The Casket Girl's Guide to Ghosts

I float into Jackson Square on one of those late October nights in New Orleans that hasn’t yet shaken off the summer heat. Halloween is in the air, with the French Quarter shops lit up in orange and purple, and pumpkins and polyester cobwebs adorning doorsteps. On nights that I exist, I like to wander and watch the mix of locals and tourists going about their business, working and laughing and hustling and arguing and drinking. I’ll admit that this time of year is my favorite, as it’s finally about me.

Any New Orleans medium will tell you that this city is full of ghosts, which is as cliché as it is true. I’m one of many—take Jackson Square, the Place d'Armes. At this very moment I can see at least a dozen bodiless souls milling around the park and in front of St. Louis Cathedral, mixed amongst the hundreds made of flesh and blood and beating hearts. In a city that’s over 300 years old, with a history rich and dark and astonishing and evil, there is bound to be an eclectic mix of both the living and the dead.

So yes, I belong to the latter. My name was Marguerite Desjardins, and I suppose it still is, though the life that gave me that name was short and feels very far away. I arrived in La Nouvelle-Orléans in 1728, two and a half months after leaving the small French city I was born, orphaned, and chosen in. Chosen to be a filles à la cassette—a casket girl, sent to the colonies to be married off to settlers, rough men with harsh jobs and few prospects. And then there are the vampire rumors, which … oh, there’s Julian!

Thank goodness I have someone to distract me from my tiresome musings. I watch as Julian Nightshade pulls his carriage up to Jackson Square led by his mule, Bella. Julian is my favorite ghost tour guide, all drama and flamboyance and enthusiasm. Tonight he is dressed as theatrically as I could have hoped, his jet-black hair tied in a bun under his top hat, goatee freshly manicured, and black cape with red satin underside fluttering in the humid breeze. Bella looks less pleased to be there; she shifts her weight on her front hooves and lets out a world-weary sigh as Julian gently brings her to a stop in front of a small group.

“Ahh, greetings ghostly travelers! Are you here for Nightshade’s Hallowed Haunts Carriage Tour? Speak now if you dare!”

Julian welcomes all five of them aboard, and as always, I feel a twinge of pity for Bella as she begins her evening of hard work. I know that Julian keeps a brown paper bag of carrots and apples (her favorite) on hand as payment, though I don’t know if this is a fair wage.

Each member of the group settles into the carriage, two couples and a young woman. The woman neatly stacks a bright blue journal and pen on her lap and situates herself in the back row next to one of the couples, a duo in their mid-40s. The wife smiles excitedly as her husband pats her knee and looks out on the Square, expressionless. The other couple, a young man and woman, sit in the front row and whisper to each other.

“What a lovely group we have this evening,” Julian begins. “I am Julian Nightshade, this is my trusty steed Bella, and we will be your guides to the haunted halls and creepy corners of the French Quarter. May I ask your names and what brings you to my carriage?” He gestures to the couple in front.

“Hey everyone, I’m Eli. Uh I live here actually? Which is probably weird to be a local on a ghost tour, but I wanted to take my friend …”

“Jasmine,” says the woman beside him, offering a slight wave. “I’m visiting from Atlanta. We went to Tulane, so I know the city but I’ve never been on one of these.”

Julian smiles. “Welcome to my tour, and welcome back to New Orleans, Lady Jasmine. And who, pray tell, do we have in the back?”

The man opens his mouth to speak, but his wife jumps in. “I’m Charmaine, and I’m so excited to be here! We’re visiting from Staten Island, and I believe in ghosts, and I’ve read every Anne Rice book, and I’ve talked to my mother, god rest her soul, through a psychic, so I knew we had to do one of these scary tours. This is my husband, Sean.”

“Hey everybody,” says Sean. “I’m here because I love my wife.”

The group laughs as Julian nods, “A skeptic, I fear! No trouble, let’s see how you feel after my tour has ended, Lord Sean. And you, my dear?”

The young woman in back looks up from the notebook she’s been writing in to introduce herself. “Hi, I’m Abby. I’m actually from Salem, Massachusetts, so I’m familiar with all the spooky stuff. I have a Substack called Spirits and Shadows where I write about ghosts and witches and vampires and all things supernatural, so that’s why I’m here in New Orleans. New material!”

I can tell that neither Sean nor I know what a Substack is, but I can’t ask and Sean doesn’t seem to want to.

“Spirits and Shadows newsletter?” says Julian helpfully. “I’m a dedicated fan and a loyal subscriber, good Lady Abby. It is an honor to have you on my tour.”

Abby warmly thanks him and I feel an immediate tenderness towards her. Someone who believes and cares and tells our stories!

