Ella called her group to order up front and began her spiel. “Ahoy, me hearties! Are ye ready to hear some of our ghost stories? Not all pirates end up on fiddler’s green.”
The group paid their bar tabs and purchased some drinks to take on the road. Ella did a group count. There were twenty tonight for her first tour. She walked over to Hope and set her pirate bottle on the bar. She went over to Liv’s station and picked up a pile of ghost shaped fans with the skull and crossbones painted in a dripping blood color in the center. Ghost Alley Pirate Tours was written on the top in large letters. The bottom had a scrawl font that read “Dead Men Tell No Tales.”
Ella looked over at Liv. She still looked sad, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that right now. Ella handed the fans out to her group and went back over to Hope.
Hope took Ella’s bottle and set it up at the Abita tap and filled it for her. Hope then winked and said, “This be thirsty work, telling the tales of the dead…” Ella nodded and took her bottle filled with frothy, cold beer. She led her group out of Peg-Leg Pete’s and took a deep pull at the bottle as she walked through the door. Storytellers had a long history of drinking; it was to be expected and added to the ambiance.
The pavement outside was uneven. Well, it really was uneven all over the Quarter. Ella stood in the street, playing a bit of a game of chicken with the occasional passing mule-pulled carriage tour, while her group gathered on the sidewalk in front of her. A few of the children played with their ghost signs. Two had cutlasses and were hitting their long-suffering father. Six or seven of Brittney’s Bitches leaned against the wall and waited for the world to stop spinning. Two college-aged guys leered at Ella’s outfit and made what she could only assume were jokes about plundering her ‘booty.’
Ella wiped the beer from her lips and began the first story. She spoke softly and lost the pirate speech. That worked well in Peg-Leg Pete’s, but not out here in the dark. Pirates aren’t really all that scary, and it worked against the nighttime New Orleans mystique. Her group drew in closer to listen. Even the children let their sabers fall to their side for a moment. The college-aged guys focused more on her words and less on leering at her.
Ella started, “Back in the day, there were two sisters, Madeline and Cora. They lived here.” She gestured to a tall, foreboding building with a high, wrought iron balcony several stories above them. Ella took a moment and surveyed the crowd. Part of good story telling was taking confident pauses. Ella had told this story enough to know it by heart and was able to draw out parts to lure her tour group in. Her folklore study degree from UNO gave her an edge on most of the other guides at Ghost Alley. Not many tour guides had master’s degrees in folklore studies.
She continued, “Cora, well…you see, Cora was the older sister. As with most older sisters…” Ella paused again to survey the crowd. She found a family with a young boy and older sister. She made eye contact with the older sister, who was wearing a pink Mardi Gras mask t-shirt. “As with most older sisters, she sometimes was jealous of the affections offered to her younger sibling by caregivers, friends, and neighbors.” Ella released her gaze as the girl looked down, her face red. She continued, “Bitter over the fawning attentions and the sweet offerings of affection given so freely to the young.
“Well, Cora was the older sister and she was envious of her younger sister, Madeline. You see, Madeline drew all the consideration from young male suitors. Not that she looked for it. Oh no, not her. Madeline only cared for books and drawing. But this made Cora even more bitter and incensed. Cora raged that Madeline had everything and she didn’t even want it. It was the ultimate insult to Cora that Madeline seemed to toss aside things that Cora would have…” Ella paused again and made the last few words strike home, “…well…would have killed for.
“There was one particular suitor who lavished his affections on Madeline. He was an attractive young man by the name of Curtis Locke. He was entranced by Madeline’s beauty and even found her lack of interest in him a bit of an intoxicating challenge.” Ella gave a brief glance to Brittany’s Bitches at this word and continued, “Mr. Locke was a wealthy merchant trader and had made several calls to seek Madeline’s hand in marriage. Madeline began to be receptive to his attention and started to talk more to her sister about her growing affections for Mr. Locke.” Ella gave another pause and took a swig from her bottle of Abita.
