The tropical sun burned a blood-orange glow before sinking behind the hills, leaving the 18th-century-style mansion a gloomy gray, its many windows dull and opaque.

Twilight crept across the lush island as the air-conditioned tour bus wound its way up the hillside toward the architectural masterpiece.

The engine’s hum faded as it entered the circular courtyard. Wide stone steps climbed from the courtyard to the house, both inviting and forbidding at once.

The driver opened the doors. Heat and humidity hit the instantly pink faces of the many tourists moving down the steps into what felt like a sauna, onto the old-world pavers, and into a part of Jamaica’s history. Legend had it this was a dark part. The infamous Rose Hall Great House was said to be home to a ghost.

Kenneth and his wife Jackie, the only Jamaicans on the bus besides the driver, moved out from the back seats.

“Like I said,” the first-time visitor to Jamaica said loudly, “my family is from here.”

No one turned around as they rushed to get off, except for an elderly British gentleman who was moving as quickly as he could to get away from the loudmouth.

“I know a lot about this place,” Kenneth said. “I heard stories about it, made up to scare people since I was a boy.”

“Okay, Ken,” Jackie said, widening her eyes at her husband.

“Just saying, that’s all!” He laughed. “They should know who to ask if they have any questions during their night in the duppy house.”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the tour guide said. She wore a servant-themed outfit and a wide smile. “I am Marva. Welcome to Rose Hall, the home of Annie Palmer, the witch; and where you’ve bravely chosen to spend the night!”

Kenneth looked at his wife. His smile was smug.

“This Jamaican Georgian plantation house was built around the 1770’s by a wealthy British planter.” The guide continued proudly. “And what you are about to see before you have dinner and settle in for your stay here tonight, is the slave history of the Rose Hall Estate. We want you to learn all about the legend of the wicked White Witch of Rose Hall.”

Marva shot Kenneth a quick glance that made him suck in his lips and look up at the sky. Then he took a selfie of himself smiling beside what looked like an antique chamber pot on a plant stand behind him.

The group walked up the steps in silent awe of what they were about to experience. At the top, the guide urged them to turn toward the panoramic view; that part of the Caribbean coastline the spectacular elevation would give them.

“See those palm trees?” Kenneth blurted. “Must be where they say she buried the husbands she murdered!” He pointed to three gnarly palms standing far down on the sandy beach.

“Legend has it,” the guide said, raising her voice, “that Annie Palmer had her three husbands buried down there—each one under a century palm.”

At the sound of the witch’s name, a passing docent crossed herself and kissed the gold cross around her neck.

“Those palms only bloom every hundred years,” Kenneth muttered to the same Brit, who rolled his eyes. “They bloom once,” Kenneth said louder, “then they drop dead.”

Each room of the museum was filled with centuries-old relics. Marva spoke with pride about the home’s restoration and Annie Palmer’s bloody past. When she described the punishments, murders, and Obeah rituals—where jealous husbands, unwilling enslaved lovers, and even innocent wives and children disappeared—it made several tourists gasp. Mistress Palmer, she explained, had used Obeah – a form of witchcraft – to cast spells on anyone who got in her way. Her ghost, or duppy as Jamaicans call them, was said to walk the house during the darkest part of the night. It was too much for one elderly lady, who had to be escorted outside by a docent for fresh air.

“Duppies?” Kenneth chuckled. “Pure foolishness! Just another story to sell junk souvenirs.”

Jackie narrowed her eyes. Marva ignored him and guided the group up the creaking mahogany stairs.

It had grown dark. After a hearty Jamaican dinner, the group had said their goodnights and gone to their designated rooms.

Kenneth waited until it was clear. He whispered, “Jackie—come this way.”

“Our room is just down there,” said Jackie. She pointed in the opposite direction.

“You know that room on the other side of the house, they said was forbidden?”

Kenneth said, “Let’s take a peek.”

“What part of ‘forbidden’ don’t you understand?”

“They always say that—it’s just for show!”

He walked off.

Jackie, sensing trouble ahead, followed him after a short while. He had already unhooked the red rope barring the door by the time she caught up. The No Entry sign was on the floor. She looked at the darkness that had swallowed the corridor behind her and stepped over the rope into the room.

