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CHAPTER 2

Who’s Haunting the Garden District?

“In the spring of 1988, I returned to New Orleans, and as soon as I smelled the air, I knew I was home. It was rich, almost sweet, like the scent of jasmine and roses around our old courtyard. I walked the streets, savoring that long-lost perfume.”

—Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

IF YOU ASK A LOCAL IN NEW ORLEANS for directions, be prepared to hear the descriptive terms uptown and downtown, rather than east and west. The dividing line is Canal Street, with the French Quarter being downtown. On the other side of Canal Street is the area called uptown, along with the historically beautiful Garden District. Living up to its name, the area is filled with lush fragrant gardens linked with ancient oak trees and the heavenly scents of jasmine, magnolias, day lilies, oleander, honeysuckle, wisteria, crepe myrtles, roses, mimosas, and hundreds of other flora and fauna so luscious that I lost count of them all as I wandered from street to street.

The historic Garden District was established for the American settlers and German, Irish, and other European groups to build beautiful antebellum homes and mansions and to create an area where they would feel welcome. These groups were looked down upon by the French Creoles who lived in the French Quarter and were not welcome to integrate into the Creole society, so the European groups decided to snub the Creoles right back and build elaborate homes and gardens showcasing their wealth and prestige to the French. Next to the Garden District is uptown, where beautiful plantations were built close to the Mississippi River to take advantage of the breezes blowing in from the moving water.

Out of every dark cloud comes a silver lining, as the old saying goes, and this war between the European cultures and classes led to the creation of one of the most beautiful areas in New Orleans, with stunning architectural details both inside and outside the homes. The district was designed by New Orleans architect Barthelemy Lafon, who centered the homes on expansive gardens, giving the area its name. The lush gardens also warded off an occasional problem from the nearby riverfront area, where cattle pens and slaughterhouses in the summer created certain quality of life issues. The gardens worked double duty as they offset these highly unpleasant odors, filling the air with the most pleasant fragrances possible.

Like most homes in New Orleans, many of the Garden District residences report a ghost or two haunting the abodes. In a town this rich in mayhem and zest for life, it’s not surprising that some residents remain in spirit to enjoy the home of their dreams after a lifetime of hard work.

The city is magical and stirs the creative juices, as if muses were calling them forth to be reborn. It’s no wonder that so many artists, musicians, and authors visit as often as possible and long to call this area home. Hearing the call of my own inner muse suggesting that I make New Orleans my home, I strolled through the streets of the Garden District. Lost in thought, I found myself standing on First Street in front of the former home of Anne Rice, where she wrote The Witching Hour. Anne’s vivid descriptions of location and surroundings pull the reader into the story, and they are transported here in New Orleans. Strolling past the street is as close as most will come to investigating any of the haunted reports in these homes, though I half expected to see the ghost of Deirdre from Anne’s book, sitting on the porch in a rocking chair.

The Garden District lives up to its beautiful name, as depicted in this artist’s rendering painted on an antique wood chair.

During my travels through the Garden District, I met a ghost when I least expected it, riding on the St. Charles streetcar with me. The streetcar is my favorite way to travel through New Orleans, and I have to ride this line every time I’m in the city. The St. Charles streetcar runs for 13 miles along a crescent shape, from Carondelet at Canal Street through the majestic areas of the Garden District to Carrollton Avenue. It’s the oldest continually running streetcar line in the world, and the cars are in beautiful condition, with mahogany seats and brass fittings. It’s a comfy ride as you lower the windows and feel the breeze blowing in as you rush along the tracks. I’ve ridden this line many times, and it’s a great way to view the homes and take pictures. I especially enjoy looking up at the trees as I roll by to see how many trees I can spot with Mardi Gras beads hanging from their branches.

There’s always a mixture of people riding the cars. Locals ride on their way home from work, some heading downtown to be dropped off on Canal Street and others switching streetcar lines from Canal to head over to the French Market. I love hopping from line to line to ride the cars. I’ve had some of the best conversations while riding the streetcars, chatting about the city and catching up on local stories and gossip.

During the streetcar ride when the ghost appeared to me, I didn’t recognize him as a ghost at first. He was an elderly man sitting several seats ahead of me, and I didn’t pay him much attention. He wore a hat and was dressed in a suit like some elderly men still do. While I thought it was charming, my attention had been drawn into a wonderful conversation with a delightful African-American woman sitting next to me. She had been sharing stories with me about her life and her ancestors who had lived here, along with stories about her children, who she prayed would be safe while they lived and worked elsewhere. Her deepest prayer was that they would return to New Orleans to live here again. While we didn’t delve into the topic of the supernatural in our conversation, I could sense that she had intuitive abilities and saw that many of her ancestors were around her in spirit, watching over her as we chatted.

