I travel down two winding stretches of country road, then a turnoff toward the town before I spot Lorelei Lake. Its enormity surprises me. I never knew this place existed, and being a travel writer I’ve been to pretty much every corner of Louisiana. Why the big secret?
There are signs to a county park that takes RVs, the requisite Baptist church, and a place selling homemade signs such as “Proud Marine Lives Here” and one sporting a crazed man in overalls that announces, “Avoid folks that begin a sentence with ‘Hey y’all, watch this!’”
Downtown in Fontus Springs, if you can call it that, resembles a Stephen King novel: empty storefronts, rampant vines covering buildings and abandoned cars, and literally no one in sight. If there was a creep factor compass, the needle would be spinning wildly.
At the end of the three-block town, I spot several cars in the gravel parking lot of a concrete block establishment. There’s an old-fashioned gas pump in front, a collection of propane tanks for sale, two giant dumpsters on the side — one sporting a misspelled sign that reads, “No RV sewerige allowed,” — and several boats in trailers out back. A pretty inconspicuous place save for what looks like a giant nutria holding a beer on top of the building. I know this must be Hi Ho’s, but I can’t help staring at the hairy creature looking down on me as I park the car.
A knock on my window scares me so much I jump, spilling the contents of my coffee thermos.
“Sorry,” Elijah says.
I emerge from my Toyota with a lovely brown stain fronting my blouse, a designer cotton number I nabbed in the discount bin at Goodwill. My heart sinks thinking I may have ruined this rare discovery.
“I’m so sorry. Let me get you a towel,” Elijah continues, then hurries inside.
I follow and pause at the threshold to take in the scene before me: aisles and aisles of lures, lines, fishing poles, and items smelling acutely of fish. Some of those signs I witnessed on the road are lining the walls and I have to laugh at “A balanced diet means two fried chickens and four beers.”
“They’re all waiting out back,” the man at the counter instructs me in a thick Southern accent. Go above Ville Platte in the middle of Louisiana and everything turns from Cajun to Gomer Pyle in a heartbeat. I gaze over to find Counter Man surrounded by everything from aspirin and toilet paper to numerous types of whiskey and condoms.
I head to where I hear a cacophony of voices, a large dining area that one enters after moving down two steps at the door. I realize that someone has attached a double wide on to the back of the store and cut a wide entrance into the side. On the walls of this “café” are several stuffed fish that I assume are bass, a couple of deer heads and a portrait of Ronald Reagan with a bald eagle flying behind. Gazing at the former president, I can almost hear The Star-Spangled Banner playing.
Elijah greets me with a box of baby wipes and appears genuinely distressed. “I am so sorry.”
“No worries,” I say accepting the wipes but as Elijah turns to make introductions, I grab a paper napkin off the Aunt Jemima napkin holder and blot the oblong stain that stretches to my navel. I hear my name mentioned so I look up, soiled napkin in hand, and am greeted with several “Nice to see you’s.”
I nod, answer in kind, and Elijah holds a chair out for me.
“What will you have,” he asks. “And please let me get you a fresh cup of coffee.”
I look around to the half dozen or so men, and notice many of them eating plates of eggs, grits and toast. I remark with a smile that I will have what they are having. No one gets the reference and an older, sunburned man in an LSU T-shirt yells my order to someone in the kitchen. And I mean yell. A skinny teenager almost immediately appears and places a cup of coffee before me, along with individual creamers and a large bowl of sugar. No pink cancer packets, I notice, wondering if women are allowed in back of the Hi Ho.
As I raise my cup to my lips, I notice the nutria starring back.
“Who’s this?” I ask, pointing to the image on the side of my cup.
“That’s Hi Ho,” LSU explains. “He’s our mascot.”
“Used to be,” Elijah clarifies, thankfully sitting down next to me. I feel more comfortable having him close now that several pairs of male eyes are staring at me as if I’m a ghost. “Years ago, we had a school in Fontus Springs before they started busing our kids to Boyce.”
