The Souls of New Orleans
On Amazon Now! "Ghost Stories And The Unexplained: Book Two"
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My boyfriend, Hugh, and I flew from Seattle to New Orleans in early June of 2004, the year before Hurricane Katrina hit. After touring the jazz clubs we planned to set out for a cuisine excursion and music tour that would include Etouffè, crawfish, plantains and the music and stomping great dance steps of the Southwest Louisiana Zydeco Festival.
I was giddy with excitement and anticipation as the wheels of the jet touched down at Louis Armstrong International Airport in Kenner – just a few miles west of New Orleans.
Ah, at last, I was back in New Orleans – The Big Easy. It was Hugh’s first time visiting The South and my first time back after leaving many years before. The plan was to treat ourselves to a French Quarter hotel and then I would proceed to show Hugh the beauty and the history of a city that, to this day, tugs at my heart. As we prepared for landing I thought of my parents, now deceased, and wondered why, as a family, we had never returned to the region that had meant so much to us years earlier.
Well, enough of The Past. New Orleans! We were here to party! Heading east on Interstate 10, we sped past the Louis Armstrong Park, and the haunted St. Louis Cemetery. We looked out over mile after mile, of crypts of various sizes as the taxi driver cautioned us on the dangers of wandering into the cemetery alone (particularly after dark). His dire warning was an effective way to shoo us away from voodoo priests and other nefarious possibilities that he said existed in the cemetery. In the broad daylight, the square miles of crypts displayed an architectural range from Southern Elegance to Old World Charm. The Ninth Ward sat fretting – to the east – despair and disaster looming.
We had reservations at one of the most historic hotels in the French Quarter. There would be plenty of food and festivities in the Quarter to keep us engaged during our stay.
Check in was a breeze. My goodness, I love the charm and welcome of The South! A bellman whisked us to our room and I collapsed on the bed taking in the decor. Yellow! Morning glory, Southern, glorious. . .yellow. It’s such a happy color. Plus, the room featured wainscoting and white porcelain water pitchers, and fluffy tea towels. What a charming sanctuary it would be, I thought. I was so happy to not be in a big box, corporate-America, hotel chain.
Hugh seemed pleased with my hotel selection and let me know with a simple, “It’s nice. Good choice!”
“Shall we look around the hotel and stroll the French Quarter?” I invited, and with that, we were off to explore to our hearts’ content.
We stepped out onto Chartres Street and into the heavy humidity and din of street noise: street vendors, taxis, trolley traffic, and elegant carriages pulled by horses bridled in silver harnesses.
Sweet sugar fragrance, the hint of pralines, powdered sugar cookies and other confections hung in the air. It was a summer carnival of sounds and smells. We were approaching the sidewalk-stage of three rail-thin teenage boys who tap-danced a steady rhythm on the concrete – kind of scatting – using smashed pop cans as aluminum cleats that surrounded the arch of their shoes.
“Hey, Mister! Got something for me, Mister?”
Hugh held out a dollar bill, wrapped cigarette style. It was palmed to the ‘manager’ of the group, and we continued on our way toward boisterous Bourbon Street where more noise and the promise of magic awaited us.
Hours later we returned to our hotel. The night air had cooled a little; the streets glistened from the neon lights of jazz club marquees reflecting onto the rain soaked cobblestones. As we walked through the hotel lobby we were greeted by two front desk clerks whose lively conversation we interrupted. They called across the lobby to us, “Good night, y’all. Have a nice evening,” before returning to their gossip.
“Did you see that man?” Hugh asked as we rounded the corner out of earshot.
“Which man?”
“For God’s sake! The one wearing a fedora, who was standing in the shadows behind the check-in desk. You’d think they wouldn’t allow him to stand there glaring at passing guests.”
“Hmm, I didn’t notice.” And with that, we let it go. Thoughts of brunch at Café du Monde filled my thoughts as our footsteps echoed against the harlequin inspired black and white tiled floor. I was only thinking about how happy I was to be back in New Orleans as we left the well-lit lobby and entered the soft lighting of the Spanish-inspired courtyard. It was like stepping back in time. The courtyard featured ornate wrought iron tables on which sat lit candles, that cast shadows on the lush tropical vegetation. The shadows danced in the light breeze, playing hide and seek among the botanicals. Up the steps was our second floor room, which looked down over the quaint patio.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Hugh, startled.
