“Da’ house is black juju, boy. It blacker dan da brew of a nigger witch layin’ wit da devil on da year’s longes’, blackes’ nigh’.”
Césarine “Tantsy” Rouselle

Friday afternoon, 21 August 2015

GM: In contrast to Bourbon Street’s gaudy, neon-lit sleaziness, the adjacent Royal Street is frequented by locals as well as tourists. True to its name, the historic street projects a more refined and dignified image than its northern neighbor. Visitors come here for galleries, restaurants, museums, and shopping at arts and antique stores that range from kitschy to high-end. Nearly every building seems to have a second floor wrought iron balcony railing dripping in ivy, greenery, and flowers. Street artists, buskers, and mimes still entertain picture-snapping passersby, but the homeless people and gutter punks from other parts of the Quarter are absent. Jazz drifts from fewer bars and clubs. The ones still present seem higher-class, and feel unlikely to tolerate drunks looking for a loud and riotous time that ends with someone heaving their stomach’s contents over the banquette.


Amelie’s path takes her to a three-story house built in the second-generation Creole style that is easily recognizable by its distinctive L-shape, flush position to the sidewalk, French doors, broad roofline supported by light wooden colonnettes, and generous, traditional wrought iron gallery overflowing with potted red and pink geraniums. (In southeast Louisiana, a distinction is made between “balconies”, which are self-supporting and attached to the side of the building, and “galleries,” which are supported from the ground by poles or columns.) A wooden sign hangs from the red-bricked building’s front entrance. Faded and crammed-in letters read:

Tante Lescaut’s Occult Curiosities, Horoscopes, & Palmistry

Amelie has to squint to make out the last two words below the shop’s name. They are even smaller and their paint is even more faded.

Since 1721

A more legible sign on the double French doors reads simply:

OPEN

Amelie: 1721. If the owners aren’t lying about their heritage, this building has been standing since the Treaty of Nystad. Not even the nearby cathedral is that old, and just thinking about it gives Amelie momentary vertigo. She smooths a hand over the building’s brick and wonders if it’s been replaced since it was built.

She finally collects herself and steps inside, business card in hand.

GM: A store’s telltale chiming bell sounds as Amelie pushes the door open. The smell of old books, incense, and stranger things has barely filled her nostrils before three mewing cats—one gray tabby, one orange tabby, and one calico—rub up against her legs. Further meows sound from further inside the store. It’s a dark, claustrophobic space cramped with overflowing bookshelves, ancient paint-cracked radiators, and occult knick-knacks ranging from pin-stabbed voodoo dolls to coiled, insignia-painted snake skeletons that stare at Amelie with empty eye sockets. Pentagrams, dream-catchers, and apotropaic talismans dangle from ceilings and partly obscure the doorways’ bead curtains.

Cats are everywhere. They roam over the stage prop furniture, track soiled cat litter over the floor, and crouch from perches atop bookshelves to silently watch the store’s patrons. Two felines even lie sleeping on the countertop that shares the cash register. They casually claim the whole space without regard for the dark-haired person who is also trying to use it. Amelie isn’t sure if they’re a man or a woman. They’re South Asian, look somewhere in their twenties, and are dressed in a yellow… Amelie isn’t sure what it’s called either. Some kind of Indian-looking robe or dress. They’re also bedecked in a multichromatic array of crystal- and wood-beaded bracelets, necklaces, and pendants. A red bindi stares unblinkingly from their forehead while they chat with the store’s sole customer besides Amelie: a dreadlocked, unwashed-looking woman with unshaven legs who’s dressed in a half-torn, raggedy top, patch-quilted skirt, plain sandals, and animal tooth necklace. There’s a half-stoned look to her face as she fumbles through a pentagram-emblazoned bag and produces a fistful of one-dollar bills and assorted change that the South Asian person patiently counts by hand.

Amelie: Amelie finds herself assaulted by cats and doesn’t mind in the least. She leans down to give the three felines rubbing against her legs some love and affection before she carefully steps over them towards the desk. The animal lover in her keeps on the lookout for bombays, or black cats: her favorite breed of furred micro-predators. Still, she pulls herself together enough to clearly address the person behind the desk.

“Excuse me? Is Tante in? I was invited here to see them.”

GM: Amelie can spot at least one bombay among the mass of felines, along with a dozen other breeds ranging from pale-coated Siamese to gray-furred British shorthairs. The shop’s cats vastly outnumber its human residents, whose numbers are reduced by one-third after the unkempt-looking woman takes her leave with a mumbled thanks and plain brown bag of merchandise. The smells of pot and a deodorant-free lifestyle linger in Amelie’s nose.

“Namaste,” the other person responds to Amelie, clasping their hands together in a prayer-like gesture of greeting. “I am afraid dat Tante has been dead for over two hundred years. De shop today is managed by Césarine. Are you here to see her?”

Amelie: The cat Amelie spots becomes an instant favorite, but she keeps her attention forward as the woman in front of her departs and leaves her alone with the strangely-dressed person at the desk. The East Indian greeting throws her off at first, as does the rather morbid ‘news.’

“I guess I am. I assumed it was either a title or the store was renamed,” she offers, leaning against the desk. “Can I see them, then?”

GM: “Tante Lescaut vas de founder ov de shop. She built it from noting and left so much ov herself behind. To rename it vould have been untinkably vain,” the South Asian individual explains, smiling faintly. “De shop has alvays been Tante’s and vill alvays be Tante’s.”

Amelie: Amelie nods at the statement. It makes sense the store keeps a name that old to link back to its supposed history. She also has to wonder if the original Tante also kept so many cats around, though she’s not complaining.

GM: “But yes, Césarine, she is in. Césarine!” the Indian person calls loudly, turning towards a doorway with a bead curtain. “Césarine, we have a visitor!”

“Eh? Dat a cussomer?” comes an old-sounding woman’s gumbo-thick Creole reply.

“A visitor, Césarine! Maybe a customer,” Amelie’s initial greeter calls back.

“All righ’, all righ’, one momen’…”

Amelie: The Creole accent a small tip off as to what Amelie is dealing with. She stands up straight and stands there with the card in her hand as she waits for the woman to come out.

GM: Several feline mews and the faint rustle of beads heralds the elderly proprietor’s arrival through the curtain. Her skin is lumpy all over and so black it has a purple sheen, while her hair so grayed and frizzy that it looks like half-worn S.O.S. pads. Her sunken cheekbones are struck with rouge and her upper eyelids are painted with fluorescent shades of pale lilac. She wears a blue moo-moo stitched with yellow stars, moons, and more esoteric planetary symbols, along with bifurcated librarian glasses that look plucked straight out of the 1960s. Three cats purr and circle around her spider-veined, swollen legs and sandal-beaded feet.


The old woman squints at Amelie past her glasses. “Eh? You a vis’tor, boy? Dat a cussomer or what? An’ I keep tellin ya, Bala, is’ Tantsy.” The latter remark is addressed towards the Indian person.

“Ov course, Tantsy. I suppose dat I just have a bad memory for names,” they reply with a faintly amused smile.

“Ya go’ da righ’,” Césarine or Tantsy replies to Bala before turning back to Amelie.

Amelie: Amelie stiffens just a bit when she hears the woman on the other side of the beads starting to stir. ‘Tantsy’ sounds a little ornery about things, but Amelie keeps her cool as the woman slides out from the back followed by even more cats. Maybe she’s the source of all the feline intruders. But at least Amelie learns what the woman prefers to be called.

GM: There’s a brief spark and flame from a cigarette lighter before she lifts what looks like a hand-rolled joint to her withered lips and takes a drag.

“Well g’wan, boy, cat got ya tongue?” The old woman gives a smoky, pot-smelling laugh as she bends down to scratch a black- and white-spotted feline behind its ears.

Amelie: Amelie produces the card for the woman. “Afternoon, Miss Tantsy. I was talking with a priest at the cathedral about something private, and someone put this on my back,” she explains.

“Ça a mis un peu de froid dans ma colonne vertébrale.”

(“It put a chill up my spine.”)

Her eyes flick up to see the woman’s reaction to her relaxed French. She hopes non-metro French dialects can speak more easily.

She leaves Tantsy think whatever she wants about her gender. The old woman seems to surround herself with androgynous people anyway.

GM: Tantsy squints at Amelie through her ’60s glasses. “English, boy.”

She takes the card and holds it up to the light in inspection, squinting the raisin-like flesh around her eyes still further.

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, dere some ec’oplasm on dis, I tink, ligh’ isn’ too goo’… prolly a ghos’ put it on ya, maybe Pere Antoine.”

Amelie: “I’d doubt Pere Antoine. Dead in 1829, I doubt he drinks coffee or knows what life insurance and slumber parties are. I’m more interested in what you might know about the LaLaurie House, and what whoever put this on me thinks is life-threatening.”

GM: Tantsy takes another drag of her joint, withdraws it, and waves around the lipstick-smeared article.

“Naw, naw, I joshin’ ya dat it be da father. But we see lotta ghoss’ roun’ ere who we try an’ help, maybe onea em doin’ us a good turn, sen’in’ us some bi’ness.”

Amelie: Amelie cocks a brow at that statement. Either it’s a scam or Tantsy really believes what she’s talking about.

The young woman keeps an open mind as much as she can. After all, Quebec City’s Château Frontenac isn’t just one of the most photographed hotels in the world, but supposedly one of the most haunted as well.

GM: Tantsy motions to Amelie and ambles her way over to a rickety-looking table whose surface is covered with broken candelabras and half-melted wax candles, packs of tarot cards, dried scattered tea leaves, assorted rings and necklaces, and sticks of incense. Several cats are nestled among the table’s junk and adjacent chairs. Tantsy sits down on one without glancing at its feline occupant, which gives a startled meow and awkwardly bolts from its spot.

“G’wan, boy, siddown, siddown,” Tantsy gestures. “Wha ya say ya name was?”

Amelie: Amelie takes a seat at the table as well, but is a bit more careful. She picks up whatever cat is on the seat and places it onto her lap.

“Amelie. Amelie Savard, miss.”

GM: The orange-eared calico squirms as Amelie disturbs its rest, but settles down when she sets it back down.

“Well, I be Tantsy Rouselle, an’ ya gon’ call me missus or ma’am when ya talkin’ ta me, Mistuh Sartre, I’s old ’nuff ta ave earned it,” Tantsy remarks between another drag of her lipstick-smeared joint.

Bala approaches Amelie with a tray bearing two cups of herbal-smelling dark liquid. “Vould you care for tea?”

Amelie: “Apologies, Mrs. Rouselle. I didn’t mean to offend,” she corrects, petting the cat on her lap as she nods politely to Bala. “Yes, thank you.”

She turns back to the old woman and fixes her posture slightly. “Mrs. Rouselle, you said you help ghosts? May I ask you how?”

GM: The tea smells like mint. It tastes like stale sugar and a horse’s kick to Amelie’s mouth. It’s incredibly strong.

“Oh, well, dey always go’ dings dey wanna say ta deir loved ones. I lissens ta em, an’ I translates, an’ dey move on, but sometime dey stay, I guess dey jus’ like bein dead,” Tantsy remarks over a slow sip of her own tea. If it tastes anything like Amelie’s does, the old woman doesn’t look at all perturbed.

She lays her elbow on the table and extends her hand towards Amelie, palm up. “Gimme ya han’ now, Amanda, if ya please. Ya lef’ one,” she adds, “future slumba party, n all, we gon’ read ya lef’, dat da han’ dat show pohenshul, things y’ain done yet.”

Amelie: Amelie makes a small face when the tea hits her lips. It tastes like it’s gone bad. But it’s impolite to refuse and she sips it again as she listens to Tantsy. She wants to remark that ‘Amanda’ isn’t her name either, but she lets it go. She offers her left hand to the old woman while wondering how much of this she actually believes, and how much is simply showmanship to sell her store.

“Yes, Mrs. Rouselle.”

GM: The sugar is definitely stale, but the tea itself doesn’t taste bad. Just strong. It punches Amelie bloody in the mouth and kisses her passionately to make up. She can already hear her heart loudly thumping in her ears with the second drink.

“Oh no, wai’, wai’, we gon’ do it da Chinese way,” the woman says after a moment. “Gimme ya righ’, das’ da han’ ya be afta ya grows up.”

Amelie: Amelie hates the tea by now. She doesn’t say anything, but gladly takes an excuse to put the cup down when Tantsy changes her mind. She offers her left hand without complaint.

