The writer, a tour-guide-turned-editor, behind St. Louis Cathedral after her first ghost tour in August of 2016.
As a New Orleans tour guide for several years, when it came to ghost tours, preparing for the evenings entailed a ritual of sorts. After my day job I’d take a nap, wake up around 6 pm, and transform into a different version of myself. During my daytime tours, teaching, or writing, I’d wear cheerful colors, shorts, a Saints cap. The French Quarter at night, however, was a different animal, and all of us in the tourism industry had roles to play in the chaotic, drunken “Disney World for adults” that so many out-of-towners perceive New Orleans’ oldest neighborhood to be.
My particular transformation ritual was not a requirement certainly, but something that garnered me better tips, and a sense of having a sort of armor that let everyone I encountered alone after dark know I was not to be messed with. I’ve always liked makeup, but leading ghost tours rendered an opportunity to play with more dramatic styles than I’d ever dare to attempt in my usual day-to-day: smokey eyeshadows, razor-sharp cat-eyeliner, and deep blood-red lips. Depending on the weather, I’d reach for a high-necked, double-breasted black dress or black jeans and shirt with my signature black ankle-length Victorian riding coat over the top. My mother bought me the coat from a J. Peterman catalogue sale when I was still a young teenager and at the time I proclaimed it too dramatic, saying I’d never have an excuse to wear it. Little did I know that the unconventional profession I would step into after college would provide the perfect occasion for such a statement garment—I adored the way it billowed in the wind behind me as I walked, or whipped around my legs, adding to the air of mystery at the crux of a ghost story. I’ve worn it with such frequency, the seams are beginning to come loose.
If you’ve spent time with tour guides, or paid attention when in the Quarter during prime ghost tour hours between 6:30 pm and 9:30 pm, you’ve noticed that ghost tour guides seldom walk empty-handed. At first glance, the guides clutching umbrellas simply seem over-prepared for South Louisiana’s unpredictable weather, but when training I quickly learned the truth: It feels, and in my experience is, much safer walking alone back to your car if you have a large, metal pole slung over your shoulder. The Quarter itself is incredibly safe, with a heavy police presence protecting some of New Orleans’ greatest financial assets: its tourists. But busy nights sometimes necessitated parking along the outer walls of St. Louis Cemetery Number One, much darker and less-observed in the nighttime hours than the French Quarter’s six-by-thirteen block rectangle of relative safety.
When I first started, my staff/weapon/prop of choice was a costly black indestructible umbrella with a hooked handle that claimed to be stronger than a steel pipe. After I left that hanging from the bar at the Voodoo Lounge on Rampart Street (a favorite tour guide haunt), I purchased a heavy metal walking stick with a decorative skull on the end from Spirit’s Halloween Store. It too did the trick, not only for the implied protection, but as a walking staff and prop: it would become a bayonet, fire axe, or pointer with which to draw my guests’ attention to attics, upper-floor windows, or pot-holes in the sidewalk.
In addition to meeting people on my tours from all over the world with a penchant for the darker and more unusual side of history, the other characters in the French Quarter’s nighttime world were—and remain—a sort of dysfunctional, bizarre family. I’d stop in the notoriously-haunted Hotel Provincial’s Ice House Bar if I had a small group that wanted to grab a drink for the walk, where old-school New Orleanian bartender James would make a damn-good Pimm’s Cup or Hurricane, but understandably refused to pour a Sazerac into a plastic cup because of the effects on the whiskey. His brother, Thomas, however, who worked alternate shifts at the same bar, would make my guests a Sazerac to-go if they wanted, usually while making a comment about being more laid-back than his brother. If my group was a well-behaved few, I’d walk them through the small, atmospheric Spanish courtyard and show them the buildings at the back of the property, avoiding the disdainful gaze of the valet and tucking my tour guide license into my jacket to hide it—while I befriended the bartenders, the Provincial does not particularly embrace its haunted history.
The characters along the most popular ghost tour routes on Royal and Chartres Streets—some who played the role for the evening as I did, some who didn’t bother to change out of khaki cargo shorts, and some who were genuinely committed to embracing the spooky nature of their job as their lifestyle—are too numerous to recall. A friendly carriage driver named Kaliecia whose white mule, Claudia, was typically dressed as a Pegasus with rainbow, glittery hooves, would pass and call to my group, “Tip her well, she’s one of the best!,” even before we knew each other. An older, more established tour guide named Jack with grey hair and a deep, gravely voice suited perfectly to his profession would tell me in his signature growl, “Stay safe out there tonight,” as we passed each other. One of the most recognizable tour guides in the neighborhood, who’s persona is somewhat like a vampiric Ozzy Osbourne—complete with white-out contacts, long, sharp fingernails and teeth filed to points, eyeliner heavier than mine and long, black hair—would warn my group as he passed, “Be careful with her. I used to be normal, before I met her.” I’d usually snap back “Dad, stop embarrassing me,” or something of the sort. No matter how committed we were to our characters, we all had our lines.
Waiting on the corner for my tourists to grab another to-go drink outside of Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, the nighttime end-of-Bourbon Street crowd provided even more strange delights. My favorite was when women would compare me to Stevie Nicks in slurred speech, or a group of fraternity brothers would stumble to cross the street to avoid me, proclaiming “She’s a witch!” Or “That’s the real Hocus Pocus, right there!” (Both direct quotes.) In a more chilling moment, a local dressed very normally except for his white-out contacts approached me closely, saying he knew I was a vampire, and could tell from down the block that I was involved in the occult.
One of the more impressive street performers, who would teeter down the street on stilts dressed in a light-up demonic monster costume complete with a mouth full of sharp teeth, would often run into my group on the last couple of blocks of my route, leading up to my final story at the back of St. Louis Cathedral. We’d often pretend to have a rapport, and eventually we did, and would walk hand-in-gloved-demon-hand, making faux small-talk as my group giggled and gasped in delight behind us. I never even saw his face under the mask, but there we were in the heart of the French Quarter with the same goal: providing something spooky, something strange, something out of the ordinary to those who flock to New Orleans in search of just that.
The chaotic energy of the French Quarter on evenings surrounding Halloween is unparalleled, and it’s not only the energy of the spirits—ghosts and alcohol—that make it that way. If you venture down there this time of year, don’t forget: tip your tour guide, tip your bartender, tip your carriage driver, tip your demon. There is so much more that goes into creating that bizarre, dark, wonderful world than most realize.
Though the writer is somewhat biased, having previously worked for this company, she recommends checking out New Orleans Secrets Tours if you venture to the Quarter and are in search of an intimate and accurate tour on ghosts or another subject. French Quarter Phantoms, whose headquarters is the Voodoo Lounge; Jonathan Weiss Tours; and Free Tours By Foot have some exceptionally spooky offerings, as well.
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