Julian gives the reins a gentle tug and clicks his tongue to get Bella moving—she slowly cooperates, and the little group sets off on their tour. I glide alongside, wishing I could tousle the fringe hanging from the carriage roof or caress Bella’s flank. Not for the first time I wonder if she can sense me, but she’s never given much of a sign beyond the occasional huff directed at either me or her general state of affairs.

“As we set off on our journey, I’ll ask you to observe the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral, under which countless bodies are buried in the crypts, and Jackson Square, once the site of the imprisonment and public execution of souls who are said to still linger today. Gaze upon the Cathedral’s balconies long enough and you might just catch a glimpse of one of the area’s most famous ghostly residents, a dedicated friar named Père Antoine …”

Charmaine stares unblinking at the Cathedral, seemingly in an effort to summon Père, but unfortunately for her I haven’t seen him tonight. It’s hard to predict when we will fade in or out. I listen as Julian expands on the long and dreadful history of Jackson Square, embellishing it with tales of pirate smuggling and voodoo rituals as any good New Orleans tour guide must.

Our first stop is Muriel’s, a Creole restaurant haunted by the ghost of its original owner Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan. The staff appeases Pierre’s spirit each night by setting the table for him. It must be nice, to be remembered like that. I have seen Pierre in my wanderings, but like the rest of my fellow spirits, we don’t usually interact. We observe. It’s rare to have the energy to do much else, although sometimes we can summon it. I wonder …

I’m feeling restless as I’ve already existed for longer than usual, and so I float up to Abby to see what she’s writing. She’s been taking notes, underlining important bits and adding her commentary. Sean’s eyes seem to be getting heavy despite Julian’s storytelling flourishes, while Eli and Jasmine listen and occasionally giggle over a shared joke. When Bella stops at a lonely intersection and Charmaine leans over to take a photo, I decide to find out just how much energy I have.

It’s hard to describe, this channeling. I can feel myself buzzing where I usually feel nothing, and I aim it somewhere. This time I swoop in front of Charmaine to direct it at the side of the carriage, managing a light (but triumphant!) jostle. Julian, who is explaining the yellow fever epidemic that ravaged the city, pauses mid-sentence as Bella huffs and stamps her feet in alarm.

“What was that?” Charmaine yelps, tapping Sean, who is now very awake. “Did you feel that?”

Sean nods. “Must have been the wind or a big truck shaking the streets,” he says to the still, quiet air.

Abby looks around and starts writing furiously. Jasmine’s eyes are wide and she has a tight grip on Eli’s arm, which seems to greatly please him.

“Ha! That wasn’t a breeze, that was a damn ghost!” laughs Eli, patting Jasmine’s hand. “It’s ok Jazz, I think we’re in the clear. No ghosts in my line of sight.”

“Well, well, well,” says Julian, recovering quickly. “The French Quarter always surprises me. Perhaps we have a spirit in our midst who would like to make themselves known. You are heard, spirit! Now leave us to be on our way.”

But Julian can’t make me go, and I smugly remember the time I watched him review his tour license and saw his full name printed: Steven Wilson.

Abby looks up from her notebook while Julian gets Bella moving. “Well Julian, at least this is great content for Spirits & Shadows.”

The newsletter, yes! The spotlight will be on me, however indirectly. I can only imagine the amount that’s been written about the likes of Père and Pierre and a long list of men whose names history remembers. As for the casket girls, our names died with us.

The carriage clatters by Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, where the pirate Jean Lafitte’s ghost is rumored to linger. I briefly consider tapping Abby’s shoulder or grazing her hair but decide against it, not wanting to intrude; I am just a bit bored as the only spirits here are of the liquid variety. We pass the Sultan’s Palace, infamous for the alleged massacre of a Turkish sultan and his harem, who are said to still haunt the building. In truth, the only ghost I’ve seen nearby is an older woman in her Mardi Gras costume. Julian takes us past the LaLaurie Mansion, a site so steeped in lore that its true horrors have become mythologized. It is a dark and heavy place where the spirits of the enslaved deserve their rest.

I am starting to feel myself fade when we finally arrive at the Old Ursuline Convent on Chartres Street, the landmark that I’ve been waiting for. The white stone facade gleams in the light of the streetlamp, which illuminates the heavy green doors and circular window trimmed in gold. Behind the wall to the right is a lush courtyard and a neat, three-story row of structures set away from the street. Gray shutters frame each window, and in the center, set high above a balcony, is a cross. There are a few lights on inside and the moon is large and bright overhead.

“We have arrived at one of my favorite chapters on our ghostly adventure,” exclaims Julian, repositioning his cape. “Allow me to tell the tale of the Old Ursuline Convent, founded in 1727 by the Sisters of the Order of Saint Ursula. While the good Sisters established the first school for girls and the first hospital in New Orleans, their rich history is overshadowed by a vampiric legacy: the casket girls.”

