isallegedlyhome toswarmsofspirits.Of
themostnotable: thewomanwhodances
under theenormouscrystalchandelier in
theballroom; the littlegirl—oneofmany
whoperished inayellow-feverepidemic
—whochasesaballdown thesixth-floor
corridors; and themanwho“enjoys the
companyof femalevisitors”—herewas
tohopingIwouldn’tfindoutmuchmore
about thatone.
Thereceptionisthandsmykeyover the
deskandglancesat theroomnumber.
“Thehauntedhall, right?”Iask.
Shesmiles. “Yeah,butyou’vegot the
hauntedroom.”
Brianabandonsmeatfloor4. (“Topfloor
hasabetterview,”Isay. “Sureyoudon’t
want toswitch?”)On6, theonlyothersign
of (hopefully)human lifealong theendless
turnsof thehallway is thedoorofanother
guestroom that latchesshutwhenIpass.
Myroom isattheendof the lasthall.The
firstthingthathitsme isanot-unpleasant
muskiness. Itevensmells likeaghost’s lair.
Butathorough inspectionrevealsnosigns
ofrecentexorcismsandatotalofzerocru-
cifixesnailedtothewalls.Overall, it’snice.
Still, there’ssomethingunsettlingabout
thedeepcrimsoncolorof theslopingback
wall, theplantationshuttersonasingle
centeredwindowthatdon’t fullyopenand
theornate,oversizemirrorteasingmewith
shimmersofreflectionasIunpack.
I tossacoupleof things inmypurseand
headdownstairs,deciding tospendas little
time in thisroomaspossible.
W
e’vegot less than twodays
toexploreallof theFrench
Quarter’sspookiestofferings,
soBrianandIexplainourCreolequest to
ourfirstbartender friend,Dawn,whoplies
her tradeacross thestreet.
“I’vebeen in thiscity11years, and ithas
a lotofpower,”shesays. “Whateveryou’re
into— ifyou’reartisticoryou’redepressed;
anentrepreneuroradrugaddict— it
amplifiesyou. It’ll eitherreel you inorspit
youout.”
Ourfirststop isBoutiqueduVampyre.
(Theshop’sowner,Marita, isoneofDawn’s
regulars, soDawngivesheracall to tellher
we’recoming.)Inside,Maritaemerges from
asmallbackroom,wherebrightlycolored
waxandglass jarscover
a table.Followingmy
gaze, shepoints to
theshelvesstocked
withcandlesbehind
me. “Fortunetelling
candles,”shesays. “Wepick therightone
foryou, and thecharms inside tellyou
somethingaboutyourself.”Vampires,
Maritasays,haveexperimentedwithcandle
making forcenturies:Since light is theone
thing they’re forced to livewithout, they
crave it. It’s then thatInoticeasilverbullet
hanging fromachainaroundherneck.
Theshop isequalpartsgalleryand
boutique.Glasscasesholdprops from
True
Blood
and
Twilight
, and in thewindows,
elaborateshrinesarecovered inpennies,
lipsticks, chewinggumandother tokens
from thebottomsofcoatpockets.There’s
anovergrowncourtyardwhereMarita
does tarotreadings, andon theshelves,
vampire-huntingkitsandbasketsofvoodoo
dollsmadeofSpanishmoss, sticksand
stonescollected from theswampsofNew
Orleans.
Whenwe leave,Maritaslipsmeamap
ofher favoritehauntedspots in theFrench
Quarter—“theauthenticones”—andher
businesscard.Theblooddripping from
thevampire-bite
temporary tattooon
thecard’sback is the
sameshadeofredas
thebackwallofmy
hotel room.
Thereceptionisthandsmykeyover
thedeskandglancesattheroom
number. “You’vegotthehauntedroom.”
LEFTTORIGHT
:
a table set nightlywithbreadand
wine for the resident ghost atMuriel’s;Dawn, our
bartender; the seance loungeatMuriel’s
AMERICANWAY
OCTOBER2015
77
