Once Haunted, Twice Shy (The Peyton Clark Series Book 2)

by H. P. Mallory

  “And that’s what you think the entity in my house was?” I asked.

  Christopher and Lovie nodded together, but it was Christopher who answered. “Yes, indeed.” Then he cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he started with a discouraging glance directed my way. “The spirits who we are most interested in contacting are those who travel both planes and can, therefore, give us the information we seek.”

  “An’ we have had the best luck in contactin’ these sorts o’ spirits at the LaLaurie Mansion an’ the Sultan’s Palace,” Lovie interjected as Samuel rubbed his back against her legs, like a cat eager for attention. “Both places witnessed horrible crimes an’, understandably, many o’ the spirits are still stuck, reenactin’ their final moments.”

  “Bien sûr,” Drake piped up. “Of course. Only the two most infamous houses in New Orleans.” I didn’t have the chance to comment because Christopher immediately started talking.

  “But we’ve also come across some very lucid spirits and those are the ones you will wish to speak with,” Christopher said.

  “So where to first?” I asked.

  Lovie frowned while Christopher shook his head. “It’s not quite that simple.”

  “Of course not,” I answered with a sigh.

  “We need to prepare you for what to expect in both locations, Peyton,” Christopher continued. “You should not be surprised to find yourself in another space and time. The spirits can cast a dreamscape before your eyes, a dreamscape of their choosing, and it might be a vision of the goings on that ended their lives. And, if you should find yourself in such a situation, we need to prepare you beforehand, because it won’t be pretty.”

  “Oui, this is very true, ma minette. This will not be an easy adventure for you to take upon yourself,” Drake announced.

  “Is this where I get another history lesson?” I asked, deciding to pay attention to Christopher at the moment.

  “Yes,” Lovie answered. “Y’all handle the Sultan’s Palace, Christopher. I’m much more familiar with the history o’ the LaLaurie Mansion.”

  Christopher nodded. “The story of The Sultan’s Palace takes place in the late eighteen hundreds on Dauphine Street in the French Quarter. The home was built in 1836 by Jean Baptiste Le Prete, a wealthy plantation owner. He purchased the house as a winter home for his family. Now, you must keep in mind that back in Louisiana Plantation society, it was not unusual for wealthy families to keep more than one home, usually one in town and one in the country.”

  “Right,” I answered when Christopher looked at me as if he expected me to comment, before continuing with his story.

  Apparently satisfied for the moment, he went on. “Le Prete decided to rent his home in the city during the summer months that he and his family spent at the plantation. Now, this is where the story gets interesting. As far as I understand, based on books I’ve read on the subject, Le Prete rented his home to a Turkish man who claimed to be descended from deposed royalty.

  “The Turk was none other than the Sultan of Turkey,” Drake corrected.

  “He claimed to be the brother of the Sultan of Turkey,” Christopher continued as I got the distinct impression that Drake was shaking his head and crossing his arms against his chest in disagreement. “Apparently, he absconded with the Sultan’s treasures, as well as his harem, and found sanctuary in New Orleans.”

  “I’ve also heard tell that the Sultan’s entourage included eunuchs an’ guards armed with scimitars,” Lovie added.

  “I had not heard that,” Drake piped up. “Funny how the truth becomes distorted over time. You would do better to listen to my knowledge of the incident, ma minette.”

  “Well, continue to correct them where they go astray,” I answered with an internal smile.

  Christopher nodded. “Yes, I also heard those accounts, Lovie. At any rate, Le Prete did rent his home to the Turkish Sultan’s brother, which did not please the neighbors. They complained of noisy parties, strange-sounding music, laughter, the stench of opium, and even scandalous orgies.”

  “I must admit, the scandalous orgies were of most interest to me,” Drake said.

  “Of course they were,” I muttered in response.

  “Then, one day, the joviality ceased,” Christopher finished.

  “What happened?” I asked, feeling like I was perched on the edge of my seat, even though I was standing.