“One night, after witnessing a particularly affectionate, and therefore particularly upsetting, visit between Madeline and the young Mr. Locke, Cora fought with her sister in an argument that turned vicious. In a moment of final, blinding rage, Cora pushed her sister as she stood near the balcony railing. Madeline lost her footing and fell into the darkness. This is where she died.” Ella took a slow sip of beer and looked about the crowd. The story had landed well, though Madeline had not. Even Brittney’s Bitches were quiet and looking at her intensely. They waited on her next words. Just how Ella liked it.
“Cora was charged for her crime and punished severely by the judicial courts. She spent the rest of her days in prison for her murderous crime. As for Mr. Locke? He was quite heartbroken. He journeyed far away from his home port of New Orleans. He lost himself in his business and thought only of merchant ships and account books to push his one true love out of his mind. Locke never married, nor did he ever return to New Orleans.” Ella left this hanging in the air for a moment.
She looked above the crowd and down the street. She walked backwards for a slow few steps and forced the group to follow her in order to hear the end of the story, “To this day, while walking the streets of the Quarter, Madeline’s ghost can be seen. She wears a white dress and a wedding veil. Through her cries and tears, she can be heard calling to Mr. Locke.
“…my dear love, Mr. Locke. My dear, dear love…”
The group talked about the story as Ella walked ahead and led them to the corner of Ursuline and Chartres. They followed dutifully as she pointed out interesting facts about the architecture and shared stories of the infamous LaLaurie Mansion. Ella led them to an old section of fence on the corner of Barracks and Chartres. There were dozens of padlocks attached to the wrought iron. Ella paused the group and said, “These are offerings people leave for Madeline and her dear love, Mr. Locke. You can come back and leave one if you wish. It’s best to keep the ghosts happy in our city.”
She walked the group deeper into the Quarter and the adjacent neighborhood, the Faubourg Marigny. She picked a corner that had a flickering gas lamp to tell the second tale.
Ella began, “Captain Malick would prey on the shipping industry. Not quite a pirate, you would find no Jolly Roger on his ship’s mast. But he was a thief and would take from those he would come across. He would take from them what was valuable in the cargo hold. And have you heard what else he would take?” She paused, letting the question hang in the night air.
The college boys were at it again. Ella walked closer to one of them and stared into his eyes. He had blonde tousled hair under an LSU cap. He liked the attention from her and smiled at her like he was at a frat party. She eyed the college boy and continued, “Well, that’s when things got interesting.
“If you were a merchant ship carrying valuables and you came across Captain Malick and his crew, you were rightly terrified. Losing the cargo was the least on the mind of the ship’s crew and captain. Because Malick didn’t just want grain and blankets and fine furs and rifles. He wanted something from each ship. Something more…” Ella paused for effect and then continued, “something more personal. You see, Malick was known to be a bit of a sadist, both in terms of his sexual appetites and his baser desires.” One of Brittney’s crowd chimed in, “sounds like my ex!” and the rest of them started to laugh and pat her on the back.
Ella stepped closer to the group of women and said in a deadpan voice, “They say that he acquired the taste for human flesh when he served for the British navy and was shipwrecked off the coast of Madagascar. The stories are not complete, of course, bec
ause most of the crew was lost in the shipwreck. But for those few who lived, well, most of them lost their minds and never spoke again.”
Ella paused and moved back into the street. The darkness had settled more here. The noise of Bourbon and the heart of the Quarter had faded. A few of the children had taken to holding onto their parents’ hands and scooted closer to them for protection.
“Malick was one of the few that came back to civilization, but he wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t like those who had lost their minds. It was as if Malick had learned to adapt.” Ella waited and looked over the crowd before asking, “You know that old saying about what happens if you stare into the abyss long enough, right? Nietzsche said the abyss stares right back into you.” Ella surveyed the dark windows of the buildings above.
