Say My Name

My name is Phineas Birch and I am ghost. This place in which I linger is where I was born and died. My mother gave birth to me in the attic of the kitchen house in 1771. I died in the basement of the big house at the hands of my father in 1787. My life as flesh and blood was cut short, you see. Sixteen years did not afford me enough time to leave a mark on the world. That is one of the reasons I remain on this earthly plain in the shadows.

Nowadays a women’s organization owns this house. Half a century ago, they restored it to its original splendor and began to operate it as a museum. Each year some 20,000 visitors enter the great hall and stroll through these rooms.  They admire the high ceilings, dentil molding, wide plank floors, the crystal chandeliers and fine furnishings from Europe.  They gaze at the portraits of my father, his heirs and the lady of the house.

The employees who conduct guided tours of the house tell the story of Abraham Birch – how he amassed his fortune as a planter and merchant and came to be one of Wilmington’s most prominent citizens. He owned three plantations north of town. He built this house in the center of the city, using the stone walls of the former city jail as its foundation. It sits just a block from the Cape Fear River. From its second-story veranda, we could see my Birch’s ships at port.  He conducted business in the study and entertained in the parlor and dining room.

In recent years, the guides have begun to talk about the enslaved folk, but only in a general way. A fire at Birch’s plantation destroyed the records of slave purchases, sales and births. The guides express regret that they have no information with which to tell individual stories. They don’t even know the slaves’ names.

They speak of ghosts only when guests ask if the place is haunted or other questions of that ilk. They answer by sharing an anecdote or two.

For more than 200 years I have tried to make myself known. I slam doors, make objects vibrate in place, usher in a chill breeze, things of that nature. The staff have heard me pacing the floor above their office on many occasions.  They describe these episodes when prompted. I have also made the spinning wheel turn as if by itself. Sadly, the latter has led the employees to relay that the house is haunted by Mrs. Birch or one of her daughters. 

Tonight, a paranormal investigative group will spend several hours in the house and I can’t wait. I hope that their endeavors will release me from my self-imposed bondage. They are setting up specialized cameras and audio equipment in every room. I don’t know the particulars, but allegedly these devices possess sensitivities to light and sound that elude the human eye and ear.

It is midnight and they are ready to begin their research. They commence in the parlor. Four investigators and the director of the museum are present. The leader of the group asks, “Is someone here? If, so, please give us a sign.”

I have to think for a minute how to give them an appropriate signal. The leader asks a second time. I go to the door leading to the great hall and nudge it. It swings a few degrees and bumps the wall behind it. 

There is a collective gasp of excitement and the leader asks, “Who are you?” 

I know they cannot hear me, but I hope my voice will be picked up by their instruments. I stand close to one of the investigators and I say my name very slowly, pronouncing each syllable. “Phin-e-as Birch,” I say propelling as much air as possible. The investigator feels the cold rush of my breath on her neck and says so to her colleagues, adding, “It’s literally making the hair on my neck stand on end.”

“Phin-e-as Birch,” I say again, this time in the ear of a second observer. He responds to the tickle by swatting his ear. “Oh. My god, I think it might be whispering to me!”

The lead investigator moves closer to his co-hort.

“Tell us you name, please,” he says to me.

“Phineas Birch, Phineas Birch, Phineas Birch!” I feel like I am screaming, but they hear nothing. 

A third member of the group asks, “Are you Abraham Birch?”

“No!” I shout.

The museum director prompts the leader to ask if I am Eliza Birch. “If yes, give us a sign, please.”

I do nothing. 

“Are you a man?” asks the leader. “If so, give us a sign, please.” 

I cause the window to rattle in its casement.  

One by one they inquire if I am George, Alexander or Thomas, the known sons of Abraham. I remain still.

“Who are you?” One of the group asks. They seem to think I am capable of only answering with a word or two, but I decide to tell my whole story. I continue telling it long after they have left the room and gone to other parts of the house.

My mother was named Sarah. My father, our master, never acknowledged me, though I resembled a brown version of himself.  He never showed me any favoritism either. Indeed, the punishment he inflicted on me when he thought I had run-away was particularly cruel.  

My father, my master had sent me to deliver a letter to the captain of one of his ships. Upon executing my errand, I had a sudden impulse to see the ocean, so I stowed away below deck. I had no idea how long it would take to reach the mouth of the river. I had given no thought to how I would return. I think I imagined I would be home before sunset. Ha! 

It was dark when a crew member discovered me. At dawn, the captain ordered him to row me to shore and leave me on the bank of the river. I walked for an entire day before a patrol caught me and brought me back to my master.

My father was unmoved by my explanation of why I had gone missing. He made my sweet mother watch as I received a lashing. She wailed each time the whip cut my flesh. Her cries were louder than my own. 

After my whipping he threatened to sell my mother if I ever ran away again. Then he locked me away in the basement of what had been the dungeon of the old gaol. I languished there for four days with only a meager supply of water for drinking. By the time he was ready to set me free, my wounds had festered, and I was feverish from the spread of infection. I died three days later. 

My father told my mother I had run away again. To prevent her from knowing the truth, he had me buried in the basement.

The paranormal group packed up their equipment at 3 a.m. About a week later they came back to share their findings with the museum director. I was there when the lead investigator played the audio tape for her.

 “Phineas Birch” was discernible though it sounded quite strange, unlike a human voice at all. My narrative came across as screechy static with only two words standing out: mother and Sarah. On recordings from the basement, I could be heard to say, “I am here.” Peppered throughout was the refrain, “free me.”

“That gives me the willies,” said the museum director.

The leader of the paranormal group grinned with delight.

I was disappointed at first, but the more I thought about it, the more reason I had for hope. One day soon, I felt certain, a tourist would come along and ask if there was a ghost in the house. The guide would say my name and for now,  that would be enough.