by Eva Pohler
“This website claims that she continues to practice her magic from beyond the grave,” Sue said.
“Does it offer any proof?” Ellen asked.
“No.” Sue took another bite of her pie.
“I wonder why only one of her children lived to adulthood,” Tanya said before sipping her tea.
“I think that was common back then,” Sue said.
“But only one out of fifteen?” Tanya asked.
“Like I said before, maybe she sacrificed them.” Sue grinned.
“It says here that she once saved a man from death row,” Ellen said.
“Some of these sources describe her as a witch and others as a saint,” Sue pointed out. “I wonder if she was somewhere in the middle.”
Ellen took a sip of her coffee. “Most people are.”
“Marie Laveau said to find the bones of the devil child,” Tanya said. “I Googled ‘devil child New Orleans’ and found an article called ‘The Demon Baby of Bourbon Street’ on The Haunted Tours of New Orleans website. Listen to this: ‘A high society Creole family had a beautiful daughter named Camille who was eagerly courted by many suitors, but, preferring the Americans, Camille settled on Mackenzie Bowes, a Scotsman by birth. He was obscenely wealthy, and both Camille’s family and Mackenzie’s were pleased with the match. But one of her Creole suitors wasn’t so pleased. In fact, he went to Marie Laveau to ask for a favor.’
“‘Etienne, the Creole suitor, wanted Camille for himself. When Marie Laveau said it wasn’t meant to be, he wished Camille dead. Marie Laveau took his offering, stamped her foot, and agreed, though she warned him it would cause him suffering, too.’
“‘When the bride and groom returned from their honeymoon, Camille was already pregnant and quickly began decorating a nursery in her new home on Chartres Street.’” Tanya looked up. “Do you think it’s possible that it’s the same house we’re…never mind, it can’t be.”
“That would be a crazy coincidence,” Ellen said. “Read on.”
Tanya continued, “‘Both Camille’s mother and her husband began to suffer from terrible dreams about the baby. Marie Laveau was called to the house to offer her remedies. She said she was worried for the child and asked that she alone be allowed to be present when the child came.’
“‘Her request was honored, and Marie Laveau was with Camille when the time came. Her labor was difficult, causing Camille to wail and moan until she, at last, passed out and died. Marie delivered the baby from Camille’s cooling flesh, only to find that the child was a monster.’”
“What?” Ellen gawked. “That’s ridiculous.”
Tanya read on, “‘The baby had claws instead of fingers and toes and the nubs of horns on the top of his head. He was covered in scales, and his eyes bulged. Mackenzie Bowes was horrified and wanted nothing to do with the monster that had killed his beautiful wife, so Marie Laveau took the child to another woman of high society, Madame Delphine Lalaurie.’”
Tanya looked up. “Seriously?”
“Keep reading,” Sue said before taking the last bite of her pie.
“‘Delphine Lalaurie wanted to have the devil child baptized, and then she and Marie Laveau shared the responsibility of raising it. For years, Marie Laveau could be seen walking from her house on St. Ann, down Bourbon Street, turning at Governor Nicholls to the home of Delphine Lalaurie on Royal, either to retrieve or to deliver the devil child, its cries echoing throughout the quarter as she walked. To this day, people claim to hear the wails of the devil baby along Bourbon Street between St. Ann and Governor Nicholls, which is why it’s come to be called the Devil Baby of Bourbon Street.’”
“That’s so bizarre,” Sue said.
“If Marie Laveau cared so much about raising that child,” Ellen said, “she wouldn’t have sacrificed her own.”
“Unless she sacrificed her babies so that Satan would give her his,” Sue offered. “Maybe to make her more powerful or more feared.”
“‘No one knows whatever became of the devil child,’” Tanya read before looking up from her phone. “Guys, this is crazy. I don’t believe Satan gave Marie Laveau his baby.”
“Of course not,” Ellen said. “But there was a child, and Cornelius won’t be allowed to rest until we find its bones and consecrate them.”
