by Chanel Smith
“Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh, me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou…” My urge to sing the old Hank Williams tune disappeared suddenly as we saw the hazy figure standing in the boat and pushing it out of the boathouse.
“He’s much calmer now,” Ellen said. “Maybe we can talk to him now.”
I glance at the EMF, but kept an eye on the apparition. The last thing I needed was to be impaled by a pirogue pole. “The needle isn’t acting quite as crazy either.”
“We want to help you,” she called out.
The figure in the boat paused a moment and stopped pushing on the pole. He muttered something that neither of us could understand.
“Please, let us talk to you,” Ellen tried again. “We are only here to help, but we have to understand what is causing your anger.”
The spirit went into a short tirade, none of which we understood, but it made the needles on my EMF jump and I noted that Ellen drew back a bit as well.
“I can tell that he is angry about something in the house, but I simply don’t understand him.” She took several steps forward. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“What kind of language is that?” I asked. “It sounds French, but that’s about all I can tell you.”
“French would make sense, since New Orleans was originally a French colony.”
“How are we going to communicate with him if we don’t understand him?” I asked.
“Just like the Tube all over again,” she replied.
When the spirit had finished his tirade, he became much more calm again.
“He is very sad,” Ellen said. “He’s sad and confused. He seems to be searching for something. Why are you sad?”
After a few moments, the spirit leaned into the pole once more and the pirogue began to move forward across the dark water. His steady strokes moved him along fairly rapidly and Ellen was certain that he would get out of reach before we learned anything.
“What are you searching for?” she called out.
There was an unintelligible reply that we might not have heard clearly even if it had been plain English.
“Is it out there in the swamp?” she called out again. “What’s out there? What are you seeking?”
It was only a few moments before the pirogue and the spirit that was guiding it disappeared through a channel that cut through the large Cypresscypress trees with Spanish moss hanging low from their branches, and Ellen and I were standing in the silence with only the sound of the water lapping at the pilings of the dock.
“Well,” she said. “That was a complete waste of time. We know little more than we knew before. I could feel his sadness and confusion, even more strongly than I felt his anger earlier, but we’re still no closer to understanding anything.”
“We’re going to have to find a translator,” I replied. “Some research and a translator will help, but since we don’t know his schedule, it’s kind of hard to figure out how to get into contact with him again.”
“If we’re staying here in the apartment, maybe we’ll know when he comes in,” she replied. “But it’s a total waste until we have someone who can translate for us.”
We were back in the kitchen before I spoke another word. “Where are we going to find someone to translate French?” I asked, grinning.
“Where indeed?” She rolled her eyes at me.
Chapter Five
“It seems that in the late eighteenth century, before it was purchased by the United States, prostitution was very common in New Orleans.”
I was explaining what I had discovered while doing research on the Internet, hoping to discover some hidden mystery surrounding the haunted mansion that we were staying in. In fact, it was so bad – or good, depending on your opinion – that it caused a French Army officer to declare that there were not 10 women of decent reputation to be found in New Orleans.”
“Trust you to dig up that particular tidbit,” she replied. I could hear the distaste in her voice. “I thought you were doing research concerning the mansion’s history.”
“I am indeed, my dear,” I responded. “That little factoid came free of charge from the aforementioned research that I was doing on the previously discussed mansion and it is connected to a possible reason for our little mystery.”
Though she rolled her eyes at my verbose attempt to sound overly intelligent, she moved over next to me and prepared to listen to what I had discovered.
“The first females to take up residence in New Orleans were French prostitutes who had been released from French prisons and brought to the colony. The practice was quite common throughout the latter part of the eighteenth century, not long after this house was built by a very wealthy man and his wife.
“The couple had built their home along the banks of the Mississippi River, which used to run right along beside here before a new channel was created for it. That new channel is otherwise known as the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet Canal or the MRGO and was finished by the Army Corps of Engineers in 1965.”
“Great,” Ellen replied. She was somewhat impatient with my rambling. “So the river ran right by here. Who built the house and what happened?”
“You’re a bit more impatient than normal, my dear.”
“You do remember that we’re on a time clock here, right?”
“I promise, this won’t take but a moment to explain.”
Her look told me not to drag it out any longer.
“Anyway, the mansion was built alongside the Mississippi River by one Reginald Bordeaux and his wife, Antoinette. Reginald was an important trader with connections to the mainland and not only a good name, but a considerable amount of money to go with it. I wonder if he was related to the people who named the wine.”
My rabbit trail didn’t please her and I pushed forward. “It seems that Reggie and Annie had a dapper young son, and only one son, by the name of Archibald, who was brought along with his mother to the new home at the age of three. Of course, when Reggie and Annie died, young Archie inherited. Geez, change the names a little bit and we’ve got an Archie comic.”
“Monty, please.” She rubbed her head like she had a headache.