GM: The woman takes Amelie’s hand, holds it up to the light, and squints deeply through her ’60s glasses.

“Lesse, ya life line… oh, now das’ thick an’ clear, like da Miss’ippi if it wasn’ da Miss’ippi. Haw haw! Ya good a’ sports an’ roughin’ it… oh, dis line swoops too, da’ means ya fulla energy an’ vigor, is da’ righ’, you an active boy?”

Tantsy squints harder at Amelie’s hand, runs her finger down its center as if tracing a line, and then connects her finger to the middle space between Amelie’s ring and middle fingers. A frown creases her wrinkled face.

“No, na dere… les’ try f’ a few more years.”

She drawls a line to the bottom of Amelie’s thumb that’s parallel to the first line and another thumb-span lower. She then looks up at Amelie and offers a wrinkly smile.

“Okay, goo’ news, Amanda, ya gon live ta be ‘roun eigh’y years ol’. Very full life.”

Tantsy turns Amelie’s hand slightly, as if to to get a better view under the light. Her thin white eyebrows abruptly shoot up past the frames of her glasses.

“Whoa! Oh… no… I read da’ all wrong…”

Tantsy sets down Amelie’s hand, but doesn’t release it as she quietly says, “Amanda, I’m very sorry, but ya gon’ live ta be ‘roun twenty. Cou’ be off a few years… dese lines only measure in scores. Dat means twenties. Cou’ be ya… pass pretty soon… or before ya hit forty.” She looks down at Amelie’s palm again, then back up at her. “I’m real sorry… how old’s ya now?”

Amelie: Amelie is less than impressed by Tantsy’s reading. The woman confuses her gender again and claims she’s physically active, but anyone could tell that from the thickness and muscle tension of her arm. Tantsy claims she’s going to have a full life, then suddenly takes it back when she ‘gets a better look.’ It’s not good news, but it’s probably a scare tactic. A ‘maybe you can change your fate with this trinket’ kind of scare tactic. Amelie just keeps a stony face through the entire reading.

“It’s Amelie. I’m twenty,” she states as she looks the woman across the table up and down. “Why the Chinese way? Would you get a different result other ways?”

GM: Tantsy’s lip twitches once when Amelie points out her actual name, as if to say ‘I knew that,’ but her expression remains solmen.

“Dere lotta diff’ren ways ta do it,” she says slowly. “Ya migh’ dink of it as usin’ inches or feet or meters da measure somethin’… ya get diffren’ numbers, da’ ya use for diff’ren dings, but dey measure da same space… I’m sorry, Amber, but usin’ anotha ruler won’ make ya life any longer or shorter. Cou’ migh’ tell us more abou’ why.”

Amelie: It sends a chill up Amelie’s spine when the woman’s expression remains solemn, but her face stays stoic as she nods along at Tantsy’s logic. Even if it’s for a ridiculous subject, at least it sounds like logic in the vacuum of it the store has been so far.

“I don’t think that would be wise. There’s more than a few legends about people who drove themselves to their deaths obsessing about the ‘how’ and ‘when.’”

Amelie clears her throat and takes a bracing breath before she takes another sip of the offered tea, forcing it down the best she can.

“Who knows, I may die by the hands of the LaLaurie House’s spirits. Though the reason I’m here is I’d prefer that doesn’t happen.”

GM: The tea tastes like another solid punch to Amelie’s mouth. The calico in her lap gives a wide yawn, briefly displaying its fangs. Tantsy seems to think on her statement for a moment. Lines tug across her wrinkled features.

“Prefer na happen… mmm… well, les’ look at it dis way, Amber.”

Her equally lined green-nailed hands trace Amelie’s for a moment, before she cups the younger woman’s hand in hers and holds it up to the candlelight.

“Look a’ ya skin dere, boy.”

Tantsy releases one of her hands from Amelie’s and paws through the table’s cluttered junk. The cats remain indifferent until Tantsy feels at some object underneath a large-eared tabby. “G’wan, git,” she declares as she pushes her hand beneath the sedentary feline’s belly, then abruptly lifts it up. The cat jostles up and gives her an almost undignified look before haughtily pawing its way across the table.

There’s a bright flash, meanwhile, as candlelight reflects off the cold steel of the dagger now in Tantsy’s grasp. Not a knife. A dagger.

It’s made of brass with a solid ivory handle that’s secured to the hilt by a tarnished-looking copper ring. The life-long weaponsmith identifies the secespita on sight. It was used by the priests of ancient Rome and their wives in sacrifices, she recalls. The blade would have been iron rather than true steel—and the one before her actually looks like iron too. It doesn’t look very well-cared for, Amelie assesses critically. It’s rusted. Chipped. Dull. Not something she’d want to rely on in a fight. But it can still cut.

Tantsy absently waves the sacrificial blade through the air as she continues to talk, still clutching Amelie’s hand, “Now den, Amber, wha’ happen if I gives ya han’ a goo’ nick wi’ dis ol’ thang?”

Amelie: Amelie jumps as she sees the blade but doesn’t pull her hand away. It’s strange to see a black woman using a dagger of that origin. She has to wonder how old it is.

“Secespita, Roman, ivory handle looks firm still, the blade is a mess but it’s still likely iron. You can rub the rust off if you put it to soak in a zip-lock of lemon juice for an hour,” she says, more to ease her own nerves than inform the woman holding it.

But the prospect of that old blade cutting her hand is only concerning from the standpoint of how cleanly it can cut. Jagged cuts scar. Still, curiosity keeps hold.

“Likely if you cut me with that blade, you’re making a sacrifice to something or someone, right?”

GM: The old woman slams Amelie’s hand onto the table and stabs the dagger straight into her palm.

Amelie: Alarm bells sound in Amelie’s head a second too late to save her. The young woman screams bloody murder as the knife punctures straight through her palm, slamming into the wood beneath.

“AGGGHH!”

Blood erupts from the jagged wound in her palm, her eyes flaring wide as saucers between the searing pain and suddenness of the attack. She instinctively leaps upright, sending the cat flying and digging the blade even deeper into her flesh.

Howling past the second stab of pain, she grabs the old woman’s wrist with her left hand, frighteningly tight. She looks ready to murder the old hag right there with her own dagger.

“Let—GO. NOW!!!” she bellows.

GM: The calico on Amelie’s lap yowls as her abrupt rise sends it tumbling off. She doesn’t see whether it lands on its feet. The chair hits the floor with a crack, followed a split-second later by another one from the old woman’s wrist (with an accompanied pained hiss) as Amelie pins it beneath her foot. The pair’s violent motions send assorted junk crashing off the table as cats hiss, flatten their ears, and bush their tails.

“Tantsy? Vhat vas dat?” calls Bala’s voice.

Tantsy does not answer it. She futilely strains against Amelie’s hold for a moment, her thick eyebrows bushing together past her ’60s glasses, then throws back her head and laughs.

“Haw-haw! Haw-haw! Haw-haw! Silly boy. Ya bleed. Das’ wha’ happen when I cut ya! ‘Makin’ a sacrifice’, das’ jus’ dressin’ up wha’ I’s arready done.”

Blood continues to painfully well from the dagger embedded in Amelie’s palm, red and thick against the chandelier-light. The old woman’s overlarge eyes remain riveted on that bleeding font as she cackles,

“Haw-haw! Haw-haw! Haw-haw!!!”

Amelie: The pain in Amelie’s hand is getting to be too much for her to think of anything else but ‘get it out.’ Her face still hardens. Not into a grimace, but a slack expression that shows the old woman nothing but cold stone as she laughs and haws. Stabbing the woman back in her own hand crosses Amelie’s mind more than a little, but it’s been a long day. Too long. Still, there’s a strangely calm and oddly warm sensation in her gut at the situation.

She reaches down with both hands to pry the old woman’s fingers off the dagger. Her foot moves just enough to press her attacker’s hand and not wrist under its newly-purchased sole as she curls her own hand around the secespita and pulls.

The dagger’s slightest movement finally breaks the shock that was keeping her from screaming. Her stone-like expression crumbles as she grits her teeth and her eyes start to well. It feels like someone is pulling her nerves out of her skin with dental floss and playing them as a morbid instrument.

“Ba—Bay—Bala! Get the fuck in here!!!” she yells in a raw and pained voice as backs away from the table, ready to kick the old crone if she gets too close.

“You stabbed me right through the hand, you senile cunt! This rusted hunk of shit will rip out my fucking tendons, and you just STABBED me with it!? What were you planning for afterwards?! The Romans made an incision above the elbow pit to blood-let, you didn’t even use the right cunt-forsaken knife!!!”

“Ta mère est une prostituée qui suce les animaux de la ferme. Ton père est baisé dans le cul par des marins pour gagner sa vie. Vos frères et sœurs vous ont baisé comme un bébé pour lubrifier votre trou du cul pour quand il rentrait à la maison!”

(“Your mother is a whore who sucks off farm animals. Your father is fucked in the ass by sailors for a living. Your siblings fucked you as an infant to lube your asshole for when he got home!”)

GM: Tantsy cackles dementedly. Flecks of spittle fly from the rim of her brightly lipsticked mouth. “Haw-haw! Haw-haw! Haw-haw-haw!!! Ya din’ ‘spec’ me ta stab ya, now di’ ya? I’s a harmless ol’ lady, isn’ I? Now wha’ on earth make ya dink a housea ghosts gon’ be any safer, ya silly boy?”

Amelie makes out footsteps sounding from deeper within the shop. They’re followed by an abrupt crash.

“Hell, I even ask ya, ‘wha’ happens if I stab ya!’ Haw-haw! Haw-haw!” the old woman laughs on. “Ya go’ ya head in da clouds! Say ya stab my han’ ta get even, Amber, den stick it in shi’, jus’ f’ lagniappe, an’ don’ lemme wash it. What happens den?”

Amelie: “WHO has their heads in the clouds!? And what happens when the police come asking why you STABBED me in the fucking hand just to give me some bullshit about festering wounds!?” Amelie barks. She strides into the other room to look for the assistant, following the crashing sounds.

GM: Several more “haw-haws!” follow Amelie past the bead curtain. The room on the other side is cluttered with an equally haphazard collection of junk and occult bric-a-bric. One of the bookshelves is tipped over. Just behind it, past the scattered books and mewing cats, Amelie can make out a motionless human arm. Several cats listlessly circle around it.

Amelie: Amelie groans, holds her wounded hand palm up, and carefully balances the embedded knife as she grips the bookcase with good hand. She uses it and her leg to slowly pull the heavy furniture off of the East Indian cashier. It’s a difficult job with just one hand, but she rights the bookcase completely straight and holds it there in case it tries to tip again.

“Hey! Hey, are you okay!? Don’t make me witness my first death by literature! Get up!”

GM: Blood continues to leak from the dagger embedded in Amelie’s palm. Each grunt, push, and jostle with her good hand feels like someone is twisting a hot brand against her bad one. Several books tumble from the shelves as she hoists the case back up. Bala lies underneath it and does not stir or respond.

Amelie: Dyke they call her. Dyke dyke dyke like unimaginative parrots. But a working woman knows what that kind of pain is like. She shrinks her arm against her chest as she kneels and tosses books aside to get a clearer view of Bala’s face.

“BALA! Wake the FUCK up!” she yells.

GM: More cats mew and scatter at the tossed books. Bala’s face looks uninjured, so far as Amelie can tell, but neither do they respond to her entreaties.

Then, there’s a sudden jolt of pain in Amelie’s throbbing wrist. The young woman is yanked up and all but slammed against the wall. Her vision starts to swim.

“Fool boy!” Tantsy bellows. Her once-sleepy eyes are bulding and livid even behind her glasses. “Look what ya gone an’ done!”

Amelie: Amelie was about to reach for her phone until a new gut-wrenching surge of pain makes her eyes cross. It’s only when she feels the wall slam against her back that a familiar feeling strikes again. That rising wave of fury behind her eyelids pushes at her to feed this old woman her own teeth.

“YOU did this, you old bag! Who isn’t going to scream out when you STAB them!!! Stop hawwing like a donkey lunatic and call a fucking ambulance!”

GM: “I’ll tell ya what happen, I stick ya han’ in shi’!” Tantsy screams. Spittle flies in Amelie’s face from gnashing yellow teeth.

“It FESTER! Why, I stick ya han’ in dere long ‘nough—doctors gon’ chop it OFF!”

The old woman seizes Amelie’s injured, bleeding hand and dashes it against the wall. The sudden impact jostles the embedded dagger agonizingly free. Blood messily spurts over both women’s clothes.