  “Everyone was murdered!” Drake interrupted.

  “There are divergent accounts on that point,” Christopher continued. “But it seems the most popular story is that a neighbor happened to be passing by and noticed blood dripping down the front steps; blood which was coming from beneath the door. The neighbor instantly alerted the police and an investigation was conducted,” Christopher said.

  “Now, this is where things get a little ugly,” Lovie warned.

  “Inside the house, police discovered a very gruesome scene,” Christopher continued. “Body parts were strewn all over the rooms. Blood covered the walls and had congealed on the hardwood floor. But the corpses were all unrecognizable because every one was missing his or her head.”

  “Oui, that is so,” Drake concurred. “And though I have never personally interacted with the Sultan or any of his harem, I do understand that it was quite a shame that the ladies were murdered, as they were rumored to be quite voluptuous and stunning.”

  “Well, maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll play your wingman at the Sultan’s and you can set yourself up with some hot ghost action,” I grumbled.

  Drake chuckled. “Très drôle. Very funny, ma minette. But you know you are the only woman for me.”

  “Right,” I responded before turning back to Christopher and reminding myself I needed to pay attention to the conversation that wasn’t going on in my head. “How many bodies did they find?”

  “I believe the count was twenty-five,” Drake responded.

  “Accounts differ, but most agree there were eleven bodies,” Christopher answered.

  “Hmm, perhaps it was eleven,” Drake finished.

  “No, more than eleven,” Christopher said. “Some seem to think the true Sultan of Turkey located his brother and murdered everyone who had helped him in retribution; others think that pirates marauded the place; while still others believe the crew of the ship that brought the Sultan’s brother overseas took notice of the riches and came back later to rob and murder everyone.”

  “It was the men from the Sultan’s ship,” Drake announced.

  “As ya probably can imagine, Christopher an’ I have had lots o’ luck gettin’ in contact with spirits in the house,” Lovie started. “The house is a hotbed fer spiritual activity so you should have no trouble findin’ someone ta talk to. An’ even though the Sultan’s Palace is now apartments, we’ve been lucky enough ta be invited in a few times by some o’ the residents when we were hostin’ our own séances. They told us their own stories o’ ghosts as well. I’m sure we could easily git another chance ta go back.”

  “Okay,” I started, sighing as I resigned myself to the unenviable task awaiting me.

  “The other location where I’ve sensed a lot o’ activity is the LaLaurie Mansion,” Lovie started.

  “What happened there?” I asked.

  “The story dates back ta 1831 when the home, which sits on Royal Street, was sold ta Delphine LaLaurie. Madame LaLaurie, as she came ta be known, was a member o’ the French Creole upper class.”

  “She was an evil, evil woman,” Drake announced.

  “Madame LaLaurie was wealthy an’ connected,” Lovie continued. “Three years after the LaLauries moved in, a fire swept through the house an’ when the fire department was called in, they discovered the bodies o’ slaves in a nearby outbuilding. One that hadn’t been burned. The slaves were chained ta the walls an’ some were dead an’ rottin’. Others were near death from pure torture an’ starvation
. Some were in cages, an’ body parts were everywhere, litterin’ the room. Stories claimed they found holes in some o’ the slaves’ heads, broken limbs, maggots in their wounds, the list went on. There was even some talk ’bout experimentin’ where some o’ the slaves had been subjects o’ sex changes.”

  “Oui,” Drake concurred sullenly.

  “Oh my God,” I said, shaking my head, finding it inconceivable that anyone could do such hideous things to another living being.

  “Another account had LaLaurie chasing a young slave girl around the house and the poor child fell from the third story right to her death. Supposedly, her body was buried in the courtyard sometime during the night.” Christopher added, “I believe I have been in contact with the apparition of that slave child.”

  “What happened to Madame LaLaurie?” I asked, not missing Christopher’s frown. He definitely didn’t appreciate any interruptions.

  Lovie shook her head. “She ’scaped.”

  “What?” I asked, suddenly angry.