As we approached her stop, she wished me a good afternoon and then stood up and walked to the exit door. As she did, she briefly stopped next to where the elderly man was seated and paused for a moment as if she was confused. She stood still and looked around, and on this very warm day, she shivered. Clutching her purse tightly to her chest, she looked around once again and then quickly departed the car. I waved to her from the window, but she didn’t look back and was walking very quickly away from the car. I turned my attention back inside to see what might have frightened her and why she paused so suddenly. The car was almost empty now, with only a few people still on the car with me. The elderly gentleman was still sitting in the same seat up ahead, and as I looked in his direction, I saw him momentarily disappear and then appear again. I then realized that I had missed this earlier. Because he was a ghost, the lady I had been chatting with couldn’t see him, but she felt his energy as she passed by the seat, which gave her a fright. While it sounds astonishing that I wouldn’t immediately notice a ghost on the streetcar, it’s not as surprising as it sounds in New Orleans. Ghosts are literally everywhere in the city, on the streets, in the bars and restaurants, at the hotels, and attending the parades. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a place without some type of haunting in the area. Also, the streetcar had been packed with people throughout the ride, and I had been more interested in the conversation I was having with the woman (along with taking in the sights of the homes, as I swoon over the architecture every time I’m in the city).

Now that there were just a few of us in the streetcar, I turned my attention to him to see what he was up to riding in the streetcar. Not long after my attention was directed his way, he turned around, and discerning that I could see him, he stood up and moved closer to me, sitting in the seat directly in front of me, where he could turn to the side and chat with me, like any other passenger in the car. I was relieved that I was alone in this part of the car at the time, for should I want to speak aloud to him, it wouldn’t be the first time that people have looked at me with great concern as they saw me whispering to myself and the thin air around me.

He introduced himself to me as Mr. Charles, stating that he was of no relation to the streetcar being on St. Charles; indeed, he said with a smile, he was no saint. He went on to tell me that he was of Italian descent but that he had gone by the name of Mr. Charles to make it easier for people to pronounce his name, rather than his longer Italian name. He also shared with me that unlike other ghosts, he knew that he was dead and knew where he was buried. On rare occasions, he would visit his grave—not so much to see where his bones lay, but rather, he enjoyed going when it was a holiday and groups of people came out to decorate the tombs and spend time there honoring their families. He enjoyed milling about the crowds and taking part of the activity in the cemetery. He said that he had had a good enough life while alive, though he had experienced his share of sadness, including the loss of his wife, who was the love of his life and had died during childbirth. He had mourned her for the rest of his life, choosing never to marry again. She and the child had died during the birth, but they had already had a daughter, who his family helped raise after his wife’s death. He has continued to watch over his descendants who still lived in the city, though he sadly bemoaned that many of them had moved away and were now living in New York.

He then told me the story of being at his cemetery during one of these holiday occasions. As he was standing near where his wife was buried, he saw a little girl who became interested in his wife’s tomb. He watched her closely, interested in what she was going to do. The young girl, whom he described as wearing a white dress and having long blond hair and blue eyes, was clutching a bouquet of yellow flowers that her mother had given her to hold. As she began to wander over to his wife’s burial place, the young girl’s mother called to her and instructed her to come back to where the rest of the family were placing their flowers on a family tomb. The young girl replied to her mother that no, she wanted to put her pretty flowers on this lady’s tomb, and as the mother watched, the young girl placed the bouquet of yellow flowers in front of his wife’s tomb.

Mr. Charles, in his ghostly form, was so touched by this act, one that he had wished he could do that very day. He said that had he been physically able to weep with joy and gratitude, he most certainly would have. Intrigued, he followed the family around for the rest of the day and accompanied them to their home to see where the young girl lived. He decided to check in on this girl on a frequent basis, becoming a guardian for her throughout her life. He assured me that he never got near enough to her to cause her any concern or fright, but many times he had accompanied her in her daily and nightly activities as she grew up, to protect her in any way that he could. As she grew up into womanhood, he said he visited her less and eventually lost touch with her, though he still visits the cemetery and would love to see her there again one day.

It was one of the most poignant, touching, and yet completely normal conversations that I have ever had with a ghost. He was not confused on any level about his current state; he knew he was dead and had chosen to remain here on the earth plane and not cross over. He was aware that time had passed and observed the passing through watching generations of his family and others grow up and move on. He was at peace and happy with his state of being in this half life as a ghost. I asked him why he stayed here in this twilight life, and he said, “This is what I know. What is there in heaven? Beautiful music, sweet smells, laughter, and lush gardens? Why, I have this every day here in New Orleans. This is my heaven. Why would I not stay right here?” I gently suggested that perhaps if he did move on, he could be reunited with his wife whom he missed so dearly. He replied to me that his wife was an angel and that he knew that when he did move on to the other side, that where he would be living in heaven would be no place near where she was allowed to reside.

He spoke fleetingly at this point and became guarded, even looking around to see if anyone could overhear his conversation to me, as he now spoke to me in a whisper. He shared that while he had been a good man, he had been forced into doing some activities that were, as he described them, unsavory. He alluded to the Mafia element in the city, a powerful underworld during his time. Being Italian, he was asked to do some favors for these men, and while it was possible that he could decline their offer, those who did decline were typically found dead or worse. He didn’t want to elaborate on what was worse than death, and I didn’t want to interrupt his story. He explained that the favors went up a level each time he was asked, and that he had participated in sorrowful activities that haunted him to this day. He had done his best to keep this information secret from his wife as not to worry her, but he said that like most women, she had a way of knowing when something was wrong and questioned him often about why he looked so worried and tired many times. He would shrug it off as the pressures of doing business and then try to distract her with other news of his day.