“When Archie was of age to marry, there were few suitable mates for him to be found here in New Orleans, because Betty and Veronica hadn’t yet… He was tired of being alone in this enormous mansion by himself, so, he ventured into New Orleans and discovered a lovely young creature that had been brought in with the latest shipment of prisoners released from France. Her name was Mildred. Before young Archie could whisk his newfound love away to his mansion, however, she had caught the eye of another of New Orleans’ more well-to-do gentlemen, Edward Fontaine.
“A dispute for the hand of Miss Mildred ensued between the two rivals and eventually led to a duel that took place on Chartres Street in front of what is now Jackson Square, but was a military parade ground at the time. Young Archie was lucky in one sense when Edward’s pistol misfired, but unlucky in that the ball from his pistol only wounded Edward, who had plenty of time to plot his revenge while he recovered.
“Archie and Mildred settled into the Bordeaux Mansion and Mildred gave birth to a son to carry on the Bordeaux family name; however, there were complications from the birth that made the boy not quite right in the head. It was quite common for the time and I’m sure the creepy crawlies in these swamps didn’t help matters either.
“This is where the story takes a new twist. It seems that Archie went to town on business one day and when he returned, found the entire house staff murdered and Mildred nowhere to be found. After some searching, he came across their son, Reginald the 2nd, hiding. After questioning him, he only learned that the man who had killed everyone had taken her into the swamp.
“Archie immediately blamed Edward Fontaine, even paid him a visit with the police commissioner in tow, but he had no proof against him and with the surge of crime in 1800s New Orleans, there was little available time and manpower to pursue the matter furthe
r. Archie died a widower, not long after General Butler of the Union Army seized the city in 1862.
“Their ‘idiot’ son – the name used in the day, not my own – inherited the estate, though a governor and governess still had charge over him until the day that he died. Anyway, not long after Archie died, there were rumors of a specter being seen in the windows of the mansion, wandering the ground at night or going down to the docks and disappearing in a boat on the river. Most of the stories were discounted as having come from the mentally retarded son.
“The mansion was passed on to the governor and governess, who were evidently distant relatives in some way. With no other heir than Reginald the 2nd, it stayed with the new family for nearly two centuries. It was a landmark of New Orleans and was even considered as one of the high points of the Haunted New Orleans Tour until the new river channel misplaced it. That is to say, with the new channel moving, it was considered to be well out of the way and no one had much interest in it any more until our employer bought it recently and started his new business venture.”
“So you’re telling me that Archibald’s wife, Mildred, disappeared into the swamps and was never found again?” Ellen asked. I could see her wheels spinning.
“That would certainly cause a spirit to be restless, don’t you think?”
“That would explain the sadness and confusion, but where does the anger come from? Typically, forlorn souls that are searching for a lost loved one might spook a person, but they don’t typically turn violent.”
“That’s true. So, where does the violence come from?” I asked.
“And, why was there no violence during the remodel? From what we have heard from LaBeaux, there wasn’t even any indication that the place had a spirit in it until they opened the other night. Do you think that he’s angry about the dinner and the party?”
“How would I know?” I shrugged my shoulders. “You’re the ghost whisperer.”
“He was highly agitated and, needless to say, violent when he was in the house; but outside, at the docks, he was only sad and confused. What is different? What changes?”
Our conversation was interrupted as Jean LaBeaux knocked at the door to the apartment. When Ellen answered it, LaBeaux was standing with a tall, slender gentleman named Henry, which he pronounced the way the French say it, dropping the ‘H.’ “Henry has agreed to go with you this evening and serve as a translator.”
“Madame, monsieur,” Henry said, bowing to us slightly as he was introduced. “I understand that your spirit does not speak English.”
“No, sir,” Ellen replied. “He speaks French. I know a few French words, enough to know how vowels and consonants are pronounced, but he didn’t happen to use any of the words that I know and he spoke very rapidly.”
“Then perhaps I will be of some service to you.”
“Henry,” I cut in. “You do understand that we are talking about a paranormal spirit who becomes extremely agitated and violent. You’re not going to be translating words from a little old lady who simply wanders in the night. You’re sure you’re up to this?” Though Ellen gave me an uncomfortable look for the brusque manner with which I spoke, I have little trust of the French in general and I felt that it was necessary to establish that the Frog wouldn’t turn tail and run at the first sign of danger. God knows that I’d considered it several times and I’d been a detective in LA before joining my wife in our new venture.
“Monsieur LaBeaux has already filled me in on what has taken place here,” Henry replied.
“Okay,” I said. “Just remember that Ellen and I will be going toward the ghost instead of running away like everyone else has been doing.”
“It is quite clear to me.”
“Very well, then.” Ellen took over the conversation again. “I got a sense from his demeanor that while he was in the house, he was agitated, but outside, he was sad and confused. We have no way of knowing who this spirit belonged to, but we have a theory that he is the spirit of the man who inherited this mansion from his father in the 1780s or 1790s. We think his name was Archibald Bordeaux and that his wife might have been abducted from here by a jealous rival. Do you know the story?”
