For The Love From Miss Millie

As a tour guide and a medium of spirits in haunted Charleston South Carolina, I am acquainted with those that not everyone is honored to meet. Every evening as I travel to work many spirits are looming about; This is the story of one of those spirits. She and I have known of each other for several years now and why she is earthbound saddens me so.

Each evening I exit the James Island connector onto Lockwood Drive, an area of this historic city that has seen several changes over many years. When you exit from the ramp to your right is one remnant of that era gone by. Upon the shoreline of the Ashley river stands a building of cultural stature, most pass by never thinking of how that area use to be. I am referring to the West Point Rice Mill, it is offices now; constructed in 1860 on a site that was previously occupied by a mill built by Johnathan Lucas the third in 1840. Now during the era of the 1800's there were a couple of lumber mills along that stretch of land surrounded by a large mill pond on the rivers side as part of the Lucas lands he had acquired from Daniel Cannon. Though it has changed hands over these many years, she still stands near, watching, waiting and most of all weeping.

Miss. Millie, as her friends called her, is petite of stature. A finely bred, lovely lady of her time. Her skin, soft with a milky complexion to any observer really, her pretty face of heightened check bones and largely oval hazel green eyes set perfectly framed in uniform ringlet curls of chestnut color hair, which has been set with an iron I suppose. Attired in a most beautiful gown, styled of that day and age. It is made of a light periwinkle blue with a fitted bustle top that is adorned on the edges with Irish lace. Her tiny arms fill the bloused sleeves that come to a form fit at the elbow, they too are adored with small hems of Irish lace at the wrist. The bustled back, at the waist, flows upon the wind like the ebb and flow of the tide, it as well is adorned with a satin ribbon bow of a slightly darker periwinkle blue to match her slipper like shoes.

Each evening as I pass she lingers there near the waters edge, as one passes you may catch a glance of kerchief collecting the many years of tears she weeps. Poor Millie once had a joyous athletic son, Henry was his name. The lad no older than twelve, I believe, fell in love with the sea; as did many a young man who soon learns the ocean can be a careless mistress. Henry though, ignored the warnings of danger and would go to the mill pond to swim against his mothers wishes. Miss Millie pleaded time after time with her son not to swim there. Like most techniques used of that day to get certain jobs done, the pond depended on the incoming and out going tide to move the lumber about, before it was to be processed in the mill.

One evening at dusk Henry stole away from his mothers attentions to catch a quick dip in the cooling waters of the Ashly river. It had been positively sweltering with heat that June and the young boy could stand it no more. He waded into the waters edge and began to swim outward a great distance from the shoreline. A storm was coming and the sky was clouding with the darkest, dankest of clouds. The wind picked up and had made the waters of the pond become choppy and in turn with ebb below, the undertow, became stronger.

As the sky became dark and the evening supper was prepared to be served, Miss Millie called for Henry. " Henry, Henry supper is ready come and eat child, " but Henry was nowhere to be found. Millie tried to remain calm as she policed the usual places Henry might be. When he had not turned up she became frantic and broke into a run for that mill pond. She arrived at the edge to faintly see Henry far from the shore. He turned to look as he heard his mother call out once again to come home for supper. As Henry spun round and began to swim towards the shore a large chop of wave overtook him. Millie watched her son helplessly as she shrieked for someone to save him, much to no avail. There was nothing more she could do as she witnessed her son swallowed by the rouge wave. Her heart breaking to watch as her son was taken down under the dark murky waters, never to appear again. The next day after the storm passed and the tidal flow changed directions, Henry s lifeless young body washed up with the next days ebbing cycle. Several of the men whom worked for Mr. Cannons lumber mill respectfully delivered him to her.

Now when I drive to work, I see her, standing at the waters edge near were the City Marina is these days. Holding her kerchief to her face to dry her weeping sorrow for the loss of Miss Millie's only son. She is most prominent at dusk around June or when Charleston gets a storm, but her heart broken spirit remains throughout the year. She stares out over the waters edge and weeps for the son she lost so many years ago.