When it was nearly time for their appointment with the realtor, they headed back on foot to the house on Chartres.
Lionel was waiting for them on the sidewalk beneath his sign when the three arrived. He was taller than Tanya and nearly as thin, with receding black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin. He was at least ten years younger, if not more.
“Good afternoon,” he said as they caught up with him. “How are you ladies today?”
“Hot and out of breath,” Sue said. “Can we see the inside?”
“Yes, of course,” Lionel said. “But let me tell you a little about the house first, if you don’t mind.”
“Please, go ahead,” Ellen said.
“This Creole-style mansion was originally built in 1828. It was updated some in the 1950’s. Central air and heat were added in the eighties. The original character was maintained, as you’ll see in a moment. It’s a four bedroom, three and a half bath, with a living room, dining room, kitchen, library, office, and courtyard. There’s also a guesthouse at the back of the courtyard with two additional bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen, making a combined total living space of 3700 square feet. The house was originally listed for 3.5 million, but due to a recent death on the premises…have you heard about it?”
The ladies nodded.
“The price was dramatically reduced just this morning to 1.5.”
“That’s less than half,” Sue whispered to Ellen.
Then he added, “They think the guy was a random squatter who overdosed. It happens, you know?”
“Sure,” Ellen said through a dry throat.
“It’s too bad, too,” the guy said. “Rotten luck for the owner.”
“Not to mention the dead guy,” Sue added.
“I can show you all but the top floor…it’s considered a crime scene and has been blocked off by the police.”
“For how long?” Sue asked.
The agent shrugged. “I have photos of the upstairs on my website.” He took out his phone. “Let me pull them up for you.”
“But we can still tour the bottom floor?” Tanya asked.
“Certainly.” The agent put his phone away. “Let’s do that first.”
He took out a key and unlocked the front door and led them into the parlor. To the right of the kitchen, yellow caution tape blocked access to the upstairs.
As Lionel took them through the rooms on the street level, Ellen and her friends pretended to be viewing the house for the first time—something they already had some practice in.
“Two famous people from New Orleans are said to have lived here,” Lionel said. “Have you heard of Delphine Lalaurie or Marie Laveau?”
The women gawked.
“Apparently, you have,” the agent said with a laugh.
Tanya asked, “They lived here?”
The real estate agent nodded. “Marie Laveau is said to have lived here briefly as a midwife and nurse to a wealthy woman who died in child birth. Delphine Lalaurie is said to have lived here until she died in 1858. You’ve heard about the fire at the Lalaurie Mansion in 1834?”
“Yes,” Sue said.
“Some people believe Delphine Lalaurie fled to Paris and remained there until her death,” the agent said. “But others say she moved back from Paris into this house in 1842 and remained here until her death in the late 1850’s.”
“Do you have proof that she lived here?” Ellen asked.
“No proof. Only legend.” Lionel led them to the living room. “Would you like to see the guesthouse?”
“Yes, please,” Tanya said.
The guesthouse, which had a small kitchen, living room, and bath on the main floor and two bedrooms upstairs, appeared to have been more recently r
enovated. When asked, the agent said that it had been updated in the nineties.
“The people who owned the house before the current owner had planned to renovate while living in the guesthouse, so they renovated it first and then ran out of funds. The bank foreclosed on the estate in 2001. That’s how the current owner got this property. He told me he had planned to renovate and move here, but his business dealings led him and his family abroad, so they rarely make it out here anymore. In fact, no one has stayed in the house for at least fifteen years.”
“We’d like to make an offer,” Sue said. “Wouldn’t we, ladies?”
“Yes,” Tanya said.
“Let’s offer asking price,” Ellen said. “No contingencies. Full cash.”
The agent’s mouth widened into a huge grin. “Wonderful. I’ll draw up the paperwork and contact the seller right away.”