“I do not,” he replied.
“I will let Monty bring you up to date on it. We have plenty of time, I think; last night he arrived around 10:00 p.m. If he is sticking to some sort of schedule, we’ll be waiting for him in the dining room this evening and see if we can calm him down and get more information from him. These things are rarely exact, however, so, anything might happen at any moment. Mister LaBeaux has closed the restaurant, so we’ll likely be alone. You are certain that you are ready for this and you’re not afraid of spirits and paranormal activity?”
“I am ready, madame.”
“Okay. Monty, fill him in on our storyline.”
Chapter Six
The few kitchen staff that stayed around to work that evening prepared a very nice dinner for Henry, Ellen and me.
They served it in the main dining room where the spirit had appeared, or had at least made his presence known the night before. Without the other diners and the jazz band, the ambiance of the room was entirely different; in fact, we ate nervously, expecting to be surprised at any moment. Well-fed and relaxing with the strong after dinner coffee, just like the night before, we scanned the room nervously, expecting to witness the same violence that we had the previous evening.
I had looked at my watch at least a dozen times throughout dinner and took one more glance at it as I took a sip of the strong brew in a small cup. There had been some polite chit-chat during dinner, but that had died out as we prepared ourselves for what was about to come. At five minutes before 10:00 p.m., I pulled the EMF out of the shoulder bag beside my chair and watched the needles dance slightly as I turned the unit in every direction, but there was no explosion of energy or radiation.
“Are you feeling anything, Babe?” I asked Ellen. I looked over at Henry, whose eyes were wide. In spite of the fact that he was drinking coffee, he licked his dry lips and seemed unable to swallow as he sat frozen in his chair waiting for what was to come.
“Nothing, Monty, but I didn’t feel anything last night until he started tearing the place up.”
In many ways, the anticipation of what we were expecting was far more unsettling than the actual appearance of the spirit. Though we’d been through some terrifying events and had gotten used to dealing with them, there was still a tense atmosphere to the large, silent dining room.
I looked up at the crystal chandeliers shimmering and casting their prisms of light throughout the room and adding elegance to the room that would certainly have been mundane without them. The time moved by slowly, I checked my watch several more times. Ten o’clock came and went and I was beginning to get restless.
After waiting for several minutes longer, I got up from my seat and began to stroll about the dining room, watching the needles on the EMF shimmer slightly as I passed under a chandelier or moved close to an electrical outlet. The kitchen staff was tucked away in the kitchen, cleaning up from our dinner and preparing to close things down for the night, as time dragged by slowly.
Ellen finally became restless as well and wandered over to join me.
“Got anything?” she asked.
“Not even a whisper,” I replied. “What do you suppose happened? Do you think he left last night and won’t come back until we’re long gone?”
“No. He’s too upset and confused for that. Besides, if a spirit doesn’t move on toward the light, they can’t be released until someone helps them. I don’t know what’s going on, but we already know that you can’t put spirits on our time table.”
“It’s just like in the Tube, though,” I said. “I mean, we suddenly knew that the ghosts were gone, but we didn’t know why.”
“This is very different, Monty,” she replied. She was silent for a few moments and she chewed on her lower lip. I knew that she was having some deep thoughts. “You know, we just can’t put a
spirit on a time table. That’s all.” She turned away and started back toward the other side of the room.
I watched her go for a few moments, not only wondering what she was thinking, but also enjoying the view of her shapely figure from behind. Ellen was an extremely attractive woman and there were times that I wondered how such an ornery old detective like me had gotten lucky enough to latch onto her and keep her. We had our moments when our personalities clashed, but by and large, we were a happy couple and complemented each other in every way. I am a very lucky man. I turned back toward the window, glanced at the EMF and then caught some sort of movement on the lawn below.
“Ellen. He’s here!” I shouted.
“Where?” She dashed back over to me.
“Down there.” I pointed toward the lawn and the specter moving across it very near the boathouse. Had I not turned to watch Ellen walk away, I might have seen him earlier.
“We’ve got to get down to the boathouse. Hurry. Come on, Henry.” She sprang into action.
Startled by the sudden action, Henry froze and stared at us wide-eyed as we dashed toward the door of the dining room and started to take the steps two at a time. When Henry finally sprang into action he was well behind us, but he soon caught up as we wove our way through the kitchen and out the back door. I could see the pirogue pulling away across the pond that led out into the wider swamp as we approached the docks.
“Wait,” Ellen called out breathlessly. “We want to talk to you. Please, let us help you.”
The specter seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and unable to hear her.
She turned to Henry, who was also out of breath. “Translate for me, please. Get him to stop.”
Though Henry called out several times in French, the spirit ignored us and, just like he had done the night before, he disappeared through the channel between the Cypresscypress trees and the silence of the night took over once more.