“Maybe dey DON’ chop it off! Maybe dey leave it on ta FUCK YA, an’ it FESTER!” Tantsy screams and raves as Amelie’s blood drips down her face. “Turn green an’ smell an’ make ya DIE! Unnatural! Unnatural! Dere ain’ NO PLACE in nature ya cut ya han’ an’ keep it STUCK IN SHI’!”

Amelie: Amelie gets it again. That cold feeling.

Her good hand snatches out to catch the dagger’s familiar handle as it drops. She grunts, struggles against her attacker’s hold, and tries to get some proper footing as she starts to take this conflict seriously. If the old crone wants a knife fight, she’ll get one.

GM: There’s another jolt of pain as Tantsy smashes Amelie’s so-tender hand against the wall, once, twice, three times. The dagger’s hilt strikes the toe of her sneaker as the blade clatters against the floor. Sweat beads the old woman’s brow and trickles down the spattered blood already there as she screams into Amelie’s face,

“DA WORLD! World be YA SKIN! Lined! Ugly! OKAY! Even da par’s da’ CUT! Scar over, heal up goo’!”

Amelie: Amelie’s gut turns as the knife hits her shoe. Her cold resolve to stab an old lady shatters into another held-in scream of pain as her already hurt hand gets abused again. She needs t-

GM: “Das’ natural! NATURAL!” The old woman cackles dementedly. Lipstick-hued spittle leaks from the corners of her animated mouth. “Haw-haw! Natural! Haw-haw! HAW-HAW! HAW-HAW!”

“Dere par’s!” she exclaims, shoving her face into Amelie’s, so close their noses brush. The bleeding youth can feel Tantsy’s pendulous, wrinkled breasts pressing against hers. “Par’s da been STABBED! Dat been hel’ in SHIT! Turned green! Fes’ered! DIED! Doctors can’ chop ‘em off! OFF! Oh no! Oh no! NO! Dey infected! DEY do da choppin’! Chop up da people da’ go in! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP!”

Tantsy’s voice drops to a whisper. Almost intimate. Amelie feels the old woman’s rancid, pot-laced breath against her face with every word.

“Da’ house is black juju, boy. It blacker dan da brew of a nigger witch layin’ wit da devil on da year’s longes’, blackes’ nigh’.”

Tantsy suddenly chokes, convulses, and tosses back her head as she lets out a half-strangled shriek that sends cats scattering as she tosses back her head. Her glasses fly off.

The face that whips back towards Amelie looks like a stranger’s. The eyes are huge, bulging, and bloodshot. The veins throb and look about to rupture as the woman screams, bloody sweat running down her lined face and spittle-flecked lips,

“Si vous appréciez votre vie, Amélie Savard—N’ALLEZ PAS DANS CETTE MAISON!”

(“If you value your life, Amelie Savard—DO NOT GO INTO THAT HOUSE!”)

Then, motion. Pained throbbing from her hand. Rough hands at her back. Her feet barely feel like they’re touching the ground as cats hiss and yowl—and the store’s front door rushes to meet Amelie’s face.

Amelie: Amelie watches what can only be one of two things. Some awful parlor trick, or an actual ghost screaming in her face.

She clenches her hand as she curses and hisses in pain. A tear rolls down her cheek as the crone manhandles her. The blood loss is already making her worried. What if she can’t work with her hand anymore? What if she loses it?

She gets the point. She got the point back after the comment about shit on the knife. She isn’t an idiot.
And Tantsy still punctuated it with this gratuitous attack, this bullshit cruelty. She struggles for a moment to find her voice.

“I just came… to ask questions! I didn’t disrespect you or spit in your face, and you did this! People—ow, fuck! People have been in and out of the LaLaurie House for years without dying! It was a bar and restaurant at points, for fuck’s sake! There has to be some safe way to just look inside for a few hours!”

GM: A thunderously slammed door is the only response Amelie receives as she’s all but hurled out of the shop.

CLOSED, reads the sign by the window.

Amelie: Amelie almost steps back towards the shop when she feels a cold prick at the base of her spine. Her hand hurts more and more, and the adrenaline from the fight is already wearing off.

She lets out a low hiss as she fishes her phone out of her pocket with her right hand, clamps her left hand in her elbow pit, and calls her aunt as she puts pressure on the hand. She squats a block away from the store and holds back tears while the phone rings and she bleeds onto the pavement.

GM: “Hello, Amelie? Is everything all right?” her aunt asks in a mildly surprised tone. This is the first time they’ve actually spoken over the phone instead of texting, at least in the States.

Amelie: Amelie can barely speak. Her teeth grit as she watches the dripping blood ruin her pant leg. “No. I-” she pauses to hiss in effort and takes a breath. Short sentences are all she can manage. “I was stabbed. I’m bleeding a lot. My hand.”

GM: There’s a pause, but it’s not for overly long before her aunt replies, “Press your hand with something to apply pressure and slow bleeding. We need to get you to an emergency room. If you need immediate treatment, you can call 911, but ambulance response times are shit in this city. How badly are you bleeding?”

Amelie: Amelie has cut herself more than once, but never worse than a belt sander snapping and cutting into her bicep. The mess makes it hard to tell. It’s a jagged wound, but not ugly enough to make her think she’s going to die.

“6/10. Won’t kill me. Rusty knife though. Jagged. Already putting pressure,” she wheezes, flexing her arm tighter to keep up that pressure. She manages to squeak out the address as well.

GM: “Good thinking. Keep that up,” her aunt says firmly. Amelie hears some indistinct noises in the background as Christina raises her voice. “Can you hail a Ryde and meet me at the Tulane Medical Center ER, or do you want me to pick you up? That second option may take longer.”

Amelie: Amelie shakes her head and lets out another little hiss. “Ryde uses—fuck… me. Personal cars. Might get turned down… for bleeding,” she stammers out, slowly standing up. “Should I risk it? Or get on… main road for you?”

GM: “Personal cars. That’s a good point. Okay, sit down and stay where you are. I will be there as soon as I can. All right?”

Amelie: Amelie slowly moves her feet, feeling more than a little woozy as she does. “I walked. I’m by… wait, it’s-” there’s a small pause as her aunt hears a defeated chuckle on the other end of the line.

“Cafe Amelie. I’m at Cafe Amelie.”

The young woman slumps against the wall and slides down it. She sits and bleeds over the sidewalk like the ending shot from a shitty film noir.

GM: “You’re at Cafe Amelie.” Her aunt’s voice finally breaks at those words, and sounds halfway between a sniffle and smile. “All… right. Keep up that level head.” Her next words tighten. “If you see any police, stand up and fiddle on your phone so you look at least somewhat affluent. I’m getting in my car now, so I have to hang up. I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

Amelie: Amelie nods, then remembers her aunt can’t hear that over the phone. “Yeah. Soon.”

She does as she’s asked and maintains the pressure on her hand while she sits and waits. She already doesn’t trust the police and hopes they avoid her.

GM: Cafe Amelie looks like a nice enough place to have lunch. Patrons eat and converse in an open-air, greenery-filled courtyard. The building itself resembles the shop from which Amelie was only just expelled, with a Spanish-style wrought-iron gallery overflowing with plants. A bubbling fountain sounds from just outside.


Few patrons can likely make out Amelie from behind the courtyard’s brick wall while she’s sitting. Her bloody appearances draws more than a few stares and remarks from others passersby, ranging from “the hell happened to you?” to “someone should call the cops.” In contrast to her native Quebec, random strangers appear amply willing to express their opinions aloud or strike up conversations on the street.

Amelie: Nosy cunts is about all the brainpower Amelie spares to think about the people who pass by. None of them actually stop to offer help, so fuck ’em.

She waves at the bystanders who linger with her good hand, cites “The Fences got me,” and then waves them off. She seals the ‘nothing to see here’ impression with a friendly smile.

GM: Amelie endures perhaps ten or fifteen minutes of waiting before she spots Christina among the passersby, dressed in a navy skirtsuit and blazer. Her aunt makes a beeline when she sees her, gets down to her knees, and strips off the blazer to wrap around Amelie’s injured arm. If her eyes widen at the sight, it’s only for a moment before her jaw hardens.

Amelie: Amelie pulls away and gives an almost awkwardly pained hiss as her aunt starts to strip off what has to be an expensive piece of clothing. “No no no, not the blazer,” she whines.

GM: Christina does not appear to be overly concerned for the blazer as she wraps one of the sleeves taut around Amelie’s still-bleeding hand as an impromptu bandage.

“How badly does it hurt?” she asks.

Amelie: Amelie feels a deep pang in her chest when her aunt ruins the blazer to get a bandage on her hand. “More than a hangnail, less than a stubbed toe. Starting to—nnfuck. Feelin’ pretty damn dizzy. Let my outfit soak it up, let’s get going.”

GM: Amelie’s aunt helps her up and shepherds her into the passenger seat of a silver-gray Subaru Legacy car. Cafe Amelie’s brick walls recede past in the window.

Amelie: Amelie stumbles up into the car with her aunt’s help and then just rests her. Her outfit is a mess. There’s flecks of red on her face and her covered hand is soaked in fresh and dried blood alike. But she’s alive.

GM: “It looks like the worst is over,” Christina remarks, sparing another glance for Amelie’s hand. “All we need to do now is get you checked into the ER. Good job staying calm and good thinking calling me.”

Amelie: “Hopefully my hand makes a full recovery. And thank you. I’ve been hurt a lot, it’s rote at this point.” There’s a small pause before she speaks again. “I’m sorry for interrupting your job.”

GM: “Don’t worry about the job. But we’ll take it as a good sign that you’re feeling clear-headed enough to be worried.” Her aunt stares back towards the road as streets roll past. “Now, how did you get stabbed?”

Amelie: Amelie can’t help but dread the answer. “I went to the cathedral to ask about ghosts, was refuted on their existence by the Catholic Church, and had a card for an occult shop slipped into my belongings. I went, told her about the LaLaurie House, she read my palm, and then stabbed my hand with a dagger screaming about it being a festering wound on the world and how I’ll die if I step foot into it.”

GM: Christina doesn’t stop to blink at the half-coherent explanation while she’s driving, but there’s at least one blink in the sound of her voice. “I’m sorry, Amelie?”

Amelie: “Yeah. She was… insane, and old. Which is why I didn’t call the cops. Also because of… another incident I had today.”

GM: “All right, if the staff at Tulane asks any questions, keep the story simple and tell them you were stabbed by a mentally ill person. Don’t talk about any of those… other details.”

Amelie: “That was the plan. Last thing I need is the mental health ward right now.” Amelie hisses a bit as she adjusts her seating.

GM: “You probably won’t be looking at the mental health ward. But hospitals in Louisiana are required to report gunshot wounds to the police, and a stab wound like this could also draw questions. So keep your explanation simple and plausible. Did this person also want money from you? Were you in a bad part of town?”

Amelie: “No, and maybe. I was just off Jackson Square, and she was reading palms. I thought I’d give it a try, like a dumb tourist, and she produced a knife and stabbed my hand. How’s that?”

GM: Her aunt frowns deeply, but then simply says, “All right, there are some sketchy people there. A mentally ill person offered to read your palm, got upset over something you said, and stabbed you. You managed to get away and call me. Can you remember that?”

Amelie: “Like a modern major general,” is all she can muster, eyes closed as she rests her head. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

GM: “I’m sorrier that you were stabbed by a lunatic.”

Amelie: “Could have been worse. Could have been extorted by a police officer working with a pickpocket.” Amelie lifts her head, eyes not open, but brows raised. “Oh wait.”

GM: Her aunt’s frown deepens. “Did this cop also hurt you? Did you say anything to him?”

Amelie: “Threatened me a lot. Scared me a bit. I was nothing but respectful. He had my ID, and I managed to convince him I was poor and just got a scholarship to a private school. He took 100 bucks. Case closed.”

GM: Christina slowly takes that in before responding, “All right, he only took some money. That’s good. I should have talked to you about this earlier, but you shouldn’t ever speak to the police around here, not if you can avoid it. They’re thugs with badges. The whole department is completely corrupt.”

Amelie: “Yeah, I get that now… I should start carrying a self-defense weapon or something.”

GM: “You don’t ever want to attack the police, Amelie,” her aunt quickly replies. “If a cop talks to you, ask if you’re being detained or under arrest. If they say yes, tell them you want a lawyer. No matter what they say to you, be a broken record and don’t respond with anything except those five words. ‘I want a lawyer.’ Got that?”