Chapter Seven: The Lower Ninth Ward
Ellen and her friends wouldn’t be able to close on the Chartres mansion until after the police declared the second floor was no longer a crime scene. Since they didn’t know how long this would take, and since they couldn’t search for the diary of Delphine Lalaurie until then, they decided to hunt down Cornelius’s mother, Maria Nunnery.
But first, they each needed to break the news of their intentions to acquire the house to their husbands, who hadn’t been consulted an iota before the ladies had made their offer.
Sitting alone in the shade of the courtyard at the Inn on Ursulines, which was surprisingly not like a sauna, Ellen reminded herself that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for cooperation on opportunities such as this one. With her fingers crossed and a knot in her stomach, she dialed Paul’s number.
“Hi, Honey,” she said, once he’d answered. “How are you?”
“Good. Just finished a record round of golf. Wish you were here to celebrate with me.”
“Me, too, Honey. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too. How’s it going in Tulsa?”
Ellen hadn’t realized she’d not yet told Paul about her emergency trip to New Orleans. “I’m glad you asked. Something extraordinary happened to Tanya, and it brought us to the French Quarter.”
She went on to tell him about the ghost attachment, about what had happened at Lexi’s church, and about the strange visit with Carrie French. She told him how Carrie had either been possessed by Marie Laveau or had been an illusion altogether. She told him about the woman who’d died at the hotel in Tulsa on the very same night of their visit with Carrie, about the naked man in the tub, and about the beloved python of the Voodoo high priestess, all who seemed to be victims of the most famous Voodoo queen in history.
“You’re in too deep,” Paul said. “Why risk your lives for people who are already dead?”
That wasn’t the response she’d been hoping for. “Honey, but this ghost, Cornelius, he’s just a boy. He needs peace. And there might be another child who needs peace, too.”
“The devil child.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re the one who has to give it to them?”
“Tanya could die if we do nothing, Paul. If we don’t help Cornelius, he’ll use her up until there’s nothing left. Don’t you see? We had no choice.”
“Well, maybe I should fly out there, keep an eye on you.”
As much as she’d love to see him, and as much fun as she thought they’d have together on Bourbon Street, she doubted it was a good idea. “Honey, there’s more. Sue and Tanya and I put an offer on the house where Marie Laveua said we’d find Delphine Lalaurie’s diary.”
“You what?”
“We put in a full price, all cash offer just today. I would have called you first, but it was an opportunity we couldn’t afford to miss…”
The call ended.
Had he hung up on her? Or had the connection just gone out on them? Or, was it possible that Marie Laveau had interfered? Ellen was afraid to call back. If Paul hadn’t hung up on her, he would call her; and, if he had, well, there was no use in her calling him. He’d talk to her when he was ready.
Her eyes filled with tears. She wished he’d understood. She wished he’d felt the same sense of urgency in solving this mystery as she did.
Upstairs in the room, Tanya lay curled on one queen bed, and Sue lay stretched out in the middle of the other. Both were sound asleep. Ellen took her phone and lay down on Tanya’s bed, where she searched for Maria Nunnery on Google.
The search produced results on Maria Monk’s book about her frightening experiences in a nunnery, but nothing came up for a Maria Nunnery.
Undeterred, Ellen searched up the number for Houston Memorial Hospital. She called the patient information desk and, pretending to be a reporter writing an article about where Hurricane Katrina victims were today, asked if there was any contact information for the family of Cornelius Nunnery, who died there on September 20, 2005.
“That information is confidential,” the woman on the phone said. “Even if we had it, I couldn’t give it to you.”
Tempted to go to sleep, Ellen closed her eyes after ending the call, wondering what to do next. Tears of frustration slipped from the corners of her eyes, wetting her ears. She wouldn’t be able to fall asleep even if she wanted to, so fixated was she on solving the mystery that had endangered Tanya’s life.
