lady roaming around. Just wanted to check to make sure it wasn’t one of your residents.” He pauses, then mouths, “She’s checkin’.”
A few minutes pass, then, “Okey dokey, well, that’s good to know. Y’all take care. Bye now.”
He disconnects the call and turns back to the three. Sarah has joined them, curiosity getting the best of her. “She says everyone is accounted for. Are you sure it was a person? Lots of deer, hogs, everything else running around this time of night.”
“It was a lady!” Tommy exclaims, his voice too loud and insistent for his parents’ liking. Sarah shoots him a withering glare, her eyes narrowing. He shrinks back slightly behind Dan. Dan extends his hand to the man in the truck. “Dan, by the way.”
The man shakes his hand warmly. “Owen.”
“Hey, Owen, appreciate you stopping. Let me grab your number, just in case,” Dan says, already unlocking his phone.
“You bet,” Owen replies, thumbing through his contacts. “What’s your number?”
They quickly exchange numbers.
“Thanks for checking, and have a good rest of your evening,” Dan says.
“Evenin’,” Owen nods, then pulls away.
“Can we be done now? I’m starving!” Sarah pleads.
“Mommm,” Tommy whines.
Dan places a comforting hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “C’mon bud, we can talk more over dinner. This ghost hunting is hungry work,” he chuckles, gently nudging the boy towards the vehicle.
At the dinner table, the lingering unease of their encounter casts a long shadow over the meal. The conversation inevitably returns to the ghostly apparition, each recounting their own version of events with disbelief and lingering fear.
Despite Sarah’s attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere, it kept returning to the figure they had seen on the road. Emboldened by his father’s playful encouragement, Tommy continues to insist that it was a ghost.
“Here’s the one thing that bothers me,” Sarah starts, “Her clothes—they ain’t from Walmart.” Even though she realizes she’s playing their game, she decides to join the conversation or risk being left out of the loop entirely.
“Yeah, definitely not current fashion, even for old folks,” Dan adds with a playful grin.
“She was wearing some kind of thing on her head, like a–a–”
“A bonnet?” Dan finishes Tommy’s sentence. “More of a head scarf, I would call it.”
“Definitely more of a wrap,” Sarah agrees.
“So if we all agree on what she looked like, that means she had to be there, right?” Tommy exclaims, more impassioned by the minute. Swiping his phone awake, he passes the phone across the table, obviously having already prepared his argument. Dan takes it.
Displayed on the screen are several grainy photos of ghostly figures, purportedly depicting enslaved women.
“So you think she might be the ghost of a slave?” Dan queries, amused and a bit apprehensive.
He hands the phone to Sarah, who once again raises an eyebrow in skepticism and growing unease.
“First, were there even slaves in Texas?” Sarah asks, “Second, just because we all agree on what she looks like, that doesn’t mean she exists. I think some of us are so eager for this to be true that we’re projecting our thoughts onto others and making what we remember match what the others said they saw.”
“Welcome back, Debbie Downer, ” Dan says, playfully ribbing.
“Whatever. I’m down for the fun and ghost stories, but you guys are kind of obsessing over this,” Sarah says, standing. “I’m gonna grab a shower and leave you to your ghost stories and internet conspiracies. Have fun, but please don’t summon any demons in the process.” She kisses them both on the cheek and heads down the hallway, a chill running down her spine—a lingering thought of the figure they had all seen, one which she fought to keep out of her mind.
“Do you think we are crazy?” Dan asks.
“I know you are crazy,” Sarah retorts, removing the towel from her head and tossing it at him, then joining him in bed. “But it’s not you that I’m worried about. Tommy is still young, and there may be time to save him,” she chuckles, snuggling close to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “Ghosts aren’t real,” she whispers, kissing his earlobe, but the lingering unease in her voice belies her words.
In his own bed, Tommy is on his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he devours websites and forums, searching for evidence to support his theory that this spectral figure is indeed a ghost, and not just any ghost, but one with an interesting backstory. It could be his discovery, something he could claim as his own.
