Eve in the Château Corbeau

Having never been to a big city before, I always figured that my first time in New Orleans would be a tad overwhelming. My friends probably told me the same thing a dozen times: Just stick with us and don’t go down any dark alleyways, and you’ll be fine! And I thought that telling myself that same thing over and over again would help. I had common sense, I’d be surrounded by other FSU kids, there was no way I’d get in trouble.

           That worked until we arrived at a packed Bourbon St. It was well-lit, and there were about a hundred people per square foot, so if, God forbid, something did happen, there was an ocean of witnesses. But as we snaked through, I found myself thinking of all those stories I’d heard of overcrowded concerts. People being trampled to death by other fans, having their last breaths taken by a swarm of unnoticing spectators. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Every second, five people brushed past me. The street stretched on indefinitely. Was my breath getting shallow?

           Tangible things, I thought. Blue wall. Garnet flag. Purple flag. White lights in a window, two red shirts. Bitch 1, Bitch 2. Jazz band on a balcony. Lil Yachty blaring in a bar. Smell of beer (piss? Both?). Green sign. Woman with a snake—no, two snakes?”

           “Four hand grenades, please,” said Regan.

           “Thirty-six even,” grunted the bartender without looking up. Regan touched her card to the reader.  After a few minutes, our drinks were out, and the bar, whose name I had overlooked, was quickly filling up. There were no tables left inside, so we went to the little patio area out back and snagged one of the few remaining ones. It had rained earlier in the evening, and as stagnant rainwater seeped uncomfortably into my pants, it struck me how truly medicinal the hand grenade tasted.

            “Well, I don’t know what else I was expecting this to taste like.”

           “Yeah,” said Cass. “But I guess if you’re trying to get drunk, this will do it.”

           “On that note,” said Regan, “What exactly is the plan for tonight?”

           “We were going to try and do Willie Mae’s, right?” asked Danielle.

           “Yeah,” said Regan, checking her phone, “But now that I’m looking at it, Willie Mae’s is kind of far from here. So we’d have to deal with—” she motioned toward the street. “All that for a while.”

           “True,” said Cass between sips, “But, like, we’re going to have to deal with the crowds regardless.”

           “The real question,” said Danielle, “Is will they be able to seat us?”

           “Shit, that’s a good point,” sighed Regan.

           “Maybe we should have thought this through a bit more.”

           “Yeah, it is a Friday night during both a game weekend and Pride weekend. Realistically, what are the odds that any place will be able to seat us?” 

           “Hear me out,” interjected Cass, half her hand grenade gone. “We’ve got a table here. Why don’t we go ahead and have some drinks, and then we can just walk around and sort of see what places have lines that aren’t down the block?”

           Regan shrugged. “Works for me.”

           “Same here,” agreed Danielle.

           “Yeah, that works,” I said, taking another sip.

           “You ok, Eve?” asked Danielle. “You’ve been kind of quiet tonight.”

           “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just not, you know—a huge fan of crowds.”

           “Ah, I feel you. Are you going to be alright?”

           “I think so. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. It’s better now that we’re out here, and I can actually have a little personal space.”

           “Ok! Well, let us know if you need to take a break or something.”

           “Back in a sec,” said Regan. “I’m gonna call Willie Mae’s real quick, see what the seating situation is.” As she walked over to a quiet corner, I glanced at the street which ran alongside us. It consisted mostly of darkened two-floor houses, with scant light flickering from black lampposts. Near the edge of what was visible from the patio, I could just make out the form of someone standing on a front porch of a house whose red was just pronounced enough to be distinguishable from the night. It was too dark for their face to be visible, but I could make out the end of a cigarette punching through the shadows.   

           A woman emerged from around the corner of the bar. A massive yellow snake (big enough that it could have been two) lay draped over her shoulders. Was this the same woman I’d seen in my panic before? She had on a long green gown which flowed over the bricks behind her, hiding her feet so much that she appeared to be floating over a sheet of ice. The snake lifted its head, scanning the road. As she disappeared past the trees bordering the patio, the figure on the porch turned their head to follow her. They didn’t move another muscle. Once the woman was gone, the figure raised the cigarette to their lips. The glow did nothing to illuminate their face.  

           You see the strangest things in this town, I thought.

           “Line is down the block,” said Regan, returning to her chair. “So we might as well stay here for a bit and play it by ear as far as food.”

           “Works for me.” Cass got up, hand grenade reduced to shrapnel. “I’m going to get four shots of Fireball. Y’all want anything?”

           “Cass, no,” said Danielle. “You and Fireball are a bad mix.” Cass had already disappeared. I shot a look back toward the street. No one stood in front of any of the houses. The windows didn’t even reflect any of the lights from Bourbon St.

