“Nah, bullshit. I’ll be there. Don’t do anything ’til I get there.” The Mad Men were known for not fighting fair and Gabe wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to his brother because he was too spooked to show up and have his back. The last thing he wanted was for his brothers, or anyone for that matter, to think he was a wimp, but he seriously hated this shit. Maybe it came from growing up with parents and grandparents who strongly believed in the paranormal aspect of New Orleans, but no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was all bullshit, and he hadn’t really seen anything the night he was out there alone, he was still a believer.
The ride to where he was supposed to meet Chance would take about twenty-five minutes, but he would reach the swamp at least ten minutes before that and pass the spot where he knew he’d seen the spirit of that evil woman...Julie White. As soon as he hit the dirt road that ran along the stagnant green waters, choked with vegetation and algae, he could see the glint of a hundred pairs of eyes watching him. He was sure that most, if not all of them, were the gators and other critters that slithered along the mud-caked shores, but it did nothing to quell his anxiety. He willed himself not to think of “Her,” but it was impossible. Julie White was the star of one of the most popular and persistent tales that surrounded the Manchac, and since he was fourteen, the star of his worst nightmares as well. Julie was a Voodoo priestess. The facts of her life were that she resided near the swamp in the late 1800s and early 1900s in a cabin that faced the water, as far away from people and the city as she could possibly get. She, like many of the swamp people, lived off the land and the swamp as much as she could to survive...but Julie White also had a side gig.
She lived during a time when Voodoo was prominent in Louisiana, brought to its shores by the West African slaves and the Haitians that came as refugees from the revolution that was tearing apart their country. The concentration of Voodoo practitioners in New Orleans was so thick that it soon evolved into its own brand of the religion, relying heavily on gris-gris (charms and amulets), herbs, poisons, and the ever infamous voodoo dolls, and fed by the priestesses who were both feared and revered by all. Most people have heard about Marie Laveau but although Julie White was lesser known, that didn’t make her any less powerful.
In Julie’s reigning days, respected members of society—lawyers, judges, doctors, and the like—came to her with their problems or questions, and even consulted with her over important business matters or matters of the state. They all feared her, and Julie knew most of them hated her. She hated them as well and thought them hypocrites because of the fancy lives they lived in the city, and the way they’d sneak out to see her when they thought no one was looking. So, for years she took their money and handed out her advice, her potions, and her curses, but legend had it that Julie also handed one out that no one had asked for. Toward the end of her life, she’d sit on her front porch singing spooky songs about death and destruction and she delighted in the fear that her evil looks or arcane gestures would instill in anyone passing by along the swamp in front of her house. But worst of all, she began to talk about her own death, and how it was coming soon. That idea didn’t scare them, not until she promised she planned on taking with her as many of the citizens of New Orleans as she could. She also promised that her soul would live forever in the swamps and anyone who trespassed would be cursed as well. Some people believed her; others scoffed at her and waited for her demise. On a day in 1915, the day they buried Julie White at last, one of the worst hurricanes of the decade passed through New Orleans, and a tidal wave of epic proportions swept through the crowd of people at her funeral and three villages beyond. Hundreds of people died that day and according to legend, there was nowhere to put all the bodies. So, as unceremoniously as it sounds, a mass grave was dug for them in Manchac and it’s said even a hundred years later that bones still float up to the surface at night and become tangled in fishing nets, or scrape against the bottoms of boats as if asking to be let in.
People have also reported seeing Julie’s ghost, floating across the water and through the tangled boughs of the cypress trees at night, like a loose piece of Spanish moss, looking for a place to settle. And that was what Gabe had seen that night he’d stayed out there alone in that swamp. As he had lain huddled in the bottom of his Paw’s old boat, something floated above him, settling just low enough to brush across his face and causing him to dive out into the dark, gator-infested waters and swim to the shore for his life. He could still feel her sometimes at night when he closed his eyes, and now he was returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and wondering if he was putting his life and the lives of those he loved at risk, simply by doing so.
6
“This is it?” Blackheart looked at the papers in the skinny folder that his friend John Logan had slid across the table. He’d called Logan as soon as he left Baton Rouge, even before he spoke to Sally. Patrice had piqued his curiosity, even if he wasn’t sure what he might do with anything he found out.
“That’s it. The family didn’t want an autopsy.”
“But there’s a toxicology screen.”
“Yeah, from what I was able to find out from Sampson, who was the ME assistant in those days, as part of the police investigation they took blood for the toxicology screen and they checked the body for any signs that there was foul play prior to her jumping off that balcony and hitting the cement. She had a blood alcohol level of about half the legal limit and she was positive for cannabis. That was it. They obviously found bruising from the landing, but nothing that they could definitively say came before she climbed over that rail and ended up on the pavement. The NOPD said the door was locked from the inside and there wasn’t any evidence anyone else had been in the room except the baby, but it’s a hotel so they did have about a dozen or so random prints. Not that they ever followed up on them. It was declared a suicide pretty quickly and the family claimed the body right away. Her father had died just a week before and Sampson said they didn’t want to drag things out since they’d been through so much. Her dad was some bigwig in Congress and her mother came from a rich family that’s been in NOLA for centuries, so I’m sure that had something to do with the rush. Sampson said they were also all warned not to talk to the press about any of it if they came calling. He said the poor girl wasn’t even given a proper funeral. She’s interred at the family cemetery in Lakewood...”
“The cemetery is connected to the estate?”
“Yeah.” He handed Blackheart another file, one that had a picture of a huge, brick home with pillars in front. It was surrounded by iron gates, and in the photo a lush green lawn and thick rows of rose gardens could be seen stretching along a brick wall that matched the exterior of the home. “This is it, I looked it up for you because I knew you’d ask.” Logan smiled and popped a French fry in his mouth while Blackheart looked at the photo. After he chased it with a drink of his sweet tea he said, “It sits on two acres: six bedrooms, four baths, a disconnected three-car garage, and a mother-in-law house in the back. The cemetery has ten plots according to what’s filed with the parish clerk. Six of them are full, I reckon the other four are waiting for the rest of the family...don’t know why nobody lives there now though. It’s been empty for about ten years since the old woman, the matriarch, died.”