He initiates a chat request with a fellow ghost enthusiast he’d just met in a “Ghosts of the Old South” forum—another Shadetree investigator, just like himself. Based on her profile, she possesses the knowledge and experience to help him track down his ghost. An added bonus was that she was hot, in that pale, gothic sort of way. Teenage hormones be damned, he forces himself to stay focused, knowing that any distraction now could jeopardize his investigation.
He is waiting for a reply when the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle, a sudden, unavoidable sense of not being alone. He turns off his phone screen, plunging the room into darkness save for the dim light from the front porch filtering through the bedroom window. The window shade, normally closed as part of his nightly ritual, is still open. He sighs, pulls back the covers, and steps out of bed to close the shade, unconsciously glancing out the window.
“Shit!” he exclaims, the curse a reflex against the unexpected, yet somehow not entirely surprising, sight before him. He stumbles backward, tripping over the sneakers he’d left scattered on the floor.
The sudden commotion from the next room jolts Sarah awake. Maternal instincts surging through her, she throws back the covers, shaking Dan.
Heart pounding, she burst into Tommy’s room, finding him sprawled on his back and staring fixedly up at his bedroom window, his face pale with terror. The shade was still swaying slightly. She frantically scans the yard, her eyes darting between the pools of light cast by the front porch light and the security light near the driveway, then back toward the shadows beyond. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary she turns, kneels, and embraces her son.
Dan enters the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on? You okay, bud?” he asks, tousling Tommy’s hair.
Sarah gently releases Tommy from her embrace and shrugs, her gaze unwavering. A silent question hangs in the air.
“Th-the lady,” Tommy stammers, his voice trembling. “She was…outside.” He shakes his head violently as if to clear the memory from it. “Just staring at me. Like, right at me.”
Tommy’s terrified words spur Dan into action. Not wasting time with the window, he heads for the front door.
“What the hell is going on?” Sarah whispers, her voice barely above a breath. A shiver racks her body, cold and unexpected. A hidden weight, a secret burden she carries within, presses down on her. Why this? Why now? she wonders, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. She turns back to her son and their embrace, stroking his head lightly. I need to monitor the time he spends on those paranormal sites, she vows silently.
Dan throws open the front door, primed to confront the intruder who dares disrupt their peace. Save for their black lab, Daisy, who yelps in surprise at the sudden opening of the door, the yard is empty. He grabs the flashlight from the entry table as Daisy trots into the house, taking the open door as an invitation.
Dan steps out into the autumn night. With a glance over his shoulder, he sees Daisy already headed up the hallway towards Tommy’s room. He smiles a tiny, inward smile. There is something to be said for a dog’s intuition.
Outside, it is deathly quiet. The stillness of the yard almost seems unnatural, broken only by the faint rustle of fallen leaves underfoot and the frantic drumming of his own pulse in his ears.
He makes a quick loop around the perimeter of the house and finds nothing out of place. Returning to the front of the house, he decides to take a walk down their long driveway. “Might as well take a look around while I'm up,” he mutters to himself.
Preceded by the flashlight's reassuring beam, Dan walks slowly down the driveway, carefully avoiding the puddles left over from yesterday's rain. Again, he notices just how still and quiet it is this time of night. He glances at his smartwatch, and the clock face reads 1:00 AM. Ugh, I'm going to be a zombie at work tomorrow.
Suddenly, a rush of air and a screeeeeee! sends a jolt through him. Something passes close overhead, nearly ruffling his hair. Dan drops the flashlight, instinctively covering his head. He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh as he sees the owl, its eyes gleaming in the darkness, snatching up a small field mouse. “Guess I'm not on the menu tonight,” he quips.
He retrieves the flashlight and bangs its batteries back into place, illuminating the driveway once again. He draws a breath to steady his racing pulse, then continues on.
At the end of the driveway, he stops and pans the flashlight back and forth, scanning the road in both directions. Quiet. Empty.
Satisfied that there is no immediate danger—and definitely no spectral old slave woman wandering the night in search of God knows what—he turns and heads back towards the house.
