By Kathryn Tucker Windham
Jeffrey is the mischievous “something” that has headquarters within the Windham domestic in Selma. He first made his presence recognized in October 1966, and because then he has persevered, at abnormal and rare periods, to clump down the corridor, slam doorways, rock in a chair, frighten the family members cat (now deceased—through no fault of Jeffrey), stream heavy items of furnishings, reason digital apparatus to malfunction, and conceal gadgets. He usually accompanies Mrs. Windham on her travels, and stories of Jeffrey’s antics are commonly acknowledged. “Nobody has ever been petrified of Jeffrey,” Mrs. Windham says. “He is especially handy to have—we blame every thing that is going awry on him. His simply goal for present (if that be aware is right) is to prod me into amassing and conserving ‘true’ ghost tales from in the course of the South.”
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Additional info for 13 Georgia Ghosts and Jeffrey
No one had. The door was securely locked. So back down the stairs she went. When she reached the office, there in the middle of the bare desk lay the key. Nobody had entered the building, and nobody had left. She took the key, though she admitted being hesitant about touching it, and trudged upstairs again. This time she found the padlock unlockedand the hasp was gently swaying back and forth. Somebody, some unseen hands, had opened the lock only seconds earlier, the same somebody who had conducted a neat but futile search through the rooms with their racks of costumes.
Henson, like he might have been trying to protect her. "Folks figured that the stranger, whoever he was, must have thought the Hensons had some money hid at their house, and he aimed to rob them. It was a bad thing. Real bad. "The house stayed empty a long time after that. Nobody wanted to live in it. Then finally some new people moved in, folks who didn't know anything about what had happened to the Hensons. "They'd been living there a good while when the man asked somebody after preaching one Sunday if he knew anything about a white collie.
There was a toast, too, to the final dinner party there. "May the joy of this occasion never end," the gentleman proposed. It seemed a strange toast on such a night. The guests drank the toast, and then, following the lead of their host, they shattered their glasses against the trunks of the Bonaventure oaks. It has been a long time, perhaps a hundred and seventy-five years, since Bonaventure burned. The oak trees are still there, their gnarled limbs softened by streamers of moss, but now they shade not a grand manor house and its formal gardens but the graves of Savannah's dead.