I examine the creature holding a beer and I still can’t figure out what he is.
“He’s a beaver,” says a burly man to my left. “Some Coonass from Ville Platte did the artwork and left off the flat tail.”
Elijah sends Burly a harsh look, no doubt on account of him using the derogatory name for Cajuns. There was a time when people uttered that expression freely, even Cajuns adopting it as their own, but political correctness changed all that.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the man says. “Meant no disrespect.”
“I’m from New Orleans.” I don’t know why I blurt that out, since I hate that disparaging word for Cajuns. But something about this place so foreign to my upbringing makes me want to connect with these people, not feel so awkward among them.
I also don’t ask why a school mascot is drinking a beer.
“So, about these ghosts in town…,” I begin.
Immediately, the atmosphere shifts. All those gazes looking my way suddenly find other items of focus. The conversation ceases and I can hear the teenager in the kitchen slamming pots on the stove. I look at Elijah for encouragement but he’s not meeting my eyes either.
“That is why I’m here, right?”
Finally, LSU straightens and gives himself a shake, like he was covered in dirt. “I don’t know what Elijah’s been telling you but I, for one, don’t believe in all that nonsense.”
This brings the group to life. A chorus of hemming and hawing ripples through the crowd as if on cue.
“Now, Pete,” Elijah says, standing, “we already discussed this.”
“Don’t matter what I discussed,” Pete answers, also standing. “I’m not going to believe in all that woowoo stuff just because a bunch of people in town are hallucinating. I told you, it’s probably something in the water.”
This brings my own set of shivers.
“I doubt our drinking water is making people see ghosts,” Elijah insists.
There’s a buzzing in my head and the word water seems significant somehow. For a second, I wonder if someone’s trying to tell me something until I realize that water is my forte, so to speak. Of course, it’s important. As soon as I shake that thought away and focus back on the men, I feel — hear? — a sigh akin to a child being disappointed. I can’t help but dart around to see if someone’s there, but there’s no sign of Lillye.
My inattention to the men and sudden focus on plain air stops the conversation.
“Did you see something?” Elijah asks, and I turn to find all those gazes back on me.
My disappointment in not seeing Lillye burns through me from the depths of my soul all the way to the lump in my throat. I shake my head and try to speak normally. “I dropped my spoon.”
Elijah glances at the empty floor, then at me, and I wish I had talked him out of this assignment. I know he’s doubting my ability, wishing he had his deposit back that I’ve already handed over to Lafayette Utilities System. And, once again, all eyes are back on ghost hunter Vi.
“Why don’t you all start from the beginning,” I say. “And may I please have another cup of coffee.”
Asking for something ordinary helps. LSU jumps up and brings me a pot to refill my cup and the men start chatting about fish, the lake’s level, and how soon fall will arrive. The air around us feels infinitesimally better.
Elijah, however, remains dour. When he raises a hand, all talking stops once more.
“My grams, Miss Bessie, over near the springs, said it all started Easter weekend,” he says. “Old man Wallace Tate, the first mayor of Fontus Springs, came walking through her yard like a zombie.”
“Your grandm
other, in all due respect, is close to one hundred years old,” says a guy in overalls with what looks like bad dentures.
“And sharper than you, Melvin,” Elijah fires back. “What are you? Eighty-eight?”
“I ain’t saying,” Melvin replies with a smile and the group laughs, which helps break the tension.
“Martha at the bank saw two people one night in her house,” Elijah continues. “And they disappeared into the wall. Shirley, the teenager who helps us stack books at the library, said there’s a Confederate hanging around the park by the lake.” Elijah runs a nervous hand across his forehead. “And that’s just a few.”
“My wife insists our bedroom is haunted,” a man next to me says softly.
“She just don’t want to go in there with you,” a voice says and laughter emerges again. “Can you blame her?”
My neighbor smiles good-naturedly so as to not lose face among these men but I can sense he’s disturbed as much as Elijah.