           We made our way through a few bars and then to a gift show with a fake(?) coffin filled with voodoo implements. There, I got a black baseball cap which said NOLA in hot pink letters. After a couple hurricanes, I didn’t feel so overwhelmed by the crowds. We shot like vipers down Bourbon St. until we stumbled on Château Corbeau, a restaurant in a purple 18^th-century building which had a relatively manageable line. We were served by a waitress who looked like she’d been there for three straight days. After a plate of the best ribs I had ever had, along with a bowl of crawfish etouffee, I felt my drunkenness beginning to slip into sleepiness.

           “I’m going to sleep like the dead,” I said.

           “Oh, speaking of,” said Regan excitedly, “Did we want to go see one of the cemeteries or something tomorrow?”

           Danielle squinted. “Why a cemetery?”

           “Because New Orleans is supposed to be super haunted. We should at least try to see something spooky.”

           “I’d be down to check out a voodoo shop or something,” I said.

           “Didn’t you get that hat at a voodoo shop?” asked Danielle.

           “A real voodoo shop. One that doesn’t have a Budweiser sign in the window.”

           “Y’all do what you want,” slurred Cass. “I’m sleeping until the game.”

           “Damnit, Cass, I warned you about the Fireball.”

           “You say another bad word about Fireball, and I’ll… fire you,” she said, pointing a finger at Danielle in mock accusation.

           I laughed. “You’re right, though, Regan. We should find something ghost-related to do tomorrow.”

           “Maybe there’s a ghost tour or something?” suggested Danielle, pulling out her phone. As the conversation lulled, I noticed how empty the restaurant had become. With the drone of other conversations gone, I could now hear the slow Dixieland song wailing from somewhere Downstairs. The place was decorated with various ghost and occult-related props. Here was a portrait of Edgar Allen Poe, there was a crystal ball on a shelf. Next to it was a stuffed raven, and nearby lay a set of black books with pentagrams on the spines. A cobweb-laden candelabra hung over us, flickering electrically. Glancing out the window, I noticed that the swarms on Bourbon St. had begun to thin out, and checking my phone, I was surprised to find that it was close to 1 AM.

           “Honestly, this place is a good start,” I said.

           “Yeah.” Regan nodded. “I like the vibes here.”

           “So here are the two best options I could find,” said Danielle. “There’s a ghost tour that goes around the French Quarter at 4 tomorrow, and there’s one at 10. The 4 might be cutting it kind of close with the game, but it’s cheaper. But the 10 might be spookier.”

           “I say we go with the 10,” I said. “Who knows when we’ll be here again?”

           “Got your checks right here,” came a man’s voice from behind me, making me jump. A waiter wearing the same black attire as every other employee, with the addition of a dark bowler hat and the blackest eyeshadow I’d ever seen, laid our checks out. Had our waitress gone home for the night? “And I couldn’t help but overhear that y’all are looking for someplace haunted.”

           “Yeah,” said Danielle. “You have any recommendations?”

           “As a matter of fact, this very building has a few supernatural secrets.” Each word sounded like sap. “Once I get done with those checks, perhaps you’d like a tour of the old basement?”

           After we handed our cards over and waited to be rung up, I glanced at the others. “I mean, I’m down for a little ghost tour here, if y’all are.”

           Danielle nodded. “Yeah! You up for it, Cass?”

           “Might as well,” she said, with a first hint of sobriety. She took a long drink of water.

           The waiter returned with our receipts, and Regan asked: “So how much do y’all charge to go down in the basement?”

           He smiled. “Oh, no charge, ma’am. After midnight, anyone who wants to come downstairs is perfectly welcome to. Madame Corbeau wouldn’t have charged.”

           “Madame Corbeau?” said Danielle inquisitively.

           The waiter smiled. “Yes, Madame Edith Corbeau. She was a well-to-do fortune teller about a hundred years ago, and this whole place used to be hers. I can tell you more about it in the basement, which used to be her office. If you’ll follow me…” The waiter led us down to the restaurant’s first floor, which was now completely vacant, and then into the kitchen.

           “Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” I asked.

           “Why of course, ma’am,” he replied confidently. “Old Carlan’s been here for years; he’d never steer you wrong.” We continued to the end of the kitchen and entered the pantry. The only light inside flitted from two bloodred lanterns which hung on either side of a dark wooden door. Reaching into his jacket, Carlan produced a set of keys which should have been audible in his pocket. He rifled through them until he found the right one, and when he stuck it in the keyhole and turned, the door whined open. “After you, ladies,” he grinned, ushering us inside.

           Stepping in, we found a short set of spiraling steps, also lit by lanterns. As we descended, I noticed how much chillier this floor was than the above two. The Dixieland had been playing from a speaker system on the first floor, and we could hear it from the pantry, but now the only sound to be heard was our footsteps clacking against the stairs.