He looked at me inquisitively.
“Horses whinnying – and men crying out! Screams! I think I heard screams!” It was only, maybe, a two-second window of sound – but it was clear as a bell – and then everything was suddenly quiet. I shook my head to clear my imagination. Surely it was my imagination.
The bottom of Hugh’s shoe scraped against the wrought iron steps as he started up the staircase leading to our room. The sound sent shivers up my spine. As I got to the top of the landing I reflexively reached up and scrubbed my face with both hands. It felt as though I had walked through cobwebs. I shuddered at the unusual chill.
Something caught my eye! I looked down from our balcony just in time to see a man looking up at us. I caught a glint in his eyes as he looked away. He scurried down the long hallway leading away from the front lobby. Was he wearing spurs? I’m not sure, but he was most certainly wearing a fedora just as Hugh had described – and a gray felt cape.
That is what really caught my attention – the cape. I mean, it’s hot and muggy in New Orleans, particularly in the summer. The heat can be suffocating – even at eleven at night.
“I just saw him! The man in the fedora – with a gray cape! He must be elderly.”
“Elderly?”
“Yes, before my dad died he always wrapped in a shawl. We couldn’t keep him warm enough. That man must be elderly. Why else would anyone wear a cape in this heat?” Don’t we tend to put present circumstances into past experiences to explain the oddities of life?
“Well, that aside, you’d think that security wouldn’t want him lurking around this late at night,” Hugh observed.
I shrugged. “Things are pretty live-and-let-live in New Orleans. But, Hugh, I got the weirdest sense when he caught my eye – like he was sad, or in mourning.”
In an attempt to regain our privacy, I asked, “You like it though, right? The hotel?” I longed for an indication from Hugh that he was completely taken by the hotel’s old world charm. From the balcony outside our room we looked down over the pool and the sparkling water that reflected the full moon in its ripples.
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s perfect for our Tour of the South,” he agreed.
We called it a day and slipped into our room just as the breeze picked up and swept through the courtyard. Shadows seemed to follow us into our room. In the distance I heard a cat snarl at some unseen force. Then trash cans crashed against each other in the alley. We both jumped, jarred out of our romantic mood, and then laughed at ourselves.
* * *
“Hugh!”
He was in the bathroom brushing his teeth when the door knob to the room rattled in its casing. It was as though someone were trying the lock. Blood rushed to my head and I felt as though I had tunnel vision. My heart beat fiercely. The fun memories of the day were whisked away in an instant.
“Hugh!” I cried out a second time.
Hugh was already out of the bathroom before I called his name the second time. I jabbed a finger toward the door. He was striding in that direction.
I was horrified when he grabbed the doorknob and threw the door open. No hesitation whatsoever. For God’s sake, who knew what was waiting outside on the balcony? Nothing. It was quiet as a tomb except for the sound of crickets.
I slumped onto the bed. The iron frame creaked. Hugh crooked his head at me, inquisitive.
“It was the door handle. The door handle turned. I’m sure,” I rambled on trying to convince both of us that I had actually heard something. The room had been so quiet and the sound so distinct.
“Babe, let’s go to bed. It’s almost midnight. You can sleep on the side of the bed away from the door,” he joked.
I scowled at him as I struggled to drag the overstuffed chair across the room.
“You must realize how unnecessary that is,” was all Hugh said as he slipped into bed.
Not caring what Hugh thought at the moment, I placed the chair in front of the louvered French doors leading to the balcony. Its straight back and forty pounds would prevent any prowler from sneaking into our room.
“There!” I announced, “security system in place!”
Hugh smirked.
I hate king-sized beds. One might as well be sleeping alone. Unless I clung to Hugh all night long I’d invariably be sleeping by myself on one side of the expanse, with he on the other. And indeed, in the sticky humidity of New Orleans we naturally rolled away from each other’s body heat and drifted off to sleep.