Inside, the green silk walls shimmered in the faint light. Paintings of animals and faces seemed to watch them. The door slammed shut behind them. The lights flickered on, revealing a painting of a fox bleeding from its neck. Hounds surrounded it, pieces of flesh hanging from their teeth.

The house that moments ago had been full of life grew eerily quiet. The familiar voices were gone, replaced by strange sounds like laughter echoing in the distance.

“Get me out of here!” Jackie screamed. The lights switched off.

Kenneth tugged the brass handle with all his might. It wouldn’t move.

“Must be jammed.”

“What?” Jackie screeched. “You idiot—we’re locked in!”

“Probably part of the Halloween act,” Kenneth joked. “Maybe we get the after-hours duppy show for free!”

Jackie banged on the door. No one came. But a chair shifted, and a sickly perfume drifted through the air—strong and mixed with something heavy, like musk. She shuddered. It smelled like a potion.

Kenneth brushed it off. “They’re pumping fake scent through the vents. Moving chairs, laughter… See? All staged.” He yawned. “I need to lie down. I’ve been walking around these damn tourist spots all day.”

Suddenly, he felt something touch him. It was as if someone was exhaling close against his skin. He turned, but there was nothing. He stiffened, more out of reflex than fear. The sensation lingered—a faint warmth against the back of his neck. Probably just a draft, he told himself, though the air felt still. He brushed at his collar and glanced around, lips tightening in mild irritation.

“Great,” he muttered, “now the house is breathing on me.” Still, a sliver of curiosity tugged at him, and he leaned slightly forward, testing the air again. Nothing.

An outside light shone dimly through the paned glass, revealing a lounge chair on the far side of the room and a mahogany dresser nearby. Two green satin-covered twin beds stood close together near the window.

“I’m going to lie down right here,” Kenneth said. He sat on one of the beds.

“There’s no way I’m lying down in any haunted room’s bed,” Jackie said. “God knows what went on in there.”

She went over to the lounge chair and sat on its edge, clutching her purse. “I’ll rest here.” She opened the purse, took out a key and held it tightly in her hand. It was to ward off duppies, a superstition she had had since childhood.

“Well, suit yourself.” Kenneth lay down on the bed. “Maybe some wild spirit will come for me in my dreams.”

Soon they both fell asleep.

The strange scent returned stronger this time, as an ethereal mist. It drifted through the air and coiled its way through Kenneth’s nostrils into his lungs. Half-asleep, he felt Jackie’s hands glide over him—slow, lingering, possessive. She caressed every inch of his body, whispering his name softly. He smiled and moaned contentedly. But now she was scratching him, feeling for his wedding ring and slipping it off. He tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t.

All night, she gripped his hand—cold, tight, and unrelenting. The blood in its veins pooled until it throbbed. He tried to speak. He couldn’t.

Morning came and daylight streaked its long fingers across the room. Kenneth wiped the blur from his eyes. The other bed was untouched. His hand was almost purple. It was painful and cold. His wedding ring was gone.

“Jackie,” he croaked, “where did you sleep last night?”

“Where I said I would,” she replied. “Here on the chair. Why?”

Kenneth didn’t answer. He was staring into the mirror on the dresser. In its depth stood a milk-white duppy woman with eyes like candlelight, smiling. She was twisting his wedding ring on her finger.

His heart was racing. Duppies existed. The White Witch existed. She was wearing his ring! It had been her duppy squeezing his hand mercilessly all night. His skin crawled, as he recalled the sensation of her touching his body…She must have used Obeah to make him think she was his wife.

“Kenneth!” Jackie said, raising her voice. “What is wrong with you?”

He blinked.

“Come on,” Jackie said. “We have to get back to our room before they miss us!

She went over to the door and turned the handle. It clicked open immediately.

Back on the bus, the tour group chatted loudly about their night spent at Rose Hall. As the great house shrank in the distance, Marva noticed that Kenneth was not saying anything.

“What happened to you, Mr. Kenneth?” she said gently, “You look as though you’ve seen a duppy!”

Kenneth, his face drained of color, was silent.