           The study which greeted us at the bottom was from another century. On the right, there was a stone fireplace whose low glow offered sparce warmth. A painting hung above it. On the left stood three cobweb-laden bookshelves, each packed with beaten-up books. On the far side of the room sat an old couch whose red was as dark as the house I’d seen earlier, and next to it was a small slot in the wall. A wooden table sat in the middle of everything. There were two chairs, one on either side, and an open set of tarot cards lay on it. There was also a crystal ball whose inside was entirely caked in dirt. Above, a real chandelier held a couple of melted candles which flickered faintly.

           “Now then,” began Carlan, “Welcome to the real Château Corbeau. Long before this place was a restaurant, it was a hotel run by Madame Edith Corbeau and her family.” He motioned toward the oil portrait above the fireplace, and now taking a closer look at it, it struck me that the woman smiling in it looked exactly like the one I had seen on the street earlier. Same green dress, same grey hair, same snake around her shoulders. Did this place have an actress walking around outside? It felt as if a cold gust blew through the room. “Folks would come from miles around to stay here and, if the mood struck them, they’d visit Madame’s office to have a conversation with the departed. Now, that didn’t always go so well; one man is rumored to have been possessed sitting in that very chair,” he pointed to one of the chairs, “And some say he went on to be the Axeman of New Orleans. But do you figure that stopped people from coming?”

           “No…?” guessed Regan.

           “Why no, of course it didn’t!” exclaimed Carlan. “Once word of Madame’s gifts got out, everyone and their mother wound up in this room. And sometimes those mothers wouldn’t be so inclined to return to the spirit world. Madame Corbeau never did charge for fortunes or even seances; always said that she thought it was her responsibility to be the mediator between the living and the dead. And to that end, whenever a less-than-friendly phantom would visit here, she’d lure them into the walls and imprison them there. And that was all fine and good—"

           His voice grew grave. “—Until 1921. One night in July of that year, a fire broke out. Some parts of the house survived, but no one within did. Some say that the fire started when a guest left a cigarette lit on a nightstand, some say that it was started by the same man who’d gone mad here years before. But others say that the spirits imprisoned within Madame’s walls finally broke loose.” He scanned all of us and grinned. “But who’s to say? The only thing known for certain is that Madame’s remains were never found. Even though most of the house had to be rebuilt, it’s said that if you look into our window over there,” Carlan pointed to the slot in the wall, “You can still see a glimpse of some of the spirits who resided here.”

           “Feel free to have a look around,” he concluded, “and when you’re ready to head back up, we will.” Regan examined the seance table while Danielle and Cass perused the dusty books. Out of curiosity, I knelt down by the couch and had a look through the slit.

           The room on the other side was hardly big enough to hold anything, but they had managed to fit a mannequin inside. Not expecting to see anything, I jumped but then chuckled. Its hair hung in wiry strands around its head, and its skin looked like it had been painted over with silver polish. Its eyes were wide yellow orbs, and its mouth hung open, exposing what I suspected to be a shallow throat painted black. There must have been an AC unit in the chamber, because its green dress moved slightly.

            I jumped again when I turned around to find Carlan, who said: “You see the strangest things in this town.” He winked, and it was as if his eye disappeared in darkness for a moment.

           We finished looking around—there wasn’t much to be found in the old room besides the books, which were too dusty to read—and we headed for the stairs. “Watch your step, please,” said Carlan. Regan tried to hand him a tip, but he refused it. Once we reentered the pantry, the door immediately slammed behind us. The lanterns went out, leaving us in pitch dark. As a puff of air escaped the basement, I smelled the slightest hint of cigarette smoke.  

           “Jesus!” exclaimed Cass.

           “It’s so dark in here,” said Regan. It didn’t take a genius to know that the restaurant was closed; every light in the place was turned off. “What the hell?” We all looked at each other, unsure of what to think.

           “We didn’t just—you know—break and enter, did we?” asked Danielle.

           I shrugged. “I mean, I hope not.”

           “Here, let’s just leave.”

           Predictably, the door was locked, and when we unlocked it and stepped outside, we met a man in a tan jacket just beginning to walk down the street. “Hey, woah,” he said, “What the hell were you four doing in there? I just got done closing up.”

           “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Regan. “We were doing the basement tour, and I guess maybe we lost track of time.”

           He narrowed his eyes. “What? What are you talking about?”

           “The basement thing,” I said. “You know, one of the servers took us downstairs? There was a creepy mannequin in the wall?”

           “Ma’am, I have no idea what you’re on about. What basement?”

           “I-I’m sorry,” Danielle interjected. “We’ve all had some drinks; I think we just lost track of time.”

           The manager sighed. “Alright. I guess it happens. You’re lucky I’m too tired to call the cops.” Locking up again, he started heading down the road. “Crock of shit,” he muttered.

           Cass looked at me. “What mannequin were you talking about?”

           “The one in the wall. You didn’t see it?”

           “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see anything in the wall.”

I looked back at the darkened restaurant and then down Bourbon St. My breathing got shallow again. Tangible things, I thought. Pink building. Horse’s hooves a couple streets over. Garnet shirt. Rainbow flag. Black doorway. Red cigarette tip.