Amelie: Amelie actually lets out a little chuckle. “No, no, I don’t mean—I’m not going to stab a cop. I mean so I can defend myself better without calling them.” The jostle makes her grimace a little, but her expression settles back after a moment. “I want a lawyer.”

GM: “That’s right,” Christina answers approvingly, but the look passes as quickly as the onrushing traffic. “And you’re right that we can’t let this happen again.” Her hands clench around the wheel. “You said you met that lunatic from ‘a card?’”

The old Spanish- and French-style buildings with those floral-lined galleries that are so distinctive to New Orleans have receded by now. Brutal glass and steel monoliths, the same unfirmly gray skyscrapers one can find in any city, jut above the traffic in their place. Tulane Medical Center is an interconnected series of brown-bricked, box-like buildings with a skywalk that passes just over the street. The hospital’s name is printed on its side in blocky white letters.


Amelie: Amelie explains the situation as they drive. The card, its written message, the store, the stabbing. Everything but the old woman’s sudden French and that wailing scream from beyond the grave. She grimaces slightly as they roll up to the hospital and mentally readies herself for a six-hour wait.

GM: Christina listens intently and tells Amelie to text her if she finds herself in a suspicious situation like that again—which finding cards with strange messages on her person certainly falls under. The people behind it could have wanted to rob her, rape her, murder her, or who knows what.

“New Orleans is not a safe city,” her aunt declares emphatically. “If you’re ever unsure about a person or situation, text me. Or call me. If you want to snort cocaine, hire a gigolo, get an abortion, or whatever else, I won’t stop or judge you. I will only tell you how safe I believe it is. Beyond that, how much you want me involved in your life is your choice. I would much rather you feel able to come to me for help than feel it necessary to hide things.”

Christina’s gaze seems to notably linger on Amelie at the story’s ‘abbreviated’ ending, but her aunt says nothing further as she parks their car in a disabled persons spot.


Amelie: Amelie feels more than a little guilty at that statement. ‘Necessary to hide things.’ She makes a face like she’s got a sudden lurch in her stomach and shakes her head, unable to keep up the lie.

“You’re going to think I’m insane,” she starts. “When she had me up against that wall, and the knife popped out…? I don’t know what kind of trick she used. Her eyes bugged out and went white, and she screamed in my face in French, not to go into that house. It scared me. Especially after being hurt, and all the ghost talk beforehand.”

GM: “That’s probably exactly what she was trying to do,” Christina remarks as she helps Amelie out and shuts the car door. Her heels click against the pavement as she takes Amelie’s bleeding arm in hers and applies further pressure as they briskly stride towards the sliding ER doors.

“There are a lot of psychics, fortune-tellers, and what have you around the Quarter who are very good at showmanship. There are a lot of tourists, too, who come to New Orleans expecting to see strange things—and Orleanians who believe in strange things. They all get fleeced for everything they’re worth.”

Amelie: Amelie feels silly and nods along with her aunt as she tries to keep her legs moving forward. Her body feels sluggish, but she’s glad she can at least keep step.

“I didn’t want you to think I was crazy or traumatized or something stupid, or that I bought it hook line and sinker. I’m not a good liar and I shouldn’t have tried.”

GM: Christina pulls Amelie aside to avoid several EMTs wheeling in a comatose, blood-spattered dark-skinned man on a stretcher and respirator.

“…how do you starve a black guy? Put their food stamp under their work boots,” one of the black-uniformed personnel quips.

“That’s not nice,” his homely-looking partner says back.

“Don’t you still live with your mom, Abby?”

Amelie: Amelie lets out a small sigh through her nose as she glances down at the man being wheeled in. It seems like black people are the race that gets pressed underfoot here instead of Native Americans.

She groans a bit and stands up straighter as the pressure starts to make her hand sore.

“I wasn’t going to give that crazy bitch any money, anyway. I was going to get a few words for the paper and leave.”

GM: “I don’t think you would have given her money, and I don’t think you were crazy. I think someone took advantage of what you were hoping to see, then badly scared you after she stabbed your hand,” Christina replies as she helps Amelie past the threshold of the sliding ER doors. The inside waiting room is jam-packed with people in various states of discomfort but almost universal discontent. Some looked pained. Some look bored. More than a few appear to suffer from a peculiarly malaisful combination of both.

An overworked-looking triage nurse with bags under her eyes asks the pair the reason for their visit and quizzes Amelie about her medical history and any over-the-counter or prescription medications she is currently taking, along with any allergies she might have. The nurse then measures Amelie’s temperature, blood pressure, and other vital signs.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t exactly like the tests. She grits her teeth and lets out some less-than-ladylike noises and mutterings about her hand. Nurses are worth her holding her tongue around, though, and every second word is a “sorry” or “thank you” until she’s told to go sit down and wait.

GM: The nurse barely seems to register Amelie’s thanks or apologies. Her heavy eyes have already moved past the pair as she concludes, “Not urgent. Go take a seat in the waiting-”

“She’s an artist with a probable tendon injury,” Christina interrupts sharply. “I am an attorney and prepared to file suit against Tulane Medical Center if your malpractice costs her-”

“Urgent but not life-threatening,” the nurse interrupts back with a look that’s half-glare, half-placation, and wholly resentful. Her brow then furrows at Amelie. “Where did you get this?”

Amelie: Her aunt’s reaction is something of a surprise, but the nurse’s question makes Amelie look back towards her. “Off Jackson Square. I got my… my palm read by some lady. I was being a stupid tourist. She was crazy. She grabbed my hand and stabbed it with an old weird knife.”

The realization starts to gnaw at her again after her aunt’s words. She can feel a dull panic slowly building in her chest as she wonders if she’ll be able to use both hands at the forge again. Her voice falters as she awkwardly presses the wound and asks, “Is my hand going to be normal after this..?”

GM: “Other patients are waiting,” the nurse replies tersely while making a shooing motion.

Amelie: Amelie carefully pulls her aunt’s blazer off her hand and shows the nurse the open wound. She’s starting to sound a bit scared. “Ma’am, the blade was rusty and filthy… please, can you just take a quick look and tell me if you can save it?”

GM: “Get out before I call security,” the nurse replies in an even terser voice.

Amelie: Amelie frowns and nods, slowly standing up and re-wrapping, turning to follow her aunt to the waiting room.

GM: Christina directs an exceedingly stony look at the nurse, but does not press the matter any further as she leads Amelie back into the waiting room.

“You may not have a serious tendon injury. I only said that to get you faster care,” she explains once they’re out of earshot.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t quite buy it. She looks for a place to sit down and nurse her hand on her lap. “A rusty blade is more dangerous than a clean one in the long term. At this point, I’m just holding my breath.”

The young woman takes a deep breath to steady herself despite her doomsaying. “If I lose the ability to use this hand properly… I’ll find a way around it for my work. It’ll be okay.”

GM: “Let’s worry for now about getting that hand treated properly,” her aunt replies as she leads Amelie up to the registration desk. The glasses-wearing woman on the other side barely glances up from her computer screen as she robotically asks for Amelie’s name, gender, date of birth, mailing address, name of primary care doctor, the medical reason for her visit, and how she got her stab wound. They get through ‘date of birth’ before Christina interrupts the receptionist to tell Amelie, “You go find somewhere to sit down. I’ll take care of the rest of this.”

Amelie: Amelie is surprised again by her aunt’s sudden cut-in. She nods thankfully, though, as she cradles her arm and looks around for a chair to slump down in. The blood loss has officially given her a headache. She watches her aunt through squinted lids in case she’s motioned back up.

GM: The ER is absolutely packed. Finding an open seat takes Amelie some time, and takes her past a melange of waiting patients. A young woman groans and massages a deeply reddened ankle while a closely-aged man next to her mouths assurances. A dreadlocked man with an incredibly ripe stench groans loudly about how much pain he’s in. Someone nearby snaps that he isn’t sick and is wasting everyone’s time. In another seat, a crying middle-aged woman rocks back and forth with a droopy-eyed child she hugs to her breast. Even the spaces between seats are occupied. Amelie observes a bearded old man walking up and down the aisle with a bible and rosary, steadily chanting, “Heal me, O Lord, and I will be healed; save me and I will be saved, for You are the one I praise…”

“How fucking long are you gonna go on with that?!” screeches a black-eyed woman from a nearby chair.

The old man only continues to walk down the aisle and chant, “Heal me, O Lord, and I will be healed; save me and I will be saved, for You are the one I praise…”

“Mom, I’m really thirsty…” groans another voice.

“I’m sorry, honey, but you heard them say to limit your fluid intake until the doctors get a look.”

Amelie: Amelie eventually just stands in place and leaves the seats to more sickly and injured people as she watches the chaos unfold. She feels bad how her aunt strong-armed the hospital. She wishes she could fix the child and the dreadlocked man in the same way she could weld bad pieces of steel back together.

One of the last voices makes her ear prick up, though. She’s heard this girl at McGehee. She decides to approach after a moment of consideration perhaps addled by blood loss, and offers the teenager a small gimped wave with her good hand.

“Excuse me. You’re Hannah, right?”

GM: The girl in question looks a few years younger than Amelie, like most students at McGehee do. She has a wide face, firm nose, prominent eyebrows, and mid-back-length brown hair that’s streaked through with blonde towards the ends. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved gray tee and pair of blue jeans instead of the standard McGehee uniform.


Her eyes are half-lidded and look exhausted as she leans against the shoulder of a 40- or 50-something woman with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and a narrower face and nose. The older woman is dressed in a low-necked black shirt, tan slacks, and looks in a great deal less discomfort. Physically, at least.


She frowns at Amelie’s address. “I’m sorry, do we know you from somewhere?”

Amelie: Amelie gives Hannah a sorry smile before looking towards the mother addressing her. “Yes, sorry. I’m Amelie Savard, a senior at our school. We haven’t really met before, but I have Mrs. Flores’ ballroom dance class with Hannah.”

GM: “Ah. I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time.” The woman shakes her head as if to clear it, then extends a hand. “Monica Burroughs. You probably guessed I’m Hannah’s mom.”

Amelie: Amelie respectfully declines the handshake as she holds up her good hand to show how it’s also coated in blood.

“It’s very nice to meet you, I’m sorry about the hand,” she says before looking back towards Hannah. Her classmate is in a really really bad way it seems. Maybe something with her stomach, from what she said earlier?

GM: “Oh, don’t be. It’s-”

Monica is interrupted, though, as Hannah gives Amelie a bleary look. “You’re the… girl who Mrs. Flores had stay after class.”

Amelie: “Yeah, that’s me. She wanted me to practice following, since I lead all class.” Amelie keeps her voice a bit softer as she speaks to Hannah. She tries to keep her head in one piece if she has a headache too. “You look so sick. I hope it’s not too painful.”

GM: Hannah gives Amelie another half-focused look.

“It’s dehydration,” her mom says. “Killer in this weather.”

Amelie: Amelie nods and remembers her aunt’s talks about how hot and humid the city’s subtropical climate is. The humidity has yet to slow her down, but the heat and sun definitely have. She gives Hannah a worried look all the same.

“Absolutely. I’m not even from the States,” she admits, “so I’ve had the whole scary talk about dehydration.”

GM: “Say, do you want my seat? You’re not about to bleed out, are you?” Monica asks.

Amelie: Amelie shakes her head at the offer. “You stay, ma’am, I’m just fine standing. Hannah looks like she could use her mom anyway.”

She shifts on a leg, turns, and looks to see how her aunt is doing at the reception area. She hopes she doesn’t have a book of city bylaws open in front of the poor desk lady.

GM: Amelie can make out her aunt offering what looks like an insurance card. The desk lady looks far from poor, however, as Christina covertly slides over a number of green bills.

“All right, if you’re sure,” Monica answers. “You looking for someone?” she asks as she sees Amelie look towards the desk.

Hannah gives a soft moan and shifts against her mom’s shoulder.

Amelie: Amelie frowns slightly. It looks as if she’s about to get called on, but she’s not sure how fair that is to the other people in the waiting room.

“Just looking to see how my aunt is. I should leave you be, though. Hannah looks like she’d appreciate a bit of quiet.”

GM: Monica glances at her daughter. “Yes, thanks. One thing, I’m sorry if this seems forward of me. But are you…?” she makes a motion towards Amelie’s hair.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t’ skip a beat. “Gay?”

GM: “Yes, gay,” the teenager’s mother nods.