  “Once N’awlins po-lice discovered the horrible scene, the citizens demanded Delphine be brought ta justice, but as the story goes, she ’scaped by carriage. Some say she returned ta France, but many believe she jist retired ta Lake Pontchartrain.”

  “Drake?” I asked, wondering if he knew what became of her.

  “Je ne sais pas. I do not know, ma minette. I have always attempted to keep my distance from this case in general as I am not convinced that Delphine LaLaurie was truly a human and not possessed by some malicious demon. In instances such as this one, it is best to leave well enough alone.”

  “There is a tombstone in St. Louis Cemetery Number One that bears Delphine’s name,” Christopher interrupted. “And it lists her year of death as 1842. It’s commonly believed that her children arranged to have her body returned to N’awlins.”

  Lovie nodded. “Christopher an’ I’ve been ta the mansion on more than one occasion an’ we found it very spiritually active. Ya know, Nicholas Cage used ta own the house, an’ he permitted us ta visit whenever we desired, but unfortunately, he lost the house in foreclosure in 2009. I introduced myself ta the new owner ’bout a year or so ago, an’ he asked me over twice, I believe.”

  “I was in touch with him recently,” Christopher added, “and I do not believe we would have any difficulty in obtaining a personal invitation.”

  Lovie nodded as she faced me. “So now you jist hafta decide where you’d like ta visit first: LaLaurie or Sultan’s . . . ?”

  Even though I hadn’t thought much about whether or not I was prepared to venture beyond the confines of my house, now that my spiritual block was removed, I definitely wasn’t prepared. Yes, Lovie and Christopher did their damndest to try to prepare me for the fact that there was no longer any interference between the spiritual world and me, but it still wasn’t enough. ’Course, to be fair to them, I didn’t believe any amount of preparation would truly have made any difference. Until you see your first ghost, you can’t quite understand what the situation is like.

  As we drove through the French Quarter, on our way to 1140 Royal Street, otherwise known as the LaLaurie Mansion, my eyes went as wide as my gaping mouth. My heartbeat pounded throughout my body, leaving me slightly light-headed.

  “Les voyez-vous?” Drake sounded from inside my head. “Do you see them, ma minette?”

  “Yes.”

  Spirits. They were everywhere: on the street, floating through buildings, and disappearing into walls. New Orleans seemed to be the residence of more dead people than living. In fact, the real people I saw, strolling up and down Royal Street, remained completely unaware of the spirits that sauntered right through them. The living people just continued to talk about this and that, completely oblivious of a whole other world invisible to their eyes. Sometimes the spirits would float through the tourists and other times, the tourists would walk right through the dead.

  “I can’t believe how many there are,” I said in awe, not able to tear my attention away from the view beyond my windows. But the spirits weren’t just located outside Ryan’s truck. We drove right through a small mob of them. Some of them reappeared inside the truck, while others just disappeared into the ground, like puffs of transparent smoke.

  “Oui, ma minette,” Drake responded. “I, myself, am quite surprised. Lacking the ability to leave the confines of our home, I never had the opportunity to behold so many spirits.”

  “Until you witness the spiritual world for yourself, it is utterly indescribable,” Christopher commented. “I share the amazement of which you speak.”

  “Hmm,” I answered, paying little attention to him. I could not restrain my awe and wonder at seeing the sheer number of specters in New Orleans. Some appeared fully detailed, as if a very talented artist had outlined them with a white pencil. Others merely appeared as balls of glowing light, floating and weaving between and through the more defined spirits.

  “Why do some look like people, while others just appear as balls of light?” I asked Drake.

  “It requires more energy for us to appear in the physical form,” he responded. “Those who appear as light are quite simply on their way elsewhere. Those are the types of spirits who can travel between this plane and the spiritual plane, as the warlock explained earlier.”

  “Yes,” Christopher continued, confusing me for a second when his timing made it sound like he was commenting on my conversation with Drake. “If you do recall, I played host to quite a few spirits in my time.”

