Ghostly Chastain Park Sale

A Personal Invitation from the Ghost of Chastain Manor

Well hello there, sugar.

My name is Alana Rose Chastain, and I have lived on this property longer than anybody. Much, much longer.

You see, I lived here in the 1800s with my Mommie, Daddy, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and enough neighbors to fill a church picnic.

Then came word that General Sherman and his Yankee army were marching toward Atlanta.

Everybody panicked.

Mommie packed. Daddy hollered. The neighbors prayed. The horses ran. The chickens complained.

And me?

I hid under the staircase.

I figured everybody was playing hide-and-seek.

Turns out everybody was playing "Save Yourself."

The whole family left for the mountains and somehow forgot one tiny little Southern girl.

Rather rude, if you ask me.

I heard the soldiers searching through the house. I heard drawers opening and furniture being dragged across the floor. Then I smelled smoke.

The next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of a burned-down house.

Only I wasn't standing.

And I wasn't exactly alive anymore.

Now don't get upset. I didn't feel a thing.

I've simply been here ever since.

When my family returned and discovered what happened, they commissioned a lovely portrait of me. You'll see it hanging just inside the front door. That's me. Try not to stare too long. It makes me blush.

Over the years, new homes were built on this property, families came and went, children grew up, and I simply stayed put.

Which means I know this house—and every treasure in it—better than anybody.

And since Lavon, the Estate Sale Man, has allowed me temporary control of the advertising department, let me tell you what awaits.

The Living Room

Let's begin where Southern hospitality begins.

The living room contains a stunning antique buffet made of dark, beautiful wood. I don't know what kind of wood it is, but it's handsome enough to make a furniture collector weak in the knees.

There are serving pieces galore because Miss Angie dearly loved to entertain.

Silverplate.

Platters.

Crystal.

Pretty glass thingies whose purpose I still don't understand.

You'll also find two gorgeous wicker chairs I would happily haunt for the next hundred years and a beautiful Mid-Century Modern coffee table emblazoned with the letter "B."

Lavon brought that one in himself.

I have inspected it thoroughly.

It is ghost-approved.

The Dining Room

To your left stands a magnificent antique corner curio cabinet.

Tall.

Sturdy.

Elegant.

Frankly, it may be older than I am, and I don't say that often.

There's also a lovely China cabinet from the "newer" era.

By newer, I mean the 1960s.

Y'all do realize I measure time differently than you do.

The room is filled with dishes, collectibles, and enough entertaining supplies to host Thanksgiving for three generations of relatives who don't particularly like one another.

The Kitchen

Now this room absolutely amazes me.

When I was alive, our cook hauled water from the well, chopped wood, built fires, and prayed supper would turn out right.

Now you people push buttons.

It's practically witchcraft.

The refrigerator, washer, dryer, and kitchen gadgets are all for sale.

And there is a lovely round pine breakfast table large enough for you and several of your favorite people.

Or your least favorite people.

I don't judge.

I've been dead a long time.

My Favorite Room — The Great Room

Oh my stars.

This room is wonderful.

The massive green rug, furniture, and decorative treasures are all for sale, including a beautiful blue loveseat, beveled-glass tables, and an elegant Queen Anne chair.

The Christmas decorations alone could make Santa himself put in an offer.

And then there is the crown jewel:

A spectacular two-foot ceramic Christmas tree.

Not ordinary lights.

Butterfly lights.

Butterflies!

I nearly floated through the ceiling the first time I saw it.

You'll also find books, CDs, stereo equipment, and plenty of wonderful whatnots.

Southerners understand what a whatnot is.

Nobody else does.

Down the Hall

There are rooms everywhere.

Seriously.

I occasionally get lost and I've lived here for over 150 years.

The most entertaining room is the Jewelry Room.

There are piles of jewelry waiting to be discovered.

Dig.

Search.

Hunt.

Treasure awaits.

Lavon has added beautiful pieces from around the world, and every table holds another surprise.

It's like an archaeological dig, except with earrings.

The Basement of Wonders

To reach the basement, you may ride the magical chair that travels up and down the staircase.

I used to ride it late at night while everyone slept.

Wheeeeeee!

Yes, the chair lift is for sale too.

Now downstairs you'll discover the Man Cave.

Or Kid Cave.

Or Whatever-You-Call-It Cave.

There is a massive settee—what you modern folks call a couch.

A television.

Furniture.

Decor.

And enough treasures to keep bargain hunters occupied for quite a while.

The Deer

Now we need to discuss the deer head.

The enormous deer mounted on the wall has startled me more times than I care to admit.

Sometimes I make it whistle.

The children scream.

The adults get nervous.

I laugh for three days.

Sportsman's Paradise

The unfinished basement section is where the outdoorsmen lose all self-control.

There are forty or fifty fishing rods and reels.

Thousands of rubber worms.

Enough tackle to catch every fish in Georgia and half the fish in Alabama.

There are golf clubs, golf balls, and golf accessories.

I still don't entirely understand golf.

It appears to involve grown men becoming emotional over a tiny white ball.

Final Thoughts from a Friendly Ghost

I could tell stories all night long.

Lord knows I've had enough years to collect them.

But ever since the family moved away, I find myself sleeping more.

It's difficult to haunt an empty house.

So I'll leave the rest of the treasures for you to discover yourself.

Study the photographs.

Bring your friends.

Bring a truck.

Bring a trailer.

Bring your strongest shopping muscles.

Because this isn't just an estate sale.

It's a treasure hunt.

It's a museum.

It's an adventure.

It's a little piece of Southern history.

And if you happen to hear a little girl giggling near the staircase...

Well...

That might just be me.

See y'all at the sale.

Love,

Alana Rose Chastain

Resident Ghost, Chief Treasure Inspector, and Unofficial Director of Southern Hospitality Since 1864