Hannah’s eyes crack back open as she gives a muffled yell of, “Mom!”

Amelie: Amelie manages a weak chuckle at Hannah’s reaction. “Everyone assumes, I’m not offended. I cut my hair this short because I grew up around metalworking. Eventually you get tired of your hair catching on fire,” she says without exactly answering the question.

GM: “Oh, really? That does make a lot of sense,” Monica says. “I’m sorry to put you on the spot like that, it was just after this recent fuss over a queer alliance club at McGehee, and…”

“I’m in the ER and you’re still embarrassing me?” Hannah croaks.

Amelie: Amelie smiles and looks at Hannah. She tries to put on a calm and understanding face. “Hannah, you were the one who tried to start it, right?”

GM: Hannah gives an unfocused frown that seems equally split between Amelie, her mother, and the universe at large. “No, that was Leslie…”

“She’s a friend of Hannah’s,” her mom fills in. “I just thought you might have been a friend of hers, given… well, the hair.”

Hannah groans. “Mom, it’s just… a haircut…”

Amelie: “If it wasn’t the haircut, it would be the size of my arms, or all my scars, or my height, or just my attitude. I keep my actual preferences quiet, but I’m getting used to the assumption. People here are more vocal than I’m used to.”

GM: “Are you from France? They’re definitely a lot more reserved in Europe,” Monica agrees. “You know, there are some other girls from France going to McGehee,” she remarks thoughtfully. “I don’t know if you’ve met? You’re new, I know that, practically all the families with kids at the school know each other. They’re the Devillers, anyway, and a very nice family. Which is a good thing, since you would not believe how many of them there are. How many girls do they have, Hannah, eight?”

“‘I don’t believe in birth control’ many,” Hannah mumbles.

Her mom laughs.

Amelie: Amelie lets out a snicker at Hannah’s comment. It hurts more than a little, but she steadies herself with a few breaths. “Oooh, my. No, ma’am, I’m from Canada. Quebec, to be specific. But I do know the Devillers, yes. I’m partnered with one for my New Orleans history class, actually!”

GM: “Quebec, how silly of me. And oh really? Hannah’s taking that for fifth period with Ms. Perry. She’s very friendly and does a good job keeping the class interesting, from what Hannah tells me. They’re doing this project right now for ghost stories—she says there was a vote between that and historic buildings-”

“Which as many people vote for as Jill Stein,” Hannah mumbles.

“-yes, it sounds like that option wins every time, Ms. Perry could maybe make them more competitive,” Monica remarks.

Amelie: Amelie slowly nods and sighs as she looks down at her hand. “I was out doing research for that project today, actually. That’s what I was doing when this happened. New Orleans is a scary place when you aren’t careful.”

GM: “Oh, you poor thing, I’m so sorry to hear that! Hopefully it doesn’t turn you off to the city, people here can be very welcoming. You just have to know what parts of town to avoid. It’s tricky because the bad areas run right up next to the safe ones.”

Amelie: “It’s not enough to turn me off to the city. It was me being a dumb tourist is all. I’ll be more careful from now on. I still have research to do, after all.”

GM: “That’s good to hear. So what’s it you’re doing for your project? There’s really so many ghosts to pick from…”

Hannah gives another moan. Monica pulls out her phone at glances at the screen. “Okay, good news, it’s been five minutes. Now remember, just a little sip…” she says as she extends a water bottle toward her daughter.

Hannah weakly grasps at it and takes a glug before her mom gently but firmly pulls it back away. She groans again, “I’m thirsty…”

“I know, Hannah, but you remember what the last times were like?” Her brow furrows. “You can’t keep doi…”

Hannah cuts her off with a particularly loud sigh, re-closes her eyes, and leans back her head.

“Five minutes, honey, I’ve got the timer on,” Monica says. She taps the phone several times and tucks it back away. “Until then or whenever the doctor sees us…”

“Yeah, by the time Strong reforms the queer club so she can ask Amelie out…” Hannah croaks.

Monica gives Amelie a ‘you know how it is’ smile. “I’m sorry about that. Blame the heat.”

Amelie: Amelie is about to answer Hannah’s mom’s question before she gets another sip of liquid to help pull her body back from the state it’s in. The exchange afterwards, including the jab, makes Amelie smile. Hannah is a little catty. It makes talking with her kinda fun.

“Don’t be sorry, I’d be saying worse things in her state,” she assures her classmate’s mother.

She looks back towards the front desk again to see where her aunt is.

GM: She sees Christina waiting near the reception desk, arms folded and watching her. Other patients are talking to the receptionist. When Amelie makes eye contact, her aunt nods towards a hallway leading out of the waiting room.

Amelie: Amelie nods and turns back. “Excuse me, my aunt is calling me. It was nice to meet you both. I hope I see you in school Monday, Hannah. I’m sorry you’re so sick.” She excuses herself again with a small wave of her good hand and retreats to her aunt’s side.

GM: “Bye…” Hannah grogs.

“It was nice meeting you, Amelie. Get better soon,” her mom adds.

Christina, meanwhile, flags down a nurse and says something about it being “their turn.” The nurse leads them out of the waiting room.

“We’ll still have to wait a little for a doctor, but you’ll at least get to lie down somewhere quiet,” her aunt remarks as they proceed down a hallway. The waiting room’s noise fades to a low din.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t say anything as she lets her aunt lead her down the hall. She doesn’t want to tip off the nurse as to any improvement in her condition. The promise of a quiet room sounds like a dream come true, however, as does finally seeing a doctor.

GM: The nurse leads the pair into an exam room with a bed to lie down on and an adjacent chair. An oxygen tank, tubing, and other medical equipment sit nearby. The nurse attaches a device that resembles a small smartphone to a band around Amelie’s wrist, then fixes it to a cord that connects it to some of the machines.

“A doctor will be with you soon,” the nurse states, then exits through the door. Amelie and her aunt are left alone in the silent room.

Amelie: Amelie lies on the table and shuts her eyes as soon as the door closes, then finally exhales and lets herself relax.

“You really didn’t need to do that, Auntie. With the reception lady?”

GM: “I think I did,” her aunt replies. “You could have been waiting out there for hours.”

Amelie: “Isn’t that normal? I’ve been in a lot of hospital waiting rooms.”

GM: “Yes, it is normal,” Christina answers.

Amelie: Amelie lets out a small sigh of defeat. “Well, thank you. That’s—I’m sorry it cost you so much, what happened today.”

GM: “You’re welcome,” her aunt replies as she sits down on the chair. “And I’m not. I think that it’s been time and money well-spent.” She then adds more softly, “You can let people do things for you, Amelie. It’s not a tap that you have to worry about running dry.”

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t say a word. It takes a few moments to gather enough courage that she can swallow the frog in her throat.

“I don’t think I’m very good at that, yet.”

GM: “Maybe not, but practice makes perfect.”

Amelie: Amelie lightly shifts and turns to face slightly away from her aunt so she can’t see the expression on her face. Not even her mother ever treated her like this.

“At least this will be good material for the paper,” she says, trying to change the subject.

GM: “I’m sure it will. Perhaps the teacher will give you extra credit for injury ‘in the line of duty,’” her aunt replies, seeming to go along with it.

Amelie: “I’ll get the purple heart of AP Local History.” It takes a few moments, but Amelie finds she can steel herself again and turns onto her back. “You know… Oscar was right. New Orleans is turning out to be a lot to love.”

GM: “Did he say that? I suppose he’s right,” her aunt considers. “Lord knows there are a thousand and one things wrong with the city, but I’m still living here.”

Amelie: “Maybe it’s just the atmosphere I guess. Or Stockholm’s.”

GM: “For someone who loves history as much as you, there should be a lot of places and activities to appreciate. Most of them are pretty safe. Even NOPD isn’t about to let people get their hands stabbed by lunatics around famous landmarks.”

Amelie: “I hope! There’s a dueling tree I want to visit, lots of people have been stabbed there I hear. Though I don’t think I trust that around landmarks. That cop grabbed me right outside the cathedral in Jackson Square.”

GM: Christina’s eyebrows raise. “A cop manhandled you in front of all those people? That could certainly get him in trouble with his boss when he winds up on MeVid.”

Amelie: “He pulled me off to the side to his little golf cart. Tried to be smooth, talking about $50 gift cards for a steak house Mr. Moreno gives him when he brings in crooks. I think I’m the one who’s going to be on MeVid fending off that pickpocket, unfortunately.”

GM: Her aunt frowns. “There was a pickpocket too? Did he make off with anything of yours?”

Amelie: “They were working together, said he’d take me in for assault on him if I didn’t give him the price of taking in two criminals for his steakhouse money. The weasel didn’t get anything. Came back to give him the money, pickpocket was gone out the back of his golf cart.”

GM: “So you drove off the pickpocket and the cop threatened to bring you in for assault. I’m glad he wasn’t able to take anything, or at least anything else,” her aunt frowns. “But that sounds like a pretty strange confidence racket. Struggling over purses is a flimsy assault charge even for NOPD.”

Amelie: “I want a lawyer,” she repeats.

GM: “Very good,” Christina states.

Amelie: Amelie slowly sits up, looks at her wrapped-up hand and lets out a shaky breath. “It’s starting to settle into one of those really dull pains that make you want to flex the muscle.”

GM: “I’m not a doctor or even particularly medically knowledgeable, but my first instinct is to say you shouldn’t risk tearing anything,” her aunt warns. “We’ve got the exam room, so hopefully it won’t be long until the doctor shows.”

Amelie: “Yeah, I’m not risking it. Just starting to hurt more again.” The pain is different enough that Amelie can rest back on the bed, at least. “I decided to take confession while I was at that cathedral as well. The priest suggested I write my father a letter.”

GM: “What do you think of doing that?”

Amelie: “I think it won’t make a difference to him. But that I should do it anyway.”

GM: “Then I will support you in that decision. Maybe you’ll find it cathartic, even if he doesn’t.”

Amelie: “I hope so,” is all she musters. She slowly rests her head back. “A not-so-smart part of me is telling me to go back to that shop someday. Just with less chance of stabbing. Some of those books looked and smelled ancient.”

GM: “Those smarter parts of you are right. I don’t think that would be an at all safe decision,” her aunt declares emphatically. “There are other shops with just as ancient books if you were to go looking, I’m sure.”

Amelie: “Not-so-smart, like I said. I’m sure once I get my business up and running I can get interns to go into that shop and get what I want,” she jokes. There’s a small grin on her face.

GM: “Even better. Take it from another business owner: opening one involves enough hurdles that you’ll probably forget all about those books by the time it’s off the ground.”

Amelie: Amelie nods. “You sound like you built something from nothing, too. Maybe we should sit down one day when I get my business started and talk about it.”

GM: “We could also talk about how you want to start building yours, if you’d like,” her aunt says. “There will be a lot of groundwork, and especially if you want yours up and running by next year-”

Christina is interrupted, however, as the exam room’s door opens. A dark-haired man wearing a physician’s white coat and stethoscope steps through. He looks relatively young for his presumed profession, maybe in his 30s. His hair is shaved to a near buzzcut, and his facial stubble is maybe an hour short of five o’ clock. A shadow-like smile, perhaps made so from his stubble, slowly spreads across his face as his eyes roam over the supine Amelie.

“Good afternoon, ladies. Hopefully you haven’t been waiting too long.”

Amelie: Amelie starts just a little as the door opens. She slowly starts to pull the wrappings off her hand as she sits up and groans a bit as she reveals her hand. “You’re here, that’s what matters.”

GM: “Getting you better is what matters. Hopefully that’ll follow my being here,” the doctor says brightly as he approaches Amelie. “Now, shhh, you just lay back down. You must be pretty tired. Let’s take a look at that hand…”

Amelie: Amelie cocks a brow at how ‘chipper’ the doctor is. She can’t remember the last time someone shushed her like that. But she still turns, sits on the exam bed, and holds out her hand. She rests it on her other hand and keeps the blazer underneath in case it spurts again.

“I’m pretty sure you have… read a chart, or something, but it was a rusty knife. A big one. I tried to keep it in, but it was knocked free.”

GM: “That’s the thing about getting hurt: it never happens the way we’d like,” the doctor smiles.

Meanwhile, a nurse appears. Amelie is subjected to a battery of tests and treatments. The doctor fills a menacingly large hypodermic needle and holds it close to her wound. He doesn’t inject her, but instead depresses a flow of saline solution over the raw and bloody area. It hurts. Debris, sweat, and more blood flushes out and drains into a basin the nurse puts under Amelie’s hand, which she subsequently pats dry with sterile gauze sponges. That hurts too. A lot.