I have to stop letting Tommy draw me into all this paranormal B.S., Dan thinks to himself. Okay, it's not just Tommy, he concedes with a mischievous glint in his eye. He was just as much to blame for his and his stepson's shared affinity for the macabre.
He walks along, more settled now that the adrenaline from the encounter with the pterodactyl has started to ebb, feeling more confident that there is nothing or no one trying to do them harm. Or maybe I scared it away? he ponders, a flicker of unease returning. Maybe I should invest in some cameras for outside?
Halfway back to the house, Dan hears a faint rustling sound, a low scrabbling that grows louder with alarming speed. His heart leaps into his throat. Something is moving quickly down the driveway, coming this way! He pans the flashlight frantically in the direction of the sound, trying to locate its source.
Its beam falls on a large dark mass moving toward him at full speed, and he startles, almost dropping the light. Relief washes over him when he realizes it’s only Daisy bounding toward him. But why would Daisy be running back so urgently?
Daisy slides to a halt just before crashing into him, her whole body trembling with fear. He reaches down to comfort the obviously shaken animal. She flinches at his touch, then leans into his hand, seeking reassurance.
“It’s okay, Daisy girl.” He says, cradling her head in his hands. “What’s got you so shaken up? Shhh…”
Daisy bolts back toward the house, a low growl rumbling in her throat, and Dan urgently gives chase. When he clears the last bend and can see the front of the house, he can see a slight, hunched figure, silhouetted against the warm glow of the porch light, halfway up the front porch steps. Its posture, its movements—a hesitant step up, then a pause, a slight lean forward as if peering into the darkness—all spoke of a stranger, someone who did not belong.
“Sarah!” he shouts as he quickens his pace. He stumbles as his foot catches on something unseen in the darkness. He crashes to the ground, landing hard on the gravel.
“Fuck!” he roars, scrambling to his feet. Gravel stings his palms as he pushes himself back up. He stumbles forward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looks back toward the house, fully expecting to see the figure still there and watching him, but the porch is empty. Sarah and Tommy step through the front doorway as he arrives, looking confused by his urgent shouts. Daisy, having beaten him there, is at the boy’s side.
“What the…?” Sarah begins, but the sight of Dan's face stops her–pale and drawn, his eyes wide with a terror that borders on madness. She steps down to him, takes his hand, and says, “Tommy and I were just thinking of making hot cocoa. You in?” Her smile is wan, barely concealing the fear and concern swirling in her mind.
Before closing the door, Dan pauses, looking back out over their yard. A shiver runs down his spine. The yard is empty now, but the memory of the fleeting shadow lingers, the sudden fear, the chilling silence—a reminder of the danger that might still be lurking just beyond the reach of the porch light.
Sarah is gently warming milk on the stove, a comforting aroma filling the air when she adds the cocoa. Tommy is meticulously selecting mugs from the cabinet, choosing one with special meaning for each family member. Nesting, Dan thinks to himself, savoring the quiet domesticity of the scene.
Cocoa ready, Sarah fills each mug in turn, handing them to Dan and Tommy. Dan takes his mug and clutches it in both hands, shivering a bit.
“It’s more chilly out tonight than I realized,” Dan reports, raising the mug to his lips.
“You’re bleeding!” Sarah exclaims, her eyes widening as she spots the scrapes on his hands.
Noticing his injuries for the first time, and realizing he probably has knees to match, Dan says, “Yeah, no biggie. I tripped over a branch or something.”
“You need to get that cleaned up, and don’t bleed on the tablecloth, please,” Sarah warns, ever practical.
Unable to hold his thoughts any longer, Tommy asks, “So no one was out there?”
“Nope. I went all the way to the road, and it was just me and Daisy,” Dan says, burying the chilling apparition deep within his own private memories.
“I know she was out there. I’m not crazy!” Tommy insists.
“Well, if she was, Daisy and I scared her off,” Dan assures him.
“You might want to take a break from all the horror and paranormal stuff,” Sarah chides.
And there it is, Dan thinks to himself.