Life, death, spirits, drinks, and jazz all blend together in New Orleans.

It was his belief that because of the sins he had committed during his earthly life, he would be living in a lowly place in heaven, if he made it to heaven at all, while his wife was a proverbial saint and would be living in the holiest of holy places in heaven, and that they would not be together over there. Understanding that he was a Catholic, I said that surely he must have gone to confession and asked for forgiveness. He replied that he did many times, but that he knew that this did not truly release his sins for what he had done.

He explained to me that he thought that the best thing he could do was penance, which he tried to do every day by riding the streetcar and looking after the people in the city. He said, with a smile to me, that while he was still just Mr. Charles, perhaps one day, if he did enough good things, he, too, could be called St. Charles like the streetcar he rode.

At this point the streetcar lurched to a stop, shifting everyone in their seats. Some of the brakes on these cars are not the best and the drivers really have to stomp on them at times. As I steadied myself and then settled back in my seat, Mr. Charles was standing and moving away. I looked up at him to see why our conversation had concluded so abruptly, and he pointed to an elderly lady who had just entered the car. “She’s one of my regulars,” he said as he went to go sit next to her. The next stop was mine, and as I exited, I smiled and whispered as I went by that I hoped to see him again sometime when I was in the city. He smiled and said, “Here in New Orleans, it’s highly likely we will meet again.” To this day, he is one of the most aware and astute ghosts that I have ever communicated with in my lifetime.

Should you want to meet the ghost of Mr. Charles, take a ride on the St. Charles streetcar and ask aloud, “Mr. Charles, are you along for the ride?” Don’t be surprised if he strikes up a conversation with you right there.

KALA’S TRAVEL TIPS

 Commanders Palace Restaurant in the Garden District has the reputation of being haunted by the former owner of the restaurant. Almost any local will share a story with you about experiencing the ghost while dining at the restaurant. Built in 1880, the Brennan family continues to uphold the highest level of service and cuisine, and you’ll enjoy the dining experience so much that you’ll want to haunt the place yourself in the afterlife.

 Even vampires love a good funeral. Jazz funerals and second lines are so adored in New Orleans that author Anne Rice arranged her own mock funeral, which began at Lafayette Cemetery #1 in the Garden District. Anne dressed in an antique wedding gown and was ceremoniously placed in a casket. The funeral procession began with a brass band and huge crowds following Anne in her casket through the streets to the Garden District Book Shop, where she signed her book Memnoch the Devil for thousands of her fans. Lafayette Cemetery #1 was also filmed for a scene in the Interview with the Vampire movie and was written about in Anne’s book The Witching Hour.

 Want to eat and party like a local? Favorite Garden District hangouts include Tipitinas, named after the song by Professor Longhair; Jacques-Imos Café for delicious Creole dishes; the Domilise Sandwich Shop and Bar for a great po’boy sandwich; and The Camellia Grill for a quick bite at the counter.

 While in this part of the city, a must-see is Audubon Park and Zoo. The 400-acre park named for John James Audubon was originally a plantation owned by Etienne de Boré, who discovered how to create granulated sugar from sugar cane and subsequently made his fortune. His legacy of land is now Audubon Park, Zoo, and Golf Course. Plan to spend the day touring this area along with visiting Loyola and Tulane Universities nearby.

 One-way fares on the streetcars for St. Charles, Riverfront, and Canal Street are $1.25. For $5 invest in a one-day pass for the streetcars, and you can ride all the cars all day long. The St. Charles streetcar will take you past the beautiful homes and areas of the Garden District, by Loyola and Tulane Universities, and to the Audubon Zoo and Gardens. Take the Canal Streetcar to visit the French Market at one end of the line, and ride it on the 5-mile route to the other end at Canal Street and City Park Avenue to visit many of the historic cemeteries mentioned in this book. The Riverfront Line is a new addition that will carry you from the French Market to the Aquarium of the Americas and to a variety of places to shop and dine. The streetcars here in New Orleans are so romantic and captivating that Tennessee Williams was inspired to write A Streetcar Named Desire here in the city.

 In ancient Greek mythology, there were nine Greek goddesses, called muses, who ruled and provided inspirations over the arts and sciences. These muses were Calliope (epic poetry), Clio (history), Erato (love poetry), Euterpe (music), Melpomene (tragedy), Polyhymnia (sacred hymns), Terpsichore (dance), Thalia (comedy), and Urania (astronomy). In the Garden District of New Orleans, the streets (designed by city planner and architect at the time, Barthelemy Lafon) are named after each of these muses. The muse streets cross Prytania Street, representing the hearth of the goddess Hestia. Dryades is named for the wood nymphs, and two of the three graces—Euphrosine (joy) and Thalia (flowering)—are streets. For some reason, the third grace, Aglaia (Beauty), is not named.