The abandoned family mansion sits alone on a hill in the countryside, miles from any city. Nobody goes near it today if they know the troubled story behind it. Of course there are some who don’t believe there is any significance to the house at all. But I do. I know every story ever told about that house, how it was once a nice home built for a large family in the state of Virginia in the early nineteenth century. It even once served as a hospital for wounded Confederate soldiers, but that was only after they, the Jackson family, left.

It was 1842 when Vincent Jackson and his wife Margret Jackson decided to move their nine children and themselves out of the city of Richmond, Virginia and into the countryside. They had a mansion built for them on a hill overlooking the beautiful, rolling green hills, a winding creek, and nothing else except for vegetation, most within the exquisite gardens surrounding the mansion. The family lived favorably for a year, but sickness soon struck and the three youngest children died of disease. Filled with grief and sorrow the remaining family made it through three more years of good health until sickness struck again and all died except for Margret.. She lost her husband and children, the life that she had known and was filled with such remorse, that some say she went mad. She would not acknowledge any visitors but would rather sit on her porch alone listening to a music box her husband had bought her for their most recent anniversary.

Some say she died quietly, others say she died of grief. They buried her on the property with the rest of the family. Nobody knows the exact spot of the family graves because the wooden crosses used to mark their resting place can’t be found. The mansion became abandoned, the gardens overgrown with weeds, the house seemed to die along with the family, but many say that the family still lives on.

Almost one hundred and seventy years later, the mansion is still standing. I decided that I wanted to see whether or not the ghost stories were true. It was a rather warm September day and I chose to walk to the mansion. A voice in my head told me not to go inside, but my curiosity became overwhelming and I found myself walking up the porch steps. When I reached the landing, I noticed the old decaying rocking chair. I took in my surroundings. The landscape was overgrown, the paint on the house chipped, and covered in graffiti, the shutters falling off the broken windows, but the huge front door still stood tall. I reached for the doorknob as gusts of wind blew through my hair. I was suddenly chilled, but I found the courage to push open the door. The inside of the house wasn’t in much better shape. It was probably used as a prime gang-meeting spot. Disgusted and still uneasy, I walked back out onto the porch and down the stairs. The family was buried somewhere on this property. I wondered where. The paths around the gardens were overgrown, but other paths that the servants probably used were still decipherable. I decided to follow one leading downhill towards the creek and woods. The creek was beautiful, and the woods thick, but I found what I doubted anybody else has ever noticed, a trail on the other side of the creek. The creek was shallow enough to wade through and I began walking along the trail. I was confused to find that after walking only twenty feet, the path ended. I observed the setting around me and saw a clearing ahead. In a strange way, I felt pushed towards it but it was getting dark and I decided to go back home. What I didn’t know is that in the clearing, nine trees are lined up in perfect order, and on the center tree, a cross is carved out, and below that are the initials M.J.