Almost absent-mindedly, she continued in a concerned whisper, “The thing is, no matter how much loot or cargo Malick took from a ship, he always took one more thing from the crew. See, the cargo he took was for his crew of not-quite pirates. The bounty was split and profits were made at the next port. Malick divided the winnings up and paid the sailors a fair wage. He bought them drinks and got them laid. He kept them happy. He kept them content.
“But the thing Malick wanted wasn’t money. It wasn’t happiness and it wasn’t contentment. What he wanted was to watch others in pain. What he wanted was that taste of flesh from the underside of the arm of his captives. That fresh, wet flesh.” Several people in the group made “oh, gross!” comments at the description. Ella liked that reaction. She had worked this story more than the other ones. She liked this performance.
She continued, “He had a knife, Malick did. They said it was taken from the savages that had molested and killed most of that British crew. It was said to be a cursed blade, sharp and steady in Malick’s hand. They said he would cut away just a bite at a time. Sometimes, he would put it right into his mouth and sometimes he would use the little urn in his quarters filled with white hot charcoal. There was a small metal grate at the top of the charcoal, where he would lay the flesh he had cut away with his silver knife. He would sear it on the one side, all the while looking into the eyes of the person he had chained to the wall of his cabin.
“So, while Malick took the cargo and treasure from the ships he boarded, he would leave the crew unharmed. This is why so many have heard the stories of Captain Malick. He left many survivors behind to share their stories.” Ella paused, as if ending the story. This was her favorite part.
“Well, I should say this. He left most of the crew unharmed.” She stood close to LSU Hat and looked him in the eyes. He looked back, a bit unsure and definitely without his flirtatious smile. “There was always one he would take. The ships he ravaged were mostly cargo ships, though sometimes passenger vessels. In either case, he would gather the passengers and crew together, much like you are gathered here. Then he would draw his knife and start to pace.”
Ella smiled, reassuringly, “I can see some of you starting to worry. The little children are scared and their parents concerned. Perhaps you thought this would be a gentle voyage into the night. Perhaps now you are realizing you’ve bitten off a bit more than you care to chew.” She nodded and offered warm gestures to put them at ease. She continued, “Well, these stories are just stories. You have nothing to fear. Rest assured, Captain Malick is long dead and sleeping with Davy Jones. Way down in the salty deep.”
The group relaxed some and smiled. They seemed to brush off Ella’s warnings and show her what brave little tourists they were. Ella smiled back at them.
And then she let her smile drop, “Although…” The group’s tension returned. “They do say his spirit is restless. It was not content to be confined to the deep. That it can only find peace when it inhabits someone in his city. But only when the night is just right, in the city he called home. The Crescent City.”
Ella raised her skirt to the side as the group watched her intently. She drew the knife from its sheath on her outer thigh. The silver caught the light just so, and it shimmered in the darkness. She looked thoughtful as she paced back and forth in front of her tour group.
“He liked the different flavors, Captain Malick did. I think that was the truth of it, but not everyone knew that part of the story. He liked the way different people tasted, the way a wine
connoisseur likes various vintages and varietals.” She played with the tip of the knife as parents held their children close.
She walked and spoke to them, “Sometimes, he would choose a young girl. I think he would choose her because the flesh tasted pure; clean and crisp like a chardonnay. He said it would just dissolve on the palette. You wouldn’t even have to chew.” Children in the group sunk back away from Ella.
She walked and spoke, “Other times, it would be an older man. Here the meat was more seasoned and matured. It tasted of life. Like a bold red wine. There was no telling how Malick’s proclivities ran and what his desires would be.”
Ella paused in front of the college boy with the LSU hat. She looked him in the eyes and continued, “Sometimes, he took a young man, perhaps in the prime of his youth, without a care in the world. They say that Malick liked this flesh the most. This wet flesh. They say that it seared up best on the iron of his grill.