Amelie: If anyone can take pain, it’s Amelie. She bites her lip and nearly breaks the skin on her thigh with her good hand as the nurse sees to her bad one. She trembles when it’s padded off, but stops the nurse for just one moment to take a cellphone picture before it’s wrapped up, then sets her phone on the exam bed behind her. She’s had worse pain in worse places, she tells herself, and tries to make the nurse’s life as easy as possible after the short interruption.

GM: Amelie’s hand is given an x-ray and bandaged up before the doctor gives his prognosis. “All right, Amelie, we have mostly good news for you. There was no damage to your tendons or neurovascular bundles, so you won’t need surgery. But that knife must have been filthy, from how little time you say it was in there, and your wound was infected. We’re going to put you on an oral regimen of cephalexin. If that doesn’t clear up your cellulitis, we’ll try putting you on IV antibiotics.”

He smiles at her again. “Still, that’s good news. You were pretty lucky. Nerve and tendon damage is very common with stab wounds to hands. Surgery can take months to recover from even when successful.”

“So all she has to do is take some pills for a while?” Christina clarifies, her arms having been crossed and lips pressed throughout the procedure.

“And change her bandages, of course,” the doctor adds.

“How are we supposed to tell if she needs to go on IV antibiotics? Or more to the point, once we can tell, would the infection have caused damage preventable by initial IV treatment?”

The doctor does his best to answer Christina’s questions and eventually satisfies her that IV antibiotics are not presently necessary. The two also go down a rather morbid tangent (at Christina’s insistence) where the doctor admits that, yes, if Amelie doesn’t take her cephalexin or follow her wound care instructions, the infection could develop and make it necessary to amputate her hand. Her aunt’s face looks grave at that information. She thoroughly grills the doctor about Amelie’s post-care instructions and types them into her phone as he talks. She also asks for his name and a phone number to contact in case she or Amelie have further questions. The doctor supplies both (his name is Jared Brown) and also gives Amelie a shot of tetanus vaccine when the nurse isn’t able to locate her immunization records. “You’ve probably been immunized already, but just to be sure,” he mentions before depressing the needle into her arm. The doctor applies a band-aid over the sore spot, then doles out two pills and offers Amelie a tall glass of water while the nurse escorts Christina away to “deal with some more insurance business, since we had an x-ray done.”

Amelie: Amelie is glad to have her care done and her bandages made up. Being left alone with this doctor is another matter. Left alone with a man. There’s something about his eyes when he offers her the water and tablets. They make her aunt’s words ring in her head.

“Just give me a moment,” she nods. “I’m horrible with pills. Does the hospital have a cafeteria? Antibiotics on an empty stomach make me vomit.”

GM: “It does, but between you and me, I wouldn’t recommend it as a place to eat,” Dr. Brown smiles. “There’s an in-hospital O’Tolley’s too, but I’m definitely not allowed to recommend that!” he laughs.

“Tell you what, Amelie, you can take these along with something out of your fridge, just so long as you have your aunt take you home straight away. Deal?”

Amelie: Amelie nods again. Hospital food isn’t supposed to taste good, but the hospitals she’s been to had decent baked goods at least.

“Sure. I’m sure we’ll fill the prescription and go straight home afterwards,” she says.

She reaches back to grab her phone and quickly texts her aunt. He still stuck her with a needle.

“Will my hand scar, Dr. Brown?” she asks. “I’ve got enough as it is.”

GM: “It probably will, I’m sorry to say. But ‘count’ your blessings. Your fingers are still going to work fine, after all!” the doctor smiles.

Amelie: Amelie nods. She’s not too broken up about it. “I have worse. Would you mind if I had a moment of privacy? I need to fix myself and make a quick phone call.”

GM: “You mean share that picture of your hand over Facebook?” Dr. Brown chuckles. “But all right, Amelie. Give a shout when you’re done.”

Amelie: Amelie nods to the doctor and breathes a short sigh of relief once he’s gone. She takes a picture of the clock and leaves a note in her phone about the bad feeling the doctor gives her. She crosses her legs to take off her blood-soaked left sock, puts it on the exam table’s paper, and fans her foot off. She waits patiently for her aunt and doesn’t make any movements that could raise her heart rate.

GM: A response pings back from her aunt after a moment.


Amelie strains and strains to make out any noises from Dr. Brown on the other side of the door. It feels like there’s so much ambient noise in the hospital, so many vibrations past the ceiling and walls, that it’s impossible to be sure. Amelie can only lie in place on the exam table. It is very easy to feel alone. It is even easier to feel hurt and vulnerable.

The door suddenly opens. Christina’s gaze lingers on Amelie, then fixes on Dr. Brown, who is also standing just outside. He smiles when he sees her.

Amelie: Amelie bolts upright when the door opens, but gives a deep sigh of relief when she sees who it is. It’s arrested when she sees the doctor. She slowly gets up, slips her foot into her sneaker, and stuffs the bloody sock into her pocket.

GM: Amelie’s aunt and Dr. Brown go over her after-care instructions one more time as he writes the prescription for her medication. Christina also double-checks his phone number, and Dr. Brown adds that Amelie should feel free to call him anytime if she has any symptoms she’d like to discuss.

“And that’s that. Hopefully you won’t be seeing me again too soon,” the doctor smiles at Amelie, “but you never can know.”

Amelie: “Thank you, Doctor,” is all Amelie manages as she takes her aunt’s hand and hopes the gesture convinces the woman they can and should leave.

GM: Christina’s hand feels taut in Amelie’s as she crisply thanks Dr. Brown and takes their leave from the hospital. Hannah and her mother are still sitting in the same waiting room spot where Amelie left them. The former’s eyes are closed.

A light drizzle is falling when the pair exit the hospital’s sliding doors. Aunt and niece observe that the former’s car, parked in the disabled persons space, has a damp-looking ticket on its windshield. Amelie’s attentive eyes even note the amount is for $275 before Christina pulls it off.

Amelie: Amelie breathes a palpable sigh of relief when they finally step through the hospital doors. It feels good to be out in the open, rain or no rain, and away from the whiff she caught off that doctor. The parking ticket is just more spit in the face, but she files the price away in the back of her head and makes no mention of it. She’ll pay her aunt back for today.

GM: “Did he do anything to you at all past giving a bad vibe?” her aunt asks as they get in the car. She stops first to get the door for Amelie.

Amelie: “He handed me two pills,” Amelie answers after sliding into the car and thanking the older woman for helping her. “They’re in my pocket. I got such a bad vibe off him, I didn’t believe they were antibiotics. That little chill was enough to make me worried after today. I’m sorry for stressing you out.”

GM: Her aunt frowns, then says, “All right, you can throw those out while I go back to pick up your prescription. I’d have needed to do that soon anyways. You stay here in the car and rest.”

Christina closes and locks the door, then heads back to the hospital. Amelie is free to listen to the radio, play on her phone, or simply close her eyes and rest while she listens to the lightly plunking rain. The car’s windows are rolled all the way up, and the air-conditioned interior is blissfully cool against the hot and humid air.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t close her eyes, but she momentarily opens the door to toss the pills under the car’s tires, where they’ll be crushed. She then closes the door, locks it back up, and stares straight ahead in a daze until they open again.

GM: Her aunt eventually returns with a small white paper bag in hand. Rain lightly patters against its surface and leaves dark spots. The Dixie sun still seems fat and swollen past the now-overcast sky, but it’s a hazy thing clearly no longer at its zenith. Her aunt starts the car and pulls them out of the hospital parking lot.

“Also, you remember what I said about letting people do things for you?” Christina brings up. “The next time you want to say ‘sorry’ to someone, try a ‘thanks’ instead. You’ll both probably feel better.”

Amelie: Amelie blinks back into the real world and smiles at the sight of her aunt. Her advice is good advice. It’s something she should adopt from this culture and throw away from an older one.

She remembers the priest’s words that children are a gift. She’s never felt like that was true in her case.

She closes her eyes, rests her head back, and can’t hide the small tremble in her voice when she croaks out a soft but sincere,

“Thank you, Auntie.”

Previous, by Narrative: Story One, Alice IV
Next, by Narrative: Story One, Alice Epilogue

Previous, by Character: Story One, Amelie V
Next, by Character: Story One, Amelie VII

“I get one happy moment, as the world takes a big fat shit on me, and I’m supposed to be content!?”
Alice Guillot

Friday evening, 28 August 2015


GM: Josephine Louise House, better known as JLH, is a three-story red-bricked building that serves as one of the Tulane girls’ dorms. Built in 1887, the 128-year-old building is one of the four buildings still remaining from the university’s original campus. As Alice makes her way down the winding, bush-lined trail to the house, she can hear the boom of ’80s pop.

GM: Inside the house, inebriated students laugh, dance, and drink. Legwarmers, huge bangs, mullets, and neon colors abound. Some students have put real effort into their costumes, while others are more slapdash affairs: ‘80s accessories over modern fashions. Some of the partygoers just want a casual dorm party, while others want something higher-effort. Like many college students, the party doesn’t seem to completely know what it wants. Alice quickly finds alcohol pressed into her hands.

Alice: Alice just as quickly finds an excuse to set it down somewhere.

Better get everything sorted out, before getting shitfaced, she thinks.

Alice: Alice scans the party, checking out peoples’ costumes. Right, work first, partying later.

She makes her way through the crowd, complimenting people’s costumes, chatting, and trying to scope out the building. Unsure of how much of the dorm is open for the party, she watches to see where she could reasonably explore, without getting attention.

GM: Exploring the dorms without attracting attention proves a simple matter for a college-age girl among the distracted and inebriated crowd. By the time Alice makes her way up to the second floor, the party’s sounds have subsided to a faint but steady din. In several hours, the dorms will likely be occupied by girls bringing hook-ups to their dorms, but the night is yet young.

The third floor is quieter than the second. Any girls still up must be uninterested in the revelry below, or else have assignment deadlines that can’t be put off any later. Many of JLH’s rooms, Alice observes and recalls from previous visits, are unique in character and do not have standard dimensions. The building offers features such as movable Shaker-style wood furniture, old-fashioned casement windows, high ceilings, and mounted bookshelves. Many rooms have a sink and mirror in one corner. Several potential options occur to her as possible sites for the séance:

The study room is quiet and sparsely appointed with several desks, chairs, and tables for students to concentrate on coursework. Alice observes no other present students. She doubts any of the partygoers will have much interest in the place, but it still remains open for anyone to walk into.

A closet stuffed with cleaning supplies offers a second cramped locale. Less spacious, but also less likely to be disturbed. Girls looking for privacy with a partner have dorm rooms of their own.

The bathrooms offer an apparent middle ground between comfort and likelihood of disturbance. The doors can be locked, but it’s probably inevitable that people will need to relieve themselves at some point this evening. The alcohol was flowing freely.

Finally, there are the dorm rooms themselves, where the occupants have (or at least expect) total privacy. The only downside is that Alice is expected to respect that privacy too.

Alice: Alice considers her options. The study is quiet and has space… but explaining what she is doing if someone barges in could be troublesome. The idea of potentially summoning an angry ghost in a small closet immediately strikes her as a bad move. She settles for using one of the bathrooms.

Before she goes in, she jumps into the study, and looks to see if the room has a computer and printer handy.

GM: The study hall is a fairly bare-bones place: desks, tables, chairs, and little else. Any of the resident girls (or semi-invited guests, as Alice can attest) could simply wander up and abscond with school property at their leisure, so the administration seems understandably reluctant to keep any computers there.

The dorm rooms likely have student laptops (and printers) if she’s willing to do a little breaking and entering.

Alice: Alice sighs. Should have fucking known. Well, at least I came prepared.

She sets the bulky, ‘80s style purse down. _Who says work and play don’t mix? This thing may be a fucking crime to fashion, but when it comes to smuggling shit into a party, I don’t think I could have done better._

Alice fishes around in the purse, removing a blank posterboard sign, and one of her alphabet spraypaint stencils. Next, she removes a few markers. Uh, shit. Okay, gotta make it look professional.

She carefully attempts to fill out a sign, reading in big bold red letters: OUT OF ORDER.

GM: After a few minutes of work, Alice is satisfied that her sign looks pretty authentic. Inebriated partygoers are even less likely to notice any potential incongruencies.