  I nodded, but his words failed to interest me. Instead, I stared at the ghost of a woman, who was clad in what appeared to be nineteenth-century garb. She stood at the front doors of a stately building on the corner of Royal and St. Philip Streets. The building looked European, featuring the wrought-iron detailing that so iconically signified New Orleans. The figure of the woman was only visible from her waist up. Below her waist, she was no more than a thick fog. Studying her, I could barely make out her tightly curled hair, which was hardly visible beneath her dark-colored bonnet, adorned with an enormous ostrich feather. She wore an empire-waist dress trimmed in velvet. Even though she was somewhat transparent, she wasn’t white, as I always imagined a ghost would be. I could see hints of color in her face and clothing—and her bonnet was clearly dark red, her dress gray, with the velvet piping in the same shade of burgundy as her bonnet. She wore a blank expression.

  “What do you see, Pey?” Ryan asked, turning to face me.

  Glancing over at him, I noticed the spirits of a black woman and a young boy, whom I assumed was her son. They were floating alongside the truck and dressed in tattered and stained clothes. The boy’s pants were much too short for his long legs. Their feet were bare and they both wore floppy hats that were purely meant to shade their faces, and were certainly not a fashion statement. The woman’s eyes met mine and she seemed to look right through me. There was a misery in her eyes, a certain despair and hopelessness that instantly made my stomach plummet. “Slaves, I bet,” I whispered, turning around to face Lovie. “So . . . just as I can see them, can they see me too?”

  “Yes,” Christopher responded immediately. “Your walls are gone now. If you can see them, they can see you. Think of yourself as linked to the spiritual world. You are no longer bound by your corporeal body.”

  “Okay,” I said as I gulped and faced forward. We drove right through four male ghosts who were working on the road. When I saw their red hair and freckles, as well as their overall haggard appearances, I imagined they must have been Irishmen who fled their own country during the great potato famine. I’d often heard stories about the impact the Irish had on New Orleans history. It appeared that I was reliving a time in history long past—which, unfortunately for these poor, restless souls, they were doomed to re-experience, forever.

  “We’re here,” Ryan announced as he pulled up in front of a beautiful three-story house.

 
; “Béni soit Dieu dans ses anges et dans ses saints,” Drake said. “Blessed be God, in his angels and in his saints.” I got the distinct impression that Drake was crossing himself, as well as me. “The LaLaurie Mansion was known for its horrors and spiritual phenomenon even in my day,” he added.

  “Have you ever been inside?” I asked.

  “Non,” he responded immediately. “I never had the desire.”

  I didn’t respond because I had nothing more to say. I looked up at the intimidating property and shuddered. The house was painted the color of dark thunderclouds, fringed with a black wraparound wrought-iron balcony on the first story, which became the porch for the second story. The ten floor-to-ceiling windows on the first floor were oval-shaped on top and square on the bottom. The detailing of the balcony and its intricate black ironwork also covered all the windows. The windows on the second story were square, trimmed by black plantation shutters, while the windows on the third floor featured white ironwork.

  “Wow, it’s huge,” I started.

  “As in ten-thousand-square-feet huge,” Christopher interjected.

  Ryan parked the truck and killed the engine with a glance back at Lovie. “Um, I hope y’all realize I’m goin’ in with Peyton?”

  Lovie nodded without showing much concern as Samuel appeared around her shoulders and stretched his limbs before dropping his head down on her shoulder and closing his eyes again. “I don’t believe the owner will care. He’s not ’round here ta care, anyways. He’s back in Texas.”

  “So it’s a moot point,” Christopher said as he opened his car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Eyeing the house, he made the sign of the cross for protection. “Let’s hope you get the answers you need here, so we won’t have to pay a visit to the Sultan.”

  “Amen to that,” I muttered, still feeling slightly faint at the prospect of entering the LaLaurie Mansion. From the outside, it appeared quite innocent—as if none of the rumored horrors had ever occurred behind its walls. But, appearances could be deceiving.