“Especially those YouTubers. Those people are just pushing false narratives, desperate to believe their own stories. And now I feel like you’re starting to do the same thing.”
“Whatever, Mom,” Tommy says, putting his empty mug in the sink and heading towards his bedroom. “I’m going to bed,” he says dejectedly.
“No phone!” Sarah calls after him. “You need to get some sleep. You have a game tomorrow afternoon, remember?”
Silence. A door slams.
Sarah sighs and takes Dan’s empty mug, placing the mugs and the dirty pot in the sink, running water into them—the best they will get tonight.
She returns to the dining room, shaking her head slightly. Dan meets her gaze. Her eyes say everything her lips do not.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You know what, Dan,” Sarah says, her voice laced with concern. “You egg all of this on...nurture it even.”
“Oh, this is my fault now?” Dan asks, perturbed at her accusation. “Excuse the fuck out of me for attempting to bond with my stepson.”
“He needs a father figure, not a best friend,” Sarah replies.
“And I can’t be both?”
Feeling like Dan has her on that one, she shifts her weight slightly, her shoulders relaxing a fraction as her expression softens. “Let’s just lay low on this and quit encouraging him,” she suggests, her voice softening. “Maybe it will just go away. No harm, no foul.”
“Tommy seemed pretty shaken by what he thought he saw. I’m not sure the heebie-jeebies from scary movies could cause that kind of terror.”
“And you?” Sarah asks.
“And me, what?”
“Are you scared? Do you think there is something out there?”
“It’s hard to know what I think anymore,” Dan admits. “The horror stuff is just entertainment for me, but what I…what we all experienced tonight was undeniably real.”
Sarah draws a breath, then lets it out slowly. “Well, let’s just be here for Tommy. We can be supportive and try not to fan the flames.”
“Deal,” Dan agrees, eager to end the conversation before he is compelled to share more about what he, and only he, had seen—a figure approaching their home, then vanishing into the darkness.
At breakfast the following day, the conversation remains fixated on the previous night’s events.
“Did you guys know that slave women in Louisiana wore head coverings called tig-noans?” a weary-eyed but somehow still energetic Tommy relays, stumbling over the pronunciation of the French word. “Look,” he says, thrusting his phone towards Dan.
“Um. Okay?” Dan replies, puzzled but impressed by the boy’s determination and his research skills.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” Sarah asks from the kitchen, shaking her head.
Ignoring her, Tommy continues, “Maybe Eliza is from Louisiana. It’s not that far.”
“Wait, Eliza? She has a name now?” Sarah asks.
“Well, I figured if I was gonna have a ghost story, my ghost had to have a name,” Tommy explains.
“Why Eliza?” Dan questions.
“Google said that Mary was the most popular then, but I liked Eliza, which was like number four. It sounded more ghostly than plain ol’ Mary.”
“So what else did your research tell you about…Eliza?” Dan encourages. At least Tommy was in good spirits, nowhere near as terrified as he was last night. The historical research could make an excellent diversion from the scary stuff, and it was educational.
“There were slaves in Texas, Mom.” He retrieves his phone from Dan, swipes a few times, then recites, “Before Texas became a Republic, enslaved people were brought here by Spanish and Mexican colonists. During the years of the Republic, slavery was a cornerstone of the Texas economy. Even after Texas became a state, the slave population continued to grow.”
“But how did she get here from Lousiana? Was she lost before she became a ghost?” Sarah playfully argues.
“She probably came from New Orleans. Many enslaved people arrived there and were sold to plantations in other parts of the country. Texas had a large cotton industry, and had a high demand for enslaved laborers,” Tommy reads his research.
“And modern research has shown that ghosts are not necessarily confined to a single location,” Dan interjects. “They can actually travel across distances, much like other forms of energy.”
“So why is she still here? Don’t ghosts have to have unfinished business or something like that?” Sarah asks.
“Yeah, if you follow the traditional wisdom, ghosts are usually unsettled spirits that are in flux between our physical world and the next. They’re unable to move on due to some feeling they harbor—or yes, some unfinished business,” Dan explains.