My energy begins to return at the mention of this label we never asked for. Charmaine looks thrilled and even Sean has perked up. Abby is poised with pen at the ready as Julian continues.

“Mysterious girls and young women began arriving in the 1720’s by boat, having endured a long journey across the Atlantic from France to marry colonial settlers. They emerged pale and sickly, each carrying a casket-shaped trunk that would become their namesake. The casket girls’ presence greatly disturbed the locals, and shortly after their arrival, the city began experiencing mysterious deaths.“

Julian pauses for dramatic affect and looks at Jasmine and Eli in the front row, who are now holding hands and staring in rapt attention.

“The casket girls were housed in the Old Ursuline Convent, where the nuns began to fear that something supernatural was afoot. One evening they went to check on the girls’ caskets, which had been sealed away on the third floor, only to find the trunks completely empty. Terrified, the nuns had the third-floor doors and shutters nailed shut with silver nails blessed by the Pope.”

Julian points at the top row of windows with a flourish. “The shutters remain tightly shut to this day to keep the casket girls out … or in. For the nuns knew what I am telling you now. That the casket girls were vampires, sent to curse the new colonies with evil and bloodshed. And it is there that New Orleans’ vampire legend was born.”

Rubbish of course, utter nonsense. I appreciate Julian’s need to keep his audience entertained, but it cheapens us, reduces us to a silly story and makes a mockery of what was real. The casket girls, the enslaved people brutalized and murdered in every corner of New Orleans, the poor who withered and died of yellow fever. Scenes from a short life flood back to me. Marguerite, small and afraid, is sent to an orphanage in Nantes and chosen to travel across an ocean to marry a man she’s never met. Marguerite boards a ship with just one small trunk to her name, only to spend two and half months below deck, sandwiched between girls with pale paces and rattling coughs. Marguerite arrives in the colonies, an unfamiliar world with unfriendly faces, and is taken to the Ursuline convent to wait for her intended. Marguerite is dead two weeks later, consumed by a “fever” that burnt her up and hollowed her out.

1728, my fourteenth year, was not a great one for me. None of my years were great, and yet I had it better than many of the casket girls, who would go on to be beaten or sell their bodies on the street. I resolve to give the group something real to remember us by, something that would definitely not be left out of Spirits & Shadows.

The energy feels strong, and I direct it all at the street lamps and lights surrounding the Convent. I imagine the bulbs and the wires and the pulsing electricity and feel connected to it all. There is a bright surge of light and then everything goes dark.

Bella lets out a harsh bray as Charmaine shrieks and clamps one hand over her mouth and the other onto Sean’s shoulder. He is staring agape into the darkness, frantically scanning the building. Abby looks around wide-eyed, having forgotten about the journal that has fallen to the carriage floor. Jasmine buries her head behind Eli’s arm as he protectively wraps his other around her, breathing heavily.

And Julian, poor Julian. He is frozen with Bella’s reins in the air and his top hat askew. They all sit in silence, listening to the distant sounds of the city and their own heavy breathing. After a few seconds the energy dissolves and the lights begin to glow. Charmaine is the first to speak.

“Oh. My. God! I can’t believe that just happened! Seanny, can you believe that just happened? Julian, has that ever happened?”

Shaken, Julian takes a moment to respond. “Uh nope, can’t say that’s ever happened, no way.” He clears his throat and adds, “My fellow travelers, what you have witnessed this evening is a spectacle most grand and glorious. I do believe that a spirit has tried to connect with us from the other side. It behooves us to thank them and … be on our way.”

He leans forward and whispers softly to Bella, who appears eager to move on and begins walking. I get close to Abby to see what she’s writing: The story of the casket girls is told, and seconds later all of the lights go out around the Convent. We are stunned into silence. I believe we are in the presence of the paranormal.

I am drained and can feel myself beginning to drift away. I don’t think I’ll be able to follow the group back to Jackson Square, so I stay back and watch them roll on. I hear Julian gloating to the group. “What say you, Lord Sean? Has my tour been sufficient proof?” “Why yes, Lady Abby, I would be honored to have my photo featured in your newsletter!”

Before they turn a corner Charmaine yells, “Would you look at this photo from earlier!” She pushes her phone into Sean’s face. “The picture I took, there’s a glowing orb in it!”

“Can you send that to me?” Abby asks as they disappear from view.

I am fading back to wherever I came from. When I reappear, 20 minutes or six months or a dozen years from now, I have no doubt that I will return to a city that simmers together fact and fiction into something delicious and unrecognizable. It is not all terrible to be remembered incorrectly when we are fortunate enough to be remembered at all. Perhaps the remembering is why I’m able to come back and visit the world that I left.

Now if only I could figure out a way to read Spirits & Shadows …