I never sleep with the air conditioner on – whether its Nashville or New Orleans. The artificial over-chill is such an affront to my memories of The South of the 1970s. I reasoned that eventually the night air would cool off and the sweet fragrance of jasmine would float in on an early morning breeze. And, with the rattle and clank of an air conditioner turning on and off I might miss the comforting backdrop of cicadas chirping. And I didn’t want to miss that sound.
In the middle of the night I had the feeling that Hugh was up, wandering around the room, pacing in the pitch dark. It must be the heat, I concluded. I reached out and ran my hand over the sheets, smoothing them for when Hugh came back to bed. My fingertips bumped into his rib cage! He was under the covers – not pacing the room! So, if he was in bed, at arms’ length, who was slowly pacing the room in the shadows at the foot of our bed?
Considering the door was effectively barricaded, there was only one possibility. Our room was haunted. Was the specter even aware of us? Or was It on a parallel plane, a captive of another realm? Sheer terror took over my senses. My heart was racing; tears blurred my vision. I could not have screamed if I wanted, my throat had constricted so.
Nudging across the bed toward Hugh I settled my sudden case of chills by pressing my spine to his – my eyes never leaving the specter. Yes, I could make out the outline of the apparition. It wore a fedora, and a long cape. The old man had gotten into our room! Familiar with ghosts, but not comfortable with their presence, I could only wait for the shadows of night to slowly slip away. How long before morning? I thought I would be able to stay awake to make sure It didn’t harm us, but I finally fell back asleep as It entranced me with its slow patrol.
It was an hour or so later – maybe 3AM, who knows – when I heard
the latch to the armoire rattle. I sat straight up! I shouldn’t have, actually, but I did. I should have hidden under the covers, in the pitch dark. It would have been smarter to curl up in the silence – not making a sound. But, all of my senses were on full alert. I peered, now accustomed to the darkness, toward the armoire.
I tried to pick up a second sound, something that would confirm that what I had heard was not a dream – that I was suddenly awake because of something. Bad idea. Did I really want a second noise to come from inside our hotel room in the dead of night? My ears were now ringing in the stillness. I slunk down and quietly inched my body back toward the security of Hugh’s. He stirred.
“What are you doing?”
I had woken him.
“Something is moving around the room.”
“Are you kidding? There’s a chair with the weight of a compact car blocking the door. This is a nice hotel. You picked it. Can you please go back to sleep?”
Translation: Would you quit bothering me while I go back to sleep. Hugh wrapped his arms around me and somehow I did manage to drift back to sleep, feeling all the while that something inside the hotel room was watching me.
My dreams were filled with a wild cacophony of horses whinnying and men crying out – a dream filled with specters and bedlam. Of buildings bursting into flames, and explosions near, and in the distance. In the dream I was running from house to house pounding on the doors screaming, “Help! Someone help us!” It was one of those Hitchcock dreams from which there is no escape.
It was the welcoming bright sunshine of a Southern morning that swept away the rattles and rustles of our first night in New Orleans.
Or was it? It wasn’t quite that simple, actually.
We missed the hotel Continental breakfast. No matter. Black coffee and fragrant, flaky yeast-rich pastry puffs, dusted with powdered sugar awaited us just two blocks away at Café du Monde.
A celebratory crowd greeted us as we strolled into the legendary venue. We scanned the scene and realized that we’d be lucky to be seated – at all. The hostess led us to a table at the rear of the restaurant, wedged into the back corner and away from the windows. The couple at the table adjoining ours nodded a greeting. We were virtually table mates.
I sensed some discord between the couple. Hugh gave them their privacy by hiding behind his menu. I pawed through my purse feigning lost glasses and eavesdropped as best I could.
“Damn it! I’m quite sure,” she hissed. “We should tell the manager.”
“What, and appear batty?”
“You always discount me,” she pouted. “I saw it! I was awake! It was in the room!”
“You were sleeping, dreaming. For the love of all that is holy, would you drop the subject? We’re not changing hotels!”