A sudden gasping snore from Sue jolted Ellen from her pondering, causing her to flinch. Sue mumbled, “Huh?” before drifting off to sleep. Tanya, briefly awakened by Ellen’s sudden movement, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Ellen had another idea. She called the Voodoo Spiritual Temple and, as expected, the quiet woman who always sat behind the counter answered the phone. First, Ellen asked if she knew what Isabel’s favorite flowers were, to which the quiet woman replied, “Lilies.” Next, Ellen asked if the temple had any contact information for Maria Nunnery. Ellen explained that the spirit of Maria’s son was attached to Tanya.
“One moment, while I check,” the quiet woman said.
Ellen crossed her fingers as her heartrate picked up speed.
Then the quiet woman said, “I don’t have anything for Maria Nunnery, but I have a phone number and address for Cecilia Nunnery. Do you want that?”
“Yes!” Ellen cried so loudly, that she woke up Sue and Tanya. “Please!”
An hour later, Ellen and her friends rode in a minivan cab to the Lower Ninth Ward, about fifteen minutes away. Since the phone number given to them by the quiet woman at the Voodoo Spiritual Temple had not been a working number, they had no idea what to expect. They’d called the realtor for a status update on the Chartres property, but he had no news yet. They’d also ordered lilies to be sent to Priestess Isabel. Now, they fidgeted in the second and third seats of the van as they gazed out on the magnificence that was the Mississippi River.
But the magnificence was soon overshadowed by the poor state of the roads and buildings as they crossed the bridge over the canal and entered the Lower Ninth Ward.
“Oh, my gosh,” Ellen said through a dry throat. “I hadn’t realized the area was still so far away from being completely rebuilt.”
“Oh, yeah,” the driver said. “Over there was where the barge hit.”
“Barge?” Ellen asked.
“Don’t you remember?” Tanya said. “During Hurricane Katrina? When the levees broke, and that Casino barge destroyed all those homes?”
Ellen nodded. “Yes. I remember now. Oh, wow.”
“Some of those houses look new,” Tanya said. “The ones with the solar panels on the roofs.”
“That’s Brad Pitt’s Make It Right housing,” Sue pointed out. “Right?” she asked the cabby.
“Right. Lot o’ folks wouldn’t have homes if it weren’t for him,” the driver said. “That entire area was wiped out. And look over there. You’ll see a nice, fixed up house right next to one that’s about to fall down. That’s how it is for my parents. They live across the street from an abandoned house full of mold and rats. The neighborhood stinks
like rotten milk. The people here don’t even smell it anymore. I think it’s killing them, slowly, you know what I mean?”
“That’s terrible,” Ellen said.
The driver turned left onto Flood Street.
“Well, who named this street?” Sue asked with a laugh.
They passed a construction site on the right and a half-built shotgun-style house on the left. There were a few nice-looking brick homes and two-story Creole town houses, but past these nicer homes were empty lots, one of them with a foundation and steps where a house used to be. Construction crews lined some of the streets where they were repairing the roads. But amid the improvements were piles of rubble, discarded tires, and abandoned houses that looked unsalvageable, especially one that had been taken over by vines and brush.
“What do those markings painted on some of the houses mean?” Ellen asked.
“That’s from the rescue crews,” the cabby said. “They drew an x and put the date on the top, a note about gas leaks or other damages on the right, the number of dead bodies on the bottom, and the rescue worker’s initials on the left.”
“September nineteenth?” Ellen read. “The rescue workers didn’t get there until twenty days after the hurricane hit?”
“It was bad,” the driver said. “See that one? It says 4DB? That means they found four dead bodies in that house.”
Ellen shuddered. “It’s been thirteen years. Why hasn’t someone painted over them?”
“Some people think of them as a memorial to their lost loved ones,” the driver explained. “Others just never came back—or if they did, they turned around and went back the other way.”
“I wonder why,” Tanya said.
“The businesses didn’t want to move back if there weren’t no people, and the people didn’t want to move back if there weren’t no stores and gas stations. The schools were closed. Hell, it took forever for my parents to get electricity. They lived with me for two years in a FEMA trailer parked on my property, on account as I had electricity in my area.”