“But that still doesn't explain why Eliza is here, and why she’s pestering us,” Sarah observes. She doesn’t seem entirely convinced they’re dealing with an actual ghost, but she’s showing signs of enjoying the investigation and the camaraderie it’s fostered with her family.
“I guess we may never know the answer to that,” Dan concludes. “Unless, of course,” he winks at Tommy, “she tells us.”
Missing the wink but recognizing the tone in his voice, Sarah puts her foot down. “There will be absolutely no séances in this house! No Ouija boards, nothing. You two hear me?”
“Of course, Sarah,” Dan says as he punches Tommy’s leg under the table, the gesture loosely translating to, There absolutely will be séances, Ouija boards, and quite possibly ghost detection equipment in this house—tonight!
“Please, let’s keep our ghost story on the down low for now, okay?” Sarah pleads as Tommy hops out of her car at school. “I asked Dan to do the same.”
“Of course, Mom,” he assures, hiding his smirk.
“Have a good day, and a good game this afternoon. Don’t forget that I have Gary’s retirement party tonight, so I will be home late. Dan is taking off early and he’ll be there. Please keep him in line, no punching referees or anything,” she smiles.
Tommy chuckles and gives her a thumbs up.
She watches him walk off, greeting a friend with a casual fist bump. A sigh escapes her lips, a subtle exhale that belies the weight of everything on her mind. She takes a deep breath and notices the seatbelt feeling suddenly tight around her. She reaches down to loosen it as the impatient driver behind her honks a quick blast.
“Alright. Alright,” she mutters, rolling on.
Despite the mighty Bears’ crushing defeat to their cross-county rivals, Tommy was buzzing with excitement. On the way home from the game, he eagerly shared his latest research results with Dan.
As they neared the spot where they had seen Eliza the previous evening, Dan notices Tommy sitting up straighter, an expectant gleam in his eyes. Dan, too, had unconsciously eased his foot off the accelerator, slowing as they approached the epicenter of their encounter. The powerline right-of-way stretches out on either side of the road, a monotonous landscape of weeds and scrub brush bordering the rough gravel. There is nothing. Nothing. A wave washes over them. Is it disappointment? Or something else entirely? Relief?
Hopping out of the SUV, Dan suggests, “You grab a shower. I’ll get the stuff ready.” Tommy nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to reach the shower, the promise of a real investigation spurring him on. They had to hurry, of course, before Mom got home and grounded him for life. There is no telling what the punishment would be for Dan.
When Tommy returns from the shower, his eyes widen at the sight of the room. Candles flicker, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The lights have been dimmed, creating an atmosphere that crackles with anticipation. On the old oak coffee table, Dan has laid out all of their equipment: the Ouija board, the EVP recorder, and the EMP detector, and a notebook and pen, ready to capture any response. They wouldn’t have time for a full séance tonight, with Sarah due home soon, but they were ready to see if they could make contact with Eliza using these more expedient methods.
“You ready?” Dan asks rhetorically, knowing the answer.
“Heck yeah!” Tommy replies, crisscrossing his way to sit on the opposite side of the table.
“Okay, let’s get started.” Dan says, methodically activating the EMP detector and pressing the record button on the EVP recorder.
A hush falls over the room, and with a shared nod, they place their hands on the planchette.
Dan speaks slowly and clearly, “We welcome any friendly spirits who wish to communicate with us.”
Tense silence grips the room as they wait, the planchette remaining stubbornly motionless. Finally, Dan asks, “Is there a spirit here who wishes to communicate?” Then, “Is the spirit we call ‘Eliza’ here with us?”
Nothing.
Breaking one of the unwritten rules of the Ouija board, that only one person should ask the questions, Tommy blurts out, “Eliza, if you are here, please speak to us!”
A single, sharp bark from Daisy in the front yard startles them both, their hands instinctively flying off the planchette as they whirl toward the windows. It’s a quick, single bark—a warning—then silence. They exchange a nervous glance, unsure how to proceed.