“But that is just what they say,” Ella finished with a bit of a curtsy. The group clapped and cheered, some shaking the scare out of their shoulders.
Ella turned to lead the group back to the Alley. One more story left. The group was quieter now, probably thinking through how Malick chose his victims and what it would be like to be on one of those cargo ships that was stopped.
She raised her skirt and sheathed the silver knife. The gas lamp caught something else this time. LSU Hat gestured to his friend to look. He pointed to a tattoo of a white rabbit on the back of her upper thigh. A rabbit flying a kite.
Nocturne
Chapter 9
New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday, 8:15pm
She did not like to swear, but there were limits. Sinclair was infuriating. He was just so goddamned distracted. Like clinically distracted. Was that a thing? She looked at Oliver and he looked back at her with his big dumb face. He gave her no advice and mostly seemed excited about the prospect of licking her nose.
She sat on the stoop of a shotgun house by the cross streets of Ursuline and Chartres. She had gotten to several of the tarot readers and she had talked to the old woman. There would be
some cups in his future. She gave the old woman some baloney to eat in the hopes that this kindness would help her remember. But none of that mattered because he had decided that a strip club was the place to be tonight.
It was like when you had a so-so poker hand and you knew that you could still win with the cards you were dealt, but it was increasingly unlikely that you would win as the first three cards of the hand turned over on the table. She watched mule carts and ghost tours pass back and forth in front of her. It was quieter here, and not as many drunken people wandered by her on the step. So that was good. And it was cooler. Thank heavens for that.
She felt her internal clock ticking away and was not happy with her boy’s behavior tonight. Not one bit.
She hoped the nudges she left would work.
But she wasn’t optimistic.
Chapter 10
New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday, 8:15pm
We walk down Decatur and stop at one of the many frozen daiquiri shops. The flavors are ridiculous. There are like twenty flavors in all, set up in those swirling contraptions like they have at 7-Eleven. Banana Buttercup, Mardi Gras Grape, Hurricane’s Eye, Peaches and Cream. I get a spiked lemonade. Dan is true to his word and slaps down the black AMEX and picks up the tab for us. Huck passes on the daiquiris, calling them vagina drinks. He tells us he’ll get a beer like God intended man to drink. And don’t be a fuck about the vagina drink comment, that’s just Huck.
We cut down St. Louis toward Bourbon and Huck finds his drink. There’s an older black man holding a sign that reads, �
��BIG ASS BEERS” and Huck is all about it.
“See, this is what I’m looking for, right here.” Huck goes into the side shop, which is pretty much a counter stretched across an alleyway. A middle-aged man with a ponytail pulls on a tap next to a stack of four kegs.
The black man smiles and says, “You four need a picture under this beer sign, I think!” We slurp our drinks and agree with him. I give him a five and Dan takes out his phone and waits until Huck comes back with a large white cup filled with beer. It is indeed a big ass beer. Huck smiles and drinks deeply while we all take loud slurps of our daiquiris. We all smile and Dan takes the picture and posts it with the hashtags #boysnightout, #nobitches.
I smile. I’m sure they think, “Hey, what good guys we are and how cool it is that we are both helping our friend and screwing around on Bourbon Street at the same time. Look how happy Al is. We are good friends.”
You want to know what I really am thinking? I suppose I can trust you. What I really think about is how is how that BITCH will feel tomorrow. And how it will be to sit in my dorm room overlooking the quad, looking at the pieces of her note in the trash. All about Chapter 2:15, “Strike adjacent to the object of your scorn and leave the pain that lasts for an eternity.” Not that it matters, but I wonder if that would be enough to make her kill herself. The BITCH has tried several times before. Never serious attempts, just looking for attention. Typical for the Sneaky Snake Snatch. But I wonder if this will be the thing that finally puts her over the edge. Kind of gives me a half chub thinking about it. Thinking about her dead from pills or in a pool of blood.
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