Alice: Fucking sweet. Now to put this shit up, and get to work. Alice puts some sticky-tack onto the back of the sign, repacks her bag, and attempts to sneak to the bathroom and place the sign.

Once her sign is in place, she steps inside. She makes sure the room is clear, locks the door, and stuffs the door-crack with paper towels in hopes of muffling any sounds the séance might create. The ouija mat is unrolled, and Alice sits as comfortably as she can on the cold bathroom floor. Despite herself, Alice shivers.

Okay. Calm down. This is no big deal. You’re just going to… talk to a dead girl. In a uh, in a bathroom. Fuck, this is a bad idea.

Alice tries to calm her mind, and in a clear, but hushed voice begins, “Spirits of the past, move among us. Be guided by the light of this world and visit upon us.” She intones the names of the girls who died, imploring one of them to make itself known.

GM: Maybe it’s just this occasion, but the bathroom seems cold and lifeless. The walls and floor are a muted gray expanse. The rows of shut stalls are like closed caskets. Some part of Alice, some primitive, id-driven recess of her brain that screams at horror movies, almost wonders if something is going to burst out of them and get her.

She can’t actually see what’s behind those doors.

Alice: Breathe in. Out. Stay calm. I… can do this. I hope.

GM: She names each girl: Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce. She knows little else of them, but names hold power, and any student of the occult knows that much. She repeats her entreaties over and over, eyes fixed on the spread-out ouija mat. She drew a smiling sun at the top right corner, like the picture she’d seen over Qeeqle, but it seems to be leering at her. There was also a frowning crescent moon with a star between its ridges. Now it looks like some spectral claw about to clamp shut over a hapless morsel.

Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce.

Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce.

Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce.

Can anyone down there hear her?

Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce.

What might they be thinking?

Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce.

What is she thinking?

Ira Hooper, Rose Abbott, Grace Nelson, Luella Joyce.

The names. They’re getting…

Not harder. Saying them feels…

That’s when Alice notices the bathroom mirror is fogged. That she can see her breath escaping her lips in feeble white plumes.

Alice: Her teeth chatter. Alice wasn’t exactly sure what to expect if this worked, but… this is definitely more Exorcist than Goosebumps.

O-kay. So, something answered. Better find out what. She calls to the spirit, asking it to use the ouija mat to communicate.

“Hello? Spirit?”

GM: Silence greets Alice’s query.

Silence like the grave.

It’s so cold here. So alone.

Her teeth chatter. Are her fingertips turning purple?

How did she end up like this? Alone in a bathroom, talking to dead girls, when the one she wants to date is probably having a great time at the party just two floors down?

Wants to date. That’s all so complicated. All so hard. It wasn’t always like this.

Back in Houston. When she and her parents—not just her mom—were a family. Whatever happened to her dad, he loved her. He really did. She remembers the day he came home from work with a bag of chocolates, gummy worms, and sugar fish. There was no special occasion, he said. He was just thinking of her.

Alice: A tear freezes on its way down Alice’s cheek.

Stop it. I am here to help you move on. Don’t make me think about that.

GM: And Mom. Things were so much less awkward then. Mom hadn’t gone through a divorce, a move, and a daughter’s stay in a mental institution. That wound doesn’t seem like it’ll ever heal. Alice remembers how they’d lie together in bed when she was little, her mom reading Dr. Seuss until she fell asleep.

She can’t deny it. Life was better then. If only she could go home.

Home…

Alice: Alice shudders, her mind divided. The little box of doubts, and worries she tries so hard to keep locked has been forced open by the spirit.

I want to go back. To ignore it all. But if I do that…

Alice is back at the shack, peering in at the window. Only this time, the woman watching in horror as the Thing unfurls itself is her mother… then Penny… then herself.

“Spirit. You want to go home? To go back to how things used to be? I want to help you find peace. But if I’m going to do that… you have to talk to me.” Her voice is resolved, but tired.

Alice regretfully lifts her chin, and closes her eyes. I hope this works. Then I can stop fucking around with ungrateful dead bitches, and go hang out with Penny.

With her left hand she begins sketching a series of symbols in the air. Her right, she waves slowly, hypnotically, intoning the words to an incantation she read in one of her family’s old books.

This shit better work.

GM: There’s an abrupt rush of cold under Alice’s legs. A howl of wind—or screaming? Suddenly, Alice flies across the room. She smashes back-first into the bathroom mirror. Cracks run up its length. Her chin bangs against the faux-marble counter with a dull thud. Her jaw hurts.

A thought flashes through her mind. Maybe it’s hers. Maybe not. Either way, it’s there.

Home.

Alice: This… this is not going as planned. Not at all. Party or no party, someone is bound to have heard the sound of the mirror breaking. She has to get out. Now.

She tears open a packet of salt, grimaces as she pours some into her mouth, then splashes the rest in front of her. Tearing packets and splashing salt about her, she scrambles to grab the ouija mat and flee the bathroom.

GM: Alice dashes out as fast as her legs can carry her. She manages to pour a mostly straight line of salt over the doorway just as she throws it open, then slams it shut. A booming thud sounds against the door like a battering ram… then silence.

The “out of order” sign lies on the floor in silent testament to the shade’s wrath.

Alice: Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She slaps the sign back onto the door, then as quietly and quickly as she can, makes her way downstairs, toward the sound of drunken laughter, and Men Without Hats.

I think I’m ready for that drink now.

Somewhere in the back of Alice’s mind, a small fire flickers. The fire has sputtered before. Always, it returns. But for tonight, Alice is beaten. Trying not to think of her Vigil, Alice makes her way downstairs, trying very, very, hard not to think about what she is going to do about the ghosts now.

Friday night, 28 August 2015, PM

GM: Half an hour or so later, Alice finds the party downstairs in fuller swing. The people, a little drunker. The laughter, a little louder. The conversations, a little less intelligible.

The real monsters have also come out to play.

He moves among the partying coeds like a tiger through tall grass, part of the scenery until he strikes. Alice thinks she’s seen him once or twice before. He’s dressed in a thick black jacket, thick gold chain, white basketball shoes, and large square sunglasses. A felt hat sits on his head in place of its usual baseball cap. Camouflage for blending in with the herd.


Alice: Alice’s own costume was somewhat rumpled by the earlier encounter with the spirit. Being a ghoul has its perks though, and aside from a bit of stiffness, and maybe some bruises tomorrow, being smashed into the porcelain hard enough to crack it hasn’t left any left noticeable damage. Her outfit is from head to toe glam rock, complete with white leopard leggings, torn sleeve denim vest, and mesh gloves. Her lucky cap has been traded for a white leopard bandanna, and her hair has been teased into a wild mane.

Alice watches the predator stalk through the party. Shit. Of course the leeches would show up. I… better find Penny. If I know her, she’ll be in the heart of the coolest part of this party. Guess I better mingle.

A part of Alice’s mind shouts at her, that she should follow the vampire, and protect the people here from it… but that awful feeling of longing, of needing things to be normal, just once, just for one fucking night presses in on her.

I can do both… I’ll hang out with Penny and keep an eye out for trouble. I’m entitled to a bit of fucking fun too, right?

Knowing the selfish excuse for what it is, she starts looking for her friend.

GM: Alice locates her friend after a moment. True to her expectations, she finds Penny dancing in the center of a press of partygoers while Eye of the Tiger booms from stereos.

GM: Penelope “Penny” Freeman is a short-haired African-American girl in her early 20s with a slender figure, smooth skin, and an easy smile. She wears a denim vest, several purple, orange, and green bead necklaces, pink leggings, and a short black skirt. A Sony Walkman is even visible dangling from her hot pink belt. She has clearly put a lot more effort into her costume than the kids who’ve just slapped a few accessories on.

Her dance partner is a blonde girl wearing a pink leopard-print A-shirt with a bolt of green lightning emblazoned on the center. Pink leggings contrast to a poofy green skirt and leg warmers.

Alice: Alice allows herself a moment of frustration.

Right. Of course she would have caught someone’s attention by now. She’s too awesome not to draw people to her.

Alice briefly considers the best way to get her attention. The small, angry part of her suggests bluntly cutting in.

The way I’m fucking feeling right now, I almost could… no, that would just make me look like a bitch. Bad plan, think again.

Alice scans the room, hoping for inspiration.

I could get up on the table, and dance my ass off. She’s sure to notice that, and it might make me feel better.

She tries to read the vibe of the party, to see if that kind of stunt would be met with applause, or protest.

GM: Alice scans the party. There’s lots of college kids drinking and having a good time. Some of them look pretty sloshed. Some pretty sober. Some are pretty into the ‘80s theme. Some haven’t even bothered to dress up. Some are in between, for both categories. The party is just too much like a college kid, trying out a bunch of things, but still uncertain what it wants to be.

Alice isn’t certain of much either.

Alice: Fuck it, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Worse case, I look like I’ve had too much. Either way, she’ll notice.

Alice waits for a good song for her little performance. Lady Madonna, as she usually does, answers her prayers.

Alice: Alice hops up onto a bench and tries to work the crowd. She sways with the song, lipsyncing along to the lyrics, and generally hamming it up. She gestures to people at random, at if performing for them, before switching back to addressing the audience.

GM: “Life is a mystery,
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home.”

An inebriated college crowd, if nothing else, is easy to please. The trick is getting noticed. Alice puts herself out, and faces among the partygoers soon start pointing, smiling, applauding, laughing. Still, they’re not who she’s out to please. It takes a little longer for Penny to notice, in the center of the crowd, but when she does she grins, taps the other girl’s shoulder, and points excitedly for her to watch Alice.

Alice: Alice grins as the song turns.

Alice: She points back at Penny, waving her up onto the bench, as she starts mouthing the words to the new song. As if to emphasize her intent, she starts dancing, and motioning for Penny to join her.

GM: Penny laughs, turns to the other girl, and says something that’s indistinct over the crowd’s noise. When she makes her way up to the “stage,” though, she’s by herself, and the other girl is dancing with someone else.

Alice: “Oh, I wanna dance with somebody,
I wanna feel the heat with somebody!”

Alice can feel the stress of the night catching up with her. If not for the rush having Penny, Penny! coming to dance with her, she might have given up, and gone home in utter defeat.

So far… so good. Please, fate, or God, or whatever, let this go smoothly! I can’t take much more shit tonight.

GM: Penny clambers up onto the bench, her Sonny Walkman bobbing as she moves.

“Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody!”
“With somebody who loves me!”
“Oh, I wanna dance with somebody…”

Alice knows they’re just lyrics. Smiles aren’t an unfamiliar thing on Penny’s face. But if she imagines for just a moment…

There isn’t much space on the bench. Their bodies are so close. As Penny pumps her arms and sways her hips to the music, she inevitably brushes against Alice. Alice can smell the other girl’s perfume… something spicy.

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody!”
“Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody!”
“With somebody who loves me!”

Alice: Alice savors this moment. For a brief instant, she forgets her Vigil. She forgets about the blood-sucking monster wandering the party. She forgets about the awkward dinners, the shady hucksters in the streets, the grime and hate, and petty evil piled in the the city like a vast dump. There is the music, and Alice, and Penny. She isn’t a hunter, or a weird kid with fire behind her eyes. She is normal, and happy.

“Haha! Penny! Are you enjoying the party? I’ve been trying to find you!” Alice yells over the music. “I should have known to look where shit was getting crazy! You’re always at the heart of this kind of stuff!”

GM: Perhaps distracted by that relief from her self-appointed motion, Alice doesn’t put her full heart into her motions—or perhaps the crowd picks up that they’re not who she’s dancing for. Penny’s dancing, on the other hand, draws whistles and applause, as well a blown kiss from the girl she’d dancing with earlier. Alice isn’t sure if she’s being serious or playful. She looks a little tipsy. Penny just grins back and mimes a bow to the applauding crowd. Still, Alice isn’t falling off either, so at least the evening isn’t getting worse.

Alice: Alice presents Penny, as if she was the star from the start, adding her own applause.

GM: “I thought I was trying to find you, Alice! You still owe me those legwarmers!” Penny shouts back.

Alice: “Hold on! I’ve got ‘em in my purse! Let’s find somewhere to chat, and I’ll dig them out!” Alice laughs, “Someplace quieter!”

GM: “What? You’ve got them worse?” Penny yells, cupping a hand to her ear even as she pumps her other arm to the music. “Sorry, it’s hard to hear up here!”

Alice: Alice points to quieter section of the room, and mimes walking. “OVER THERE! SHOULD BE QUIETER!”