“I still think it’s something in the water,” LSU mutters and I listen for the buzzing, but it doesn’t return.
“Has the water been tested?” I ask.
LSU wags a finger at me. “See, I’m not the only one who thinks we need to get the state up here.”
Elijah shakes his head.
“I’m not saying it’s the water but it would rule that out.” I touch Elijah’s elbow. “Where does your drinking water come from?”
It’s the first time this morning that Elijah looks at me, really looks at me. I feel a deep sadness in those intense brown eyes.
“The springs,” he practically whispers. “Goes through the plant north of town.”
“I’ve been saying all along those springs are probably contaminated,” LSU says. “We should be tapping into the lake. After all, it’s a reservoir.”
“It’s manmade?” I ask.
“One of the most perfect engineering feats in Louisiana.”
Once again, the talking stops and we all turn toward the door. Standing on the threshold is a man in uniform with the state of Louisiana over one breast, hand on one hip as if he owns the world, and a countenance that insists that he does. He’s not bad looking either and that part of me that hasn’t seen action in ages wakes up.
“Speak of the devil,” Melvin says. “We were just talking about you.”
“That’s so odd,” the man next to me utters, as if this uniformed person is a ghost as well.
Elijah rises from his chair and greets Mr. Uniform, shaking his hand. “I called him here, you fools. I knew you would have questions about water quality.”
Mr. Uniform takes in the room full of men and finally rests on me but says nothing, as if the crowd he has come to address doesn’t concern me.
“Y’all know Matt Wilson from the State Department of Water Quality.”
Elijah motions for the skinny tattooed girl in the kitchen to bring out another cup and pulls out a chair for His Highness. Matt nods to the men in front of him and sits.
“I think I know most of you here,” he says, although he doesn’t look back at me.
“This is Viola Valentine,” Elijah says. “She’s here to help us with our haunted problem.”
“Alleged haunted problem,” LSU adds.
Matt still doesn’t look my way, offers up a smirk, and I instantly dislike him, no matter his good looks. I spent years covering the police beat in St. Bernard Parish, following around uniforms like him, men who wouldn’t give me the time of day because one, I was a journalist, and two, a lowly woman.
“So, tell me, Matt,” I say to his back. “How does drinking water cause people to see dead Confederates walking around?”
“It doesn’t.” The man is insufferable, still refuses to look at me. “I think what you have here is a case of the hysterics.” He offers up a smirk, then sends Elijah a harsh look. “Or maybe it’s just the women being hysterical.”
Some of the men laugh but not Elijah and the man to my right, the one with the haunted bedroom. They both glance at me, waiting for an appropriate response, something astute. I’m so busy being pissed at women being called hysterical for the five millionth time in history that I’m rendered mute.
“As for the water quality of the springs and the reservoir,” Matt quickly begins, “we’ve tested it time and again and found nothing. Just random minerals, which is why this place was a resort to begin with. Hell, people came from all over to drink this stuff. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Then why…?” my neighbor begins.
“Then nothing.” Matt leans back in his chair. “Someone saw their shadow one night and now the whole town’s imagination is soaring. Just people wanting attention.”
This riles my neighbor and he’s about to retort but Elijah places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. My neighbor thinks twice about replying but I can see him gritting his teeth.
There may be nothing to the hauntings of Fontus Springs and there may be nothing I can do about it if there are ghosts here (unless they truly died by water), but now I’m royally ticked. Cocky macho men burn up my last nerve. I stand and say loudly, “Okay, then. Elijah, how about you give me a tour of the town since you wonderful men asked me up here especially for this” — I hold up my fingers to make quotes — “‘imaginary problem.’”
Elijah rises and some of the men appear uncomfortable but I don’t care. I want this conversation to be over and I want to be rid of this arrogant man who hasn’t the courtesy to give me the time of day. LSU rises, bless his heart, and shakes my hand, offers me some encouragement, as does the neighbor with the haunted bedroom. They even walk me to the door and wish me well.