Suddenly, the planchette twitches, a tiny movement that could have been dismissed as a trick of the candlelight. But then it moves again, more decisively this time, gliding slowly across the board towards the letters.
“Grab the pen,” Tommy whispers, trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement.
Their attention riveted to the suddenly animated planchette, they were blind to the EMP detector, its needle trembling like a leaf in a storm.
Dan picks up the pen, his eyes glued to the planchette as it continues its slow, deliberate journey across the board, finally coming to a stop. It hovers over the word Yes.
“Yes?” Dan whispers.
The planchette remains still for a moment, then begins to move again, this time landing on the letter T.
“Eliza?” Tommy breathes, his eyes wide with disbelief.
The planchette streaks across the board, stopping abruptly on the word No.
“Can you tell us your name?” Dan asks.
The planchette, now dormant, remains on No.
“Tell us how we can help you,” Tommy pleads.
The planchette trembles like an inverted heart beating erratically, then begins its journey across the board. It falters, shakes as if an unseen hand is trying to hold it back, but with a final, determined push, it lands on the letter I.
Tommy looks to Dan, who nods, his pen already scratching across the paper as he records the letter.
The planchette inches across the board, pulled one way and then another, as if caught in a tug of war between unseen hands. At last, it comes to rest on B.
This unsettling dance continued, the planchette halting at several more letters in a seemingly random assortment that refuse to form words or offer any hint of meaning.
Suddenly, lights flashed across the wall—Sarah’s headlights. Panic seized them. They scrambled to clear the table, but not before the planchette made one final, chilling move to the letter N.
Dan quickly jotted down the N, then stowed everything away, flipping on the TV and a few lights, attempting to create an air of normalcy. The cryptic message, T-I-B-E-B-E-M-W-E-N-A-N, would have to remain a mystery for now. Sarah’s presence was a firm boundary that they dared not cross.
Or did they? With a fluid motion, Tommy snatches the notebook from the drawer and snaps a photo with his phone, sealing his fate to another sleepless night.
Dan shakes his head and chuckles inwardly at the boy’s drive. The student has become the master.
Expecting Sarah to walk through the door any second, they’re startled when they hear a knock on the front door, abrupt and official. Dan glances at Tommy, a flicker of confusion passing between them.
Dan opens the door cautiously. A police officer stands on the porch, his expression grim and his face pale.
Tommy’s blood runs cold.
The party fizzles out sooner than Sarah anticipates, which suits her just fine. These weeknight gatherings are always a crapshoot, and tonight, she was particularly wary of the inquiries about why she wasn’t drinking. The elaborate and entirely fictional story about a prescription was beginning to feel like a second job. Still, she enjoys herself, and with a belly full of surprisingly good store-bought hors d’oeuvres, she starts her drive home.
The low murmur of her favorite podcast does little to distract Sarah from her thoughts. A new turmoil now burdens her, compounding the worry of the secret she already carries.
Her mind reels, her thoughts swirling like the fog that’s suddenly descended. I don’t recall hearing this on the forecast, she muses, the unexpected weather mirroring her uncertainty.
She exits the interstate and turns onto the two-lane that winds toward their small town. From there, the final leg of her journey will be the gravel road, the one where they had seen Eliza. The fog persists, and the darkness of the secondary highway only worsens the already poor visibility.
Suddenly, a shape looms out of the fog. She slams on the brakes, tires screeching as she desperately tries to steer clear of the—woman?—Eliza?
The final question flashes through her mind as the car leaves the road, the world tilting. Oh my God... The thought hangs in the air as the car collides with a massive tree, the front cabin crumpling like a soda can.
The SUV hurtles down the road, fog be damned.
“Dad—um—Dan, is Mom going to be okay?” Tommy asks, his voice tight.
Dan feels a jolt, a warmth spreading through his chest at the unexpected word. He looks over at Tommy, his expression a mixture of surprise and a surge of protectiveness. “I don’t know, bud,” he replies, registering the ‘Dad’ but pushing it aside. “The officer couldn’t give me any details, just that she’d been in an accident and was injured. We’ll find out more at the hospital.”
