Do you believe in ghosts? The paranormal? Possession? Any of that stuff? There are a ton of elements that probably factor into your opinion on all of it and whether or not you believe. There are also likely a million different pools of thought out there about “what happens” after we die. Most of us give the accepted religious answers when asked such questions, but what about the gray area of it all? Do our spirits die? Can they linger? Does the transition between this world and the next, whatever that may be, ever go wrong? And just why do we, the living, find death to be such a fascinating topic anyway?
A few years ago, during a Spring Break from teaching, my husband and I travelled to the quirkiest, spookiest city in the US, and possibly the world- New Orleans, Louisiana. While in good ole NOLA, I had an experience that pretty much solidified my belief in ghosts. Let’s rap about that super fun night, shall we? Lemme see if I can tell it without peeing my pants…
My husband and I were living in Tennessee at the time and New Orleans was only nine hours away. Yeah, I know. Nine isn’t that close. But we had always wanted to see the city and that was as good a time as any- in March it wouldn’t be too hot yet, and we unfathomably both had the time off work, so we made the drive. Not a bad drive. Although it appeared that Tuscaloosa was fully on fire when we passed through. Is it always like that? That Adele song “Set Fire To The Rain” was popular at the time and came on the radio. We changed the lyrics and sang it with a lisp. “Thet fiiiiyahh! To Tuthcaloothaaaa!”
Anywyay…
We arrived in soggy New Orleans in the midst of a downpour, pulling up outside of our bed and breakfast, The Royal Barracks Guest House as the storm quickened the clouds above us. The place was small and tucked away on one of the back, residential streets.
We’d wanted to stay in the French Quarter, but we were… on a budget… and mostly there for the food, the music and the gallon-sized frozen daiquiris made with grain alcohol that you can drink on while walking down the street. We didn’t care about hotel stars. We cared about shrimp po’ boys and daiquiris, okay? Cheap was fine with us.
Leaving the car on the adorably quaint French Quarter street of inside to see about check in, we opened the door.
An eccentric seeming woman, dressed all in white, greeted us. A black poodle sat on the counter nearby. The lady gave us a key, checked us in to our reservation and then she said, “Princess will show you to your room now.”
We turned around. What princess?
The dog, inexplicably, was standing at the screen door now, barking at us to follow her. Haha, we laughed. Ok… But really tho…
“I’ll be by later. Princess will show you around the place. Let her know if you need anything.”
She wasn’t kidding and this poodle was getting impatient. We followed her. Princess led us down the stairs, through the outdoor courtyard, around the back, up more stairs and to our room. Ok.
She showed us the bathroom and the bedroom of this teeny tiny room and then she pushed the screen open and walked casually back from whence she came. We were just shown to our room, by a dog.
Now, literary friends, I know you have a prob with this story already. In the great Johann von Goethe’s epic German drama Faust, the main character, a doctor, is tormented by a demon from German folklore named Mephistopheles, who often disguises himself in the form of a black poodle. Germans. I can’t. Anyway. I, a bookish minded young lady, thought this was a pretty @#$%&^ up omen. Little did I even know.
We didn’t go to NOLA because it was creepy. Some people like to be scared, and I am not one of them. We’ve talked about this. I don’t think it’s cute or novel to be terrified. Fear isn’t a game or entertainment vehicle for me, so this place was… well… not quite the type of “local culture” I had anticipated.
The room was creepy. Just look at it. Beautiful, you say. Jazz themed. Yeah sure. But freakin’ scary, too.
Something in the room didn’t feel right, guys. That sounds like I’m being dramatic, but let me tell you, it was the most unsettling room I have ever been in in my entire life. When I sat on the bed, I could almost feel someone sitting next to me. When I looked in the mirror, there was something else in there looking back besides my reflection. The room felt repressive, it bared down and it was overwhelmingly sad. The feeling of that room took my breath away.
We went out for the night, met up with some people we knew in town and enjoyed ourselves. Later we went back to the room. Sean fell asleep right away; he doesn’t… feel things the way I do. But it wasn’t just a feeling. I could almost make out something moving around the room. And upstairs it sounded like someone was dragging something heavy. Like a big trunk… or something… else. It would go across the floor one way and then stop. Then it would start again and go back. There were bangs, then more dragging. It went on all night. What the heck were the people staying up there DOING? I have never been so scared in all my life as I was lying there trying to fall asleep, and eventually I just began to pray. I prayed for hours, stopping to only wake Sean up intermittently, asking him, “Did you hear that?” He did hear the dragging at one point. I barely slept. So. Dang. Scary. And the worst night of rest ever. Yeah, that went on for the next two nights. It was worse on the second than the first.
On the morning of our third day, we went down to the courtyard where, legit, “Princess” (Mephistopheles!) was holding court hosting her demonic poodle breakfast for the guests as usual. We sat outside for awhile before popping into the lobby for a map that would point our lame tourist butts in the direction of Café DuMonde. Mmm, beignets.
“How did you sleep?” the lady in white asked.
“Okay,” I said. “It sounded like something pretty crazy was going on though. There was just a bunch of banging and dragging or something going on upstairs above us.”
“Upstairs?”
“Yeah, who ever is staying there must have been partying all night!”
“You heard banging and dragging upstairs?”
“Yes. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble though.”
“You won’t. There is no upstairs. The Royal Barracks only has one floor.”
You know that feeling when your heart feels like it’s stopped and all of the blood drains out of your face and all your hairs stand on end and you can’t help but shudder? Yeah. I did that.
“There’s no upstairs?”
“No. But it seems you’ve met our ghost. She must have known you were sensitive. She doesn’t perform like that for everyone, you know. Does she Princess?”
Princess, who had somehow frickin’ manifested at the door again “ruffed” once in agreement. My blood literally ran cold. Maybe she was trying to freak me out. Maybe Madame Bedsheet and Princess Demonpants were up on the daggone roof themselves in hopes of this exact moment. Who knows. We headed directly for daiquiris. It was 10AM.
We survived The Royal Barracks Bed and Breakfast, but I can truly say it was the most scared I’ve ever been. Would I go back? I’m not sure. At least I’d know what to expect this time, but it probably wouldn’t change the feeling of something being truly disturbed in that place. New Orleans is a creepy, quirky place and I want another shot at it, especially because I’m a different person than I was the last time I was there. I’ve got a couple horror stories of my own now that have got to be enough a scare a ghost. The lady was right though, whatever it was, it was feeling me, and it knew I could feel it. There are other experiences that have made me a believer, but none quite as intense as that night in the French Quarter and the dragging “upstairs.” -Kelly