“Let’s just look. . . for an alternative,” she implored.
The response was a menu pulled up in front of the husband’s face. He mimicked Hugh to a T.
With the noses of both men stuck in their respective menus, the woman and I turned to each other.
“Ghosts,” she stated flatly. She might as well have said ‘bed bugs’.
“Oh dear, I had the same feeling last night! Which hotel are you in?”
She told me.
“That’s where we’re staying!”
“This is too much of a coincidence! How funny! Our hotel is famous for things that go bump in the night, we’ve just learned.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She continued, “I insisted to my husband that we check out this morning, not have breakfast there, after I checked the reviews on our iPad this morning. I was sitting in the lobby this morning before breakfast and talking to one of the guests just to get out of our room. She told me to look up the un-sponsored history of the hotel. I hadn’t done that before. We took for granted it was a nice hotel – and it is – actually. It’s just that it’s. . . haunted.”
I laughed nervously. The pieces were fitting together nicely.
“Which room are you in?” I asked.
“Three thirteen,” she said.
“We’re in room two twelve,” I countered.
After we ordered, and were waiting for our breakfast of coffee and beignets – the wife and I continued our conversation.
“I am sure someone was in our room last night. I could just feel it,” she reasserted.
“We had the same experience!” I laughed “I kept Hugh awake with my fidgeting.”
She looked fascinated, “So, you haven’t heard the stories?”
I hadn’t. “No, but do tell.”
So she began, “During the Civil War a field hospital sat where our hotel is now located. The land that the hotel rests on has quite a history. The hotel is comprised of several old buildings – Building Five is the creepiest to stay in,” she assured me.
“The War of Northern Aggression,” I stated.
“Excuse me?” She seemed genuinely confused.
“The Civil War, it’s actually referred to as the War of Northern Aggression by quite a number of Southerners,” I tutored.
She continued, “Hmm. . .well, anyway, I woke up last night after being asleep for only an hour or so. I had the most vivid dream that I was sleeping on a blood-soaked pillowcase. I was so sure that when I woke up from the dream I brushed my hand over the pillow. In the dark it felt sticky!”
“Good God!”
“Mark,” she nodded toward her husband who was now buried in the sports pages of The Times Picayune, “woke up when I cried out.”
Her husband glared at her as if to say, too much information!
“Please, Evelyn. Drop it and let’s just have a nice day,” Mark implored.
“Oh no, you must tell me what happened?” I prompted, too invested by now to drop the telling.
“Mark turned on the lamp. The pillow case was fine but we heard running on the balcony outside our door, just as we turned the lamp on.”
“Running?”
“Yes, and someone cried out, ‘Bring him here! The surgeon is in here!”
Finally Mark spoke, “That was the weird part. The voices were quite distinct.”
Finally Hugh put down his menu and piped in. “You both heard something?”
“Yes!” Mark and Evelyn answered, in unison.
“I jumped from the bed to see who was outside running along the balcony,” Mark admitted.
“He yanked open the door!” Evelyn turned an admonishment to her husband. “What were you thinking?”
“Oh my! Hugh did the exact same thing,” I said. “But, did you see anything?”
“I can’t be sure. It happened so fast. I thought I saw a man dressed in a gray cape with braiding on the shoulders. But it might have been a dream.”
“It wasn’t a dream,” Hugh and I blurted out at the same instant.
Hugh and I exchanged glances. Were we finally in agreement? I raced on, “We all saw the same man. Out of season, considering the heat. He was slinking around the lobby when we returned from dinner and night clubbing last night.”
Hugh laughed, “Way out of season.” Of course I realized what he was driving at. “The first time we noticed him, he was standing behind the check-in desk, leaning against the wall. It seemed as though he was listening to the check-in clerks. The girls seemed totally unaware that he was listening in on their conversation,” Hugh continued.
“Actually, I’m convinced that he wasn’t listening to their conversation,” I declared. “If anything he was waiting for the injured to arrive, so that he could guide them to the Surgeon’s Quarters,” I concluded. “Surely, he was stuck in his own moment in time – 1862.