Once in the parking lot, it’s just me and Elijah and the latter looks as frustrated as I feel.
“Sorry about that. Matt is a bit of a jerk.”
“I noticed.” I pull out my keys and try to tame the anger burning in my chest. “Where are we to now?”
“Want to take my car?”
I think about my faulty brakes and the rolling hills around the lake. “Sure.”
We climb into Elijah’s SUV and start back toward the ghost town, no pun intended. After several minutes a calming quiet descends upon us. Now that my adrenaline has subsided, I decide I need to clear the air once again.
“Elijah, I only see ghosts who have died by water.”
He nods solemnly. “I know.”
“Then you do know that if these people died some other way, like a Yankee bullet for instance, or the mayor dying of natural causes, I’m not going to see them.”
We’re at a stop sign on the main thoroughfare but no one’s coming so when Elijah pauses and looks at me solemnly, I let that gaze sink into my soul. Something’s amiss here that goes beyond my ghost-hunting talents and the water testing by the state of Louisiana, but for the life of me I can’t guess what.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
This is not what I was expecting. “I don’t understand.”
Elijah glances back at the road in front of us, where a lone dog saunters across the empty highway.
“There’s something very strange happening here,” he whispers. “I hate to get you involved in this but I don’t know who else to turn to.”
That buzzing returns and I feel like the universe is demanding I focus — but on what?
“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” I offer.
Elijah nods and takes a right down a one-lane road in bad need of repair. As the SUV bounces through potholes, I look up at the trees dripping their branches over us, as if to shelter us from the world. I usually enjoy the comfort trees give, especially in sweltering Louisiana, but today their shadows give me the frissons.
We continue through the woods, twisting and turning as our path curves and Elijah dances around even larger potholes. We descend about one hundred feet until the road ends at the lake, a tiny bright blue in a mess of overgrown bushes and trees.
“I take it this is Lorelie Lake,” I ask when Elijah say
s nothing, simply stares ahead.
Elijah quietly turns off the engine, then exits the truck, and not knowing what else to do I follow along. We walk a few feet until the brush becomes thick and stare out on to a gorgeous lake and a picture-perfect sky. The juxtaposition between the water and this creepy stretch of road — not to mention Elijah’s mood — is striking.
“Do you know the history of this lake?” Elijah finally asks.
“It’s a reservoir. I take it the state created it for recreation or to provide water to the town.”
Elijah smiles grimly. “No, it was always here, just not as large.”
“Then, why did that man say it was man-made?”
Elijah wipes his hands on the front of his jeans, that sad smile lingering. “That’s the million-dollar question. Everyone, including the state, kept saying the lake started when the dam was built. Over time, everyone started believing it.”
He moves to head back to his truck, saying over his shoulder, “Come on. One more stop.”
We travel down an obscure road that skirts the lake this time, another fine example of Louisiana transportation. Just before my teeth come loose from the endless bumps in the road, Elijah pulls over alongside property with trespassing signs everywhere. Through the dense brush, I spot deserted buildings in various states of ruin but mud roads that appear better than the ones we’ve been riding on.
“Fontus Springs,” Elijah tells me. “What used to be of it, that is. This was once a popular destination after the turn of the twentieth century with a hotel, pool, restaurant — you name it. Springs date back forever, of course, but Europeans founded this spot as a resort in the late 1800s.”
I peer through the windshield to what looks like the remains of brick buildings inside the overgrown brush. There’s a chimney to the right, what’s left of one, and a lone wall behind a line of trees.
“Hard to imagine anything of note existing in this desolate place,” I say.
Elijah leans over the seat and grabs a file box from the back, then hands it to me.
“This is everything I could find on the springs. The library wanted to publish a commemoration booklet when the springs turned one hundred in 1989 but the City Council voted it down. Not enough funds, they said. When I started at the library I found this box hidden in the back of a closet. The previous librarian told me where it was, said to keep it close and to not leave it about the library for just anyone to access.”
Ghost Town Page 4
