Where the Veil is Thin

The liminal spaces are haunting. They follow. Each footfall leads closer to that line, the one where ghosts tread. It is dusk. Jackson Square awakening to all its infinite possibilities.

Tarot card tables are strewn along the cobbled path. Candles flicker below the rising smell of sweet incense. Accosted by a putrid scent of human refuse. Debauchery with a mix of sainthood. I like to think I lean toward goodness, but I know the sins I am capable of indulging. This is my New Orleans.

The sun slanting to the west is a foregone conclusion. The light closed out by darkness. I watch the transition as night wields its grasp. It pokes and prickles. The energy akin to limerence. Infatuation. Something sinister, but inviting. I revel in the dichotomy of the competing forces.

With the passing of day’s glow, there is also a sadness. Nostalgic. A futility. A reminder that there is no purpose.

I am waiting for my next tour group. The insufferable tourists who don’t realize I despise them. I’ll trail them through these narrow streets for a few hours, enriching them with vampire lore and pseudo-history. By the end, they will smile at one another knowingly, tipsy with drink. They will bestow gratuities like grudges.

Sitting on the iron bench, I watch solemn artists gather their unsold masterpieces. Crude revisions of Warhol and Picasso. A blend of modernity wrapped in a counterfeit Renoir. I can see the colors but not the shapes. That is until I see her.

She is walking toward me. Her hair moves blithely. A dancing movement along her shoulders. There’s a sense of connection. I’ve seen her before. Her eyes bore into me. She is looking at me and through me. And in that moment, I want nothing more than to kiss her. Strange, I tell myself. I dig my fingers into my wrist. A distraction for the inexplicable.

Nondescript is my nature. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Medium build. Average height. Use humor as a defense mechanism. Dwindling bank account, mostly due to those aforementioned sins I am privy to daily. But the ordinary is what keeps me grounded. Hidden. Unseen.

I look to the right. The path she took with her friends. She steals a glance backward. A hint of a smile. Between the growing distance, I let myself feel the weight of regret. All the moments of inaction. They pile on top of one another. Poignant and crushing.

The tour starts perfunctorily. A mom and a dad with their mismatched twins. A slender, middle-aged man, alone in his lankiness. Another couple with older kids. The annoying older kids that just hit the drinking age. And a few other pairs of souls in varying ages and ethnicities. A true microcosm.

“Good evening, folks. My name is Graham. Easy to remember,” a pause for dramatic effect, “like the crackers.”

Muffled laughter and sideways looks. It’s going to be a hard road of dry wit.

“Tonight, we are going to skirt these fabled streets and back alleyways, looking for those places where the veil is thin. Places known for passage between the living and the dead. A place where you may easily encounter a spirit. Be prepared. The French Quarter is rife with stories of blood-sucking ghouls, abject betrayal, mass murderers and apparitions that linger. If you are brave enough to flow through that sacred space, well then, let’s continue.”

I can feel the hesitancy.

We start the exploration at the former Place d’Armes. A tale of executions. Followed by a short walk and then recounting of the misdeeds wrought by Count Jacques St Germain.

“His abode on Royal Street was an early 20th century precursor to Jay Gatsby. Roaring parties of booze and decadence. A mystery figure that drew crowds. The gayety ended with an abruptness when a young lady was found beaten and incapacitated outside his residence. She later died of her injuries.”

I scan the crowd for the weakest of temperament.

“When the police went calling, the house was silent. Empty. Devoid of anything but fifty bottles of red wine. The Count was gone and the wine tasted of blood. Bitter and holding on the tongue.”

A collective shiver runs through my captive audience.

Midway, we stop at a local bar for refreshments. Fruity drinks that taste like an adult kool-aid. Rum heavy. Light and thick. I watch them drink with indifference. A habit. A way to be a part of something.

From there, we meander past La Fitte’s Blacksmith pub. An antiquity on Bourbon Street. In the throes of frivolity emanating from the entryway, I pause. A cool spring breeze passes my cheek. This is where I want to be right now. Forever.

I file them past the atrocities committed by Delphine LaLaurie. It’s a gruesome history of enslavement and torture. A true blight on our city’s fair graces. And the culmination of the evening’s horror is a quiet walk through pirate’s alley where the surreptitious veil is sparse. The road has no end. Timeless.

I walk slowly through the phantom corridor. Every time. Deliberate footsteps. There are pockets of air that feel of warmth. Others struck by a cold discord. Among the shadows are the breaths forgotten. The breaths never taken. I choke up, but regain composure. A blip of belonging.

“Graham, you’ve been just great. Loved your quips, how you know so much about the city. Would you mind if my husband took a picture of us? For the keepsake book.”

And she smiles. A smile I can’t refuse.

We wait an interminable minute while her spouse fidgets with the cell phone camera. An icy cold moves behind me, whispers along the back of my neck. I look at my new found tourist friend to see if she flinched. No acknowledgment. A shiver runs the length of my body.

Her husband is staring at the phone. The photo.

“You’ve gotta see this…”

A slight feel of panic.

We inch toward him. Uncertain. Weary.

He shows us the digital picture. It is a blending of darkness and muted light. An ethereal outline of shoulder length hair. The vacant, wanting eyes. An image that causes an audible gasp.

In the ghostly capture, I am in the middle. Flanked by his wife on my right. The same girl from the front of St Louis Cathedral on my left. The one who passed me with her friends earlier. She hovers. A faintness.

I look behind us reflexively. Searching. For nothing. The alleyway is quietly serene. The darkness sleeps.

She is gone.