“Do you think she was drinking? I bet they drink at those parties,” Tommy sobs, desperately searching for someone or something to blame.
“I don’t think so, Tommy. Your mom is smarter than that. We’ll find out more when we get there. I need to concentrate on driving in this fucking soup so we don’t have an accident of our own!” Dan winces inwardly, instantly regretting his harsh tone. He knows Tommy is scared and that he’s just trying to make sense of it all.
“I hope she wasn’t drunk,” Tommy mutters, the thought both a fear and an accusation.
Dan takes a hand off the wheel and gives Tommy’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “We’ve got this,” he says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. “Your mom’s going to be okay.”
Sarah lies motionless in the narrow hospital bed, her pale face framed by the crisp white pillow. A constellation of machines surrounds her. The heart monitor displays a steady rhythm, a lifeline in the otherwise quiet room. The ventilator breathes for her, its rhythmic hiss filling the space. IV tubes connect her to bags of fluids, clear plastic reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. She is a still point in a world of whirring, beeping, and hissing. The curtained-off bay is small and impersonal, offering little comfort. A single visitor’s chair sits beside the bed, empty.
Unconscious, Sarah is spared the agonizing realization. Amidst the searing pain, there’s a hollowness, a void in her abdomen. The secret she’d borne, the future she’d envisioned, is no more.
The world dissolves into smoke and fire. Sarah is adrift in a nightmare. A young Black woman sprints through a field of chaos, her face streaked with soot. The air is thick with smoke, and the screams of the dying mingle with the reports of gunfire and the crackle of burning homes. “Ti bebe mwen an!” she wails, her voice cracking. She throws open the door of a blazing house, the heat searing her skin. Inside, a crib stands silhouetted against the flames. Before she can reach it, a flaming beam crashes down, obscuring the crib.
The woman recoils, her screams piercing the night. She whirls around, fire raging in her eyes, and then she sees them—Sarah and the small bundle cradled in her arms. “Ti bebe mwen an!” she growls, lunging forward and taking the child.
Sarah is rooted to the spot, unable to move. “My baby!” she screams, her voice raw with panic.
The woman wraps the newborn in her headwrap and she whispers, “Ti bebe mwen an.”
Dan and Tommy push through the double doors of the ER, the cacophony of beeping machines and hushed voices washing over them. They rush to the reception desk, where a young woman sits calmly amidst the chaos.
“May I help you?” she asks, her gaze meeting Dan’s.
“Holloway,” Dan says, struggling to catch his breath. “Dan Holloway. My wife, Sarah Holloway—”
“Yes, sir,” she interrupts, rising to her feet. “Please come with me.” She looks at Tommy sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, but only one visitor can go back at a time.”
Dan hugs Tommy, worry knotting in his stomach. “I won’t be long, bud. Just need to see what’s happening with Mom.”
Tommy nods, his eyes filled with unspoken questions.
“The waiting room is just over there,” the receptionist says gently. “There’s TV, magazines, and Miss Mary can get you something to eat or drink.” Her coworker, a kind-faced woman with a warm smile, comes forward and gently guides Tommy toward the waiting area.
“Tell me,” Dan pleads, his voice barely a whisper. “How is she?”
“She’s mostly stable, Mr. Holloway,” the nurse says, professional but kind. “Dr. Lee will be here shortly to discuss her injuries.”
The curtain is pulled back, and Dan’s world tilts. Sarah is unrecognizable. Her hair is tangled and blood-soaked, her face swollen and bruised. Every exposed inch of skin is marked by trauma. He stumbles back, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Please, sit down,” the nurse says, concerned. She helps him into the chair. “Dr. Lee will be here shortly.” The curtain swings closed behind her, and Dan is left reeling, Sarah’s injuries a brutal assault on his senses.
A moment later, the curtain parts, and a woman in scrubs enters. “Dr. Jennifer Lee,” she says. “I’m the attending physician. Your wife is in my care.”
Dan nods slowly, his gaze fixed on Sarah. “How is she?” he asks, strained.
“Mr. Holloway, your wife has sustained multiple injuries, and she’s currently unconscious. She has a concussion, broken ribs, and severe injuries to her abdomen. We’re doing everything we can to stabilize her and assess her overall condition.” Dr. Lee pauses, prepared for the question that she knows is coming. When it doesn’t, she takes a breath, her eyes meeting Dan’s. “I’m so very sorry to tell you this, but during our examination, we also discovered that she has lost the pregnancy. We know this is devast—”
The news hits Dan like a physical blow. He feels a sudden wave of dizziness, and he collapses into the chair, his mind reeling. No. No, no, no. The denial gives way to a wave of pure, agonizing grief. He sobs, his body shaking with the force of his sorrow.
Dr. Lee crouches next to Dan, gently squeezing his arm. “I can only imagine how difficult this must be,” she says softly. “We’re here for you and Sarah, and we’ll support you through this. Our focus right now is on stabilizing her injuries, which are quite serious.”
She was pregnant? He looks up at Dr. Lee, his eyes glistening with tears. “I...I didn’t know,” he whispers, grief mixing with abject disbelief.
One year later…
The scars on Sarah’s body have faded, but the ones within remain. She is far from fully recovered, and her mind carries wounds that might never heal. They slowly piece together the story of the enslaved woman’s ghost, and Sarah’s recurring nightmares paint a vivid picture of Eliza’s tormented soul.
Still fascinated by the paranormal, Dan and Tommy’s explorations now delve into the academic realm. They have become deeply knowledgeable about the struggles of enslaved people in the Antebellum South, poring over historical documents, firsthand accounts, and scholarly analyses of the period. They’ve visited historical websites, consulted with historians, and even learned to decipher the fragmentary records left behind by the enslaved communities themselves.
One such search, prompted by Sarah’s vague recollection of what the woman had said to her in her dream, led them to a breakthrough. Using the letters from the Ouija board—T-I-B-E-B-E-M-W-E-N-A-N—they were able to decipher the message. “Ti bebe mwen an”— “My baby” in Haitian Creole.
Driven by Dan and Tommy’s research into the history of slavery in the South, the family takes a trip to New Orleans on the anniversary of Sarah’s accident.
It was meant to be a healing journey, a way to escape the ever-present ache.
One sweltering afternoon, while Dan and Tommy explored the city’s labyrinthine archives, Sarah wanders into a small, unassuming antique shop tucked away in the French Quarter. As she browsed the shelves, crammed with forgotten treasures and eerie relics, a chill, despite the heat, prickled her skin. In a darkened corner, amidst a pile of faded silks and antique lace, she saw it.
A tignon.
It was exquisite, a vibrant blend of colors, the fabric soft and worn with age. It called to her, a silent whisper from the past. She picked it up, the silk cool against her fingertips. It felt…alive. She had to have it.
The shop owner, a wizened woman with eyes that seemed to see beyond the present, offered a knowing smile as Sarah paid. “It’s a beautiful piece,” she rasped, her voice a slow, warm drawl. “I’m sure it has a story to tell.”
It wasn’t until they were miles outside of New Orleans that she noticed something odd—a small, almost imperceptible lump within the folds of the fabric. Carefully, she unfolds the tignon. Nestled within its silken embrace was a tiny tag, its edges frayed and yellowed. With trembling fingers, Sarah turns it over. Crudely hand-sewn, barely legible, was a single word.
Eliza.
Content Warning: This story includes a depiction of child death, specifically a miscarriage. This content may be emotionally challenging for some readers. Please proceed with caution.
I hope you enjoyed reading The Tignon as much as I enjoyed writing it. Though this story has come to an end, there are plenty more lurking… just beyond the reach of the porch light.
***If you would like to hear a narrated version of this story, tune in to The Red Treehouse Podcast to hear The Tignon read in its entirety by host Will Soto.***
This is excellent! I love how you have options for the full version, the series, and the audio version that the podcast did. This one was selected for today's episode of my podcast, so I'll be discussing all the ways to experience this superb ghost story on the episode!