GM: Penny nods and makes a ‘just a sec’ motion. After all, they still have a song to finish.

“Don’tcha wanna dance say you wanna dance
Don’tcha wanna dance
Don’tcha wanna dance say you wanna dance
Don’tcha wanna dance
Don’tcha wanna dance say you wanna dance
With somebody who loves me
Dance!”

Alice: Alice nods, and joins Penny in dancing. This time, she tries to put in a bit more effort. She focuses on complimenting Penny’s dancing with her own, letting her friend shine like the star she is.

GM: Clearly inspired by her crush’s attentions—and now focused on bringing her star to the fore—Alice puts some real spirit into her motions. Penny cheers and dances harder. People around the two cheer as the song’s lyrics belt out. But if Penny is a star, Alice is her corona—invisible to the naked eye, but the part that actually burns hottest of all.

When the song finally concludes, Penny takes Alice’s hand and pulls her friend into a low bow as the partygoers exclaim, “WHOO!” “YEAH!” “Shake it, girls!”

Alice knows the hand-holding is what all bowing performers do, but still…

Alice: Worth. So much worth. Fuck ghosts, fuck vampires. Alice takes out her phone, and snaps a selfie of her and Penny, with the party behind them. She gives Penny a moment to pose before taking the photo.

GM: Indeed, Alice notes a number of other cameras blink as they snap photos—including that other girl’s. She makes her way over to the duo.

“Wow, Penny, that was really great!” she begins. “Who’s your friend?”

“Alice,” Penny smiles as she steps off the bench. “Alice, Angela. Angela, Alice!”

Alice: “Heya Angela. Rockin’ party huh?”

GM: Angela straightens her overlarge bow. “Yeah, it’s hard to go wrong with an ‘80s theme. Though we actually had a girl who wanted to do the whole thing in peoples’ underwear, if you can believe that!”

Alice: Alice had moved closer to Penny to take the selfie, but even after the photo is snapped, she casually continues to stand close to Penny. Not uncomfortably close, but not “just friends” close either.

“Pretty sure the faculty would lose their shit!” Alice laughs. “So, Angela. You live in the dorms?”

GM: “Oh, Angela’s the dorm supervisor here,” Penny mentions. “She takes a stick to the head of any boys who try to sneak in.”

Alice: “Yeah? Righteous! Fight the good fight, girl! That is, keeping creeps from sneaking in.”

GM: Angela rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “I wish they gave me a stick. Usually I just call Tulane PD, but most of ‘em don’t put up any fuss.”

Alice: “Is it like, a big problem? Do people try to sneak in often?”

GM: “Well, JL house is a little stricter than some other places. All male visitors have to be, quote unquote, ‘supervised at all times.’”

Alice: “Yeah? Sounds kinda tedious. Does that include tonight? There’s plenty of dudes wandering around, from what I see.”

GM: “Oh no, we make exceptions for parties! No way we can keep an eye on this many boys.”

Alice: “Cool, but. Like, you do have people keeping an eye on the crowd or whatever? Security isn’t totally shut down, right?”

GM: Angela shakes her head. “No, we’ve got a couple people keeping an eye out. Designated non-drinkers. I mean, you know how parties can sometimes get…”

Alice: Alice motions to herself and Penny. “Yep!”

GM: Angela touches Penny’s arm. “Hey, speaking of… have you seen Summer around?”

Penny shakes her head. “No, sorry, I thought you were watching her?”

Angela smiles. “I’m trying. You can be pretty distracting, Penny.”

Alice: “What does she look like? I was looking for Penny earlier, and might have run into her.” Alice attempts to draw Angela’s attention back to her with the question.

GM: “She’s got long, dark brown hair. Pretty short, about eighteen. Wears a gray sweater. She, uh. Didn’t care so much for the party’s theme,” Angela admits with a half-smile, half-shrug. “She’s my little sister, our parents want her to stay close by me.”

Alice: Alice’s face goes a little pale. “Uh, actually yeah. At least, I think I saw her. Talking to this older black guy, dressed like one of the dudes from Run DMC. I saw him prowling around earlier, eying up girls. Fuck.”

GM: “Oh yeah? I better get her back, my parents… ah, never mind, I shouldn’t have let her out of sight.” Angela frowns at Alice’s pallor. “Is this guy gonna be trouble?”

Alice: Alice is genuinely upset, as she realizes that her selfishness might have put an innocent in danger.

“Uh, I hope she is okay? I mean, lots of people go to parties just to flirt. Just I have seen the guy at parties, flirting with people before. Definitely a player.” Alice tries to recover, she doesn’t want to scare Angela.

GM: Angela looks… not scared, Alice’s gut tells her. Discomfited, though. Long-suffering. Oddly sympathetic. And even a little guilty.

“Ah. Well, I better go get her then. Where’d you say he was at?”

Alice: “Hold on, let me think.” Alice feels pretty spent, but somewhere in the back of her mind, her vestigial Beast uncoils itself from its cozy spot by the fire.

Vampires are dangerous. Focus, Alice. Use your… instincts. Where is the danger?

She feels her senses temporarily heighten to preternatural levels, her world becoming a blend of smells, sounds, and sharp images. Focus. The hairs on the back of her neck rise as her senses attempt to sniff out danger.

GM: Alice’s unnatural senses hungrily tear through the crowd of revelers like fangs through skin.

Alice: Alice shudders. The vamp blood might help her feel out danger, but the way it makes her feel. Like a hungry cat, eyeing people like mice. She always feels a little sick afterwards.

GM: Indeed, as far as she can discern, there are two types of people: weak and strong. The former are unworthy of attention. The latter are threats. Threats must be dealt with.

Damned blood rushes through Alice’s veins, whispering forbidden knowledge. To her surprise, the greatest threat is not Alexander Wright, but a waifish girl with long, somewhat messy dark brown hair, a button nose, and plump cheeks still holding on to some baby fat. She doesn’t look much older than 18. She wears a somewhat overlarge gray sweater over blue jeans, evidently having spurned the party’s retro theme.


She is talking to some boys in a far-off corner of the party, well away from her older sibling.

Alice: Alice blinks. “Uh, looks like she shot Run DMC down. She’s over there, chatting with those dudes.” Alice points.

She isn’t quite sure what to make of Summer being the most dangerous person in the room—or at least, the most dangerous person to her. She is relieved that the girl isn’t tangled up with the vampire though.

Note to self. Stay the fuck away from Summer.

GM: Angela looks genuinely relieved as Alice relays how her sister is okay. “Oh, that’s good. Dad shouldn’t mind her talking to some boys.” She smiles. “Thanks for letting me know, Alice, I’d hate to get pried away Penny here.” Angela lightly rests a hand on the other girl’s shoulder.

Alice: “Well, I’m glad she is okay,” Alice replies to Angela. “Actually about that. I had something important I wanted to talk to her about, and it is sort of private. Like, you seem nice, but we just met. Mind giving us some space for a bit?”

GM: “Oh c’mon, in the middle of a party?” Angela smiles with seeming good humor. “There’ll be time for private stuff later, won’t there?”

Penny thinks for a moment. “We’ll be just a moment, Angela. Hold the fort down for us, mkay?”

Alice: Alice looks extremely relieved, and a little surprised.

GM: If Angela looks disappointed, it’s only for a moment. “Well, okay. I guess I should check in on Summer anyways.”

Penny nods and assures her that it’s probably better safe than story. She maneuvers her way through the throng of partying students with Alice, heading up to the third floor study where it’s quiet and they’ll be unlikely to be disturbed.

“What’s up, Alice?” she asks, hopping up on a desk and kicking back her feet.

Alice: Alice sighs, trying to calm her racing heart. “Okay, uh, oh! Well, first off, the easy stuff.” She hurriedly says, digging the promised legwarmers out of her purse and handing them over.

GM: “Aw, thanks A! You just can’t have any ’80s outfit without these things,” Penny remarks cheerfully as she slips the zebra print outdated fashions up her legs.

Alice: The garments are loud, tacky, and oh-so-80’s. Hand-made zebra print legwarmers, which should cover the majority of Penny’s shins. She uses the momentary distraction to steady herself, before taking a deep breath, and preparing to take the plunge.

My candle burns at both ends. It won’t last the night. Let the dice fall where they may.

Alice looks to Penny and asks, "So, we’ve been hanging out again for like, over a year now right? Ever since the start of freshman year when we found out we were both going for Art degrees? "

GM: The other art major nods. “Just about!”

Alice: “I want to say, hanging out with you again has probably been one of the best things about college for me. Like, the classes and shit are cool, but more than anything I am fucking thrilled that we are friends, and nothing will ever change that.” Alice continues, as she builds toward her eventual point.

GM: Penny smiles at the compliment, but waits to speak until Alice has said her piece.

Alice: “Only, the last month or two, I realized that something had changed about how I felt when I was around you. Penny, I think I’ve got a crush on you. No, I know I do. It sort of took me by surprise, and I have been trying to figure out what the fuck to do about it. That’s why I have maybe been a bit awkward sometimes, when we are together. So, I invited you to the party tonight, so that we could hang out, have a good time, and so that I could say out loud that I like you.” And there it was, out in the open. “You don’t have to have an answer for me right now, or anything… and no matter how you answer, I’ll always be your friend, if you want me to.”

Alice braces herself for the emotional blow, and waits for Penny’s initial reaction.

GM: Penny raises two fine black eyebrows with initial surprise, then smiles. For a moment, Alice is horrified that her friend’s smile is going to precede laughter, but she touches Alice’s cheek.

“That’s sweet, Alice. That’s really sweet. I like you a lot too, for just about all the same reasons. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re a great artist. But it’s also kinda sudden. I didn’t know you thought of me that way.”

Alice: “Right, I sort of thought that too. I’ve been dealing with it for a few months, but for you it is out of nowhere. I tried to drop hints, but I guess I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

GM: Penny gives a self-depreciating little shrug. “Well, it’s something my brother tells me I’m pretty bad at.”

Alice: Alice shrugs too, embarrassed. “Like I said, I don’t expect an answer right now. But I was hoping, you would go to Southern Decadence with me? On an actual, date-date? That’s in a week or two, so it gives you some time to thing about it, and if you decide you aren’t interested, I’ll understand and we will carry on being best friends.”

“Uh, nothing wild! I know how some of those parties get. Something fun, and nice. I got invited to a party by one of the art professors. Apparently every year she works on a float with her SO, and she offered to let me and a date go to an artist-only party if I helped with the float.”

GM: “Oh yeah?” Penny asks, curious. “Who’s the professor?”

Alice: “Professor Cahn. You know, the mousy one, who knocks stuff over in class all the time? She’s sort of awkward in class, but when I talked to her she was actually really nice.” Alice tsks, “Her partner is sorta intense though. I met her when I helped out with the float. An ex-Marine, or something? I don’t think she liked me much.”

GM: Penny’s face visibly falls. “Yeah. Megan Garrett.”

Alice: Alice looks concerned. “You look like you just bombed a test or something. Everything okay?”

GM: “She’s the… person,” Penny states, clearly substituting the word for another, “who beat my brother Joey into the ER for being ‘unpatriotic’ last Fourth of July. She fractured his skull, Alice. Don’t you remember me telling you about that?”

Alice: “Holy shit! She’s that fucking Megan Garrett? I didn’t even realize it was the same person.” Alice looks horrified. “Listen, forget the party okay? I had a few backup plans in case you weren’t interested in that.”

GM: “Look, I… I appreciate the thought there,” Penny politely continues. “But this is all really sudden. I don’t think I’m ready to say yes to a date right now, Alice. Or to when, or if, I’m going to say yes. I’m not saying no either. I just… need some time.”

Alice: “Oh. I… okay. No, I understand.” Alice looks like she’s been kicked, but there isn’t anger in her voice either. “Take your time. Think about it, and let me know. I won’t say I won’t be disappointed if you decide no, but I meant it when I said I’ll always consider you my friend.”

GM: Penny nods in recognition of Alice’s grace. “I am going to Decadence with some friends. You’re totally welcome to come hang out with us.”

Alice: Alice casts her gaze around the room, so that Penny can’t see the emotional fight happening behind her eyes. “Um. Well, I guess that covers what I wanted to say pretty well.”

She flinches a bit at Penny’s offer, then turns. “Uh, I’ll have to think about it. I don’t think my head is in the right place, just now to give a good answer. I’ll probably say yes, but it might be a day or two. Cool?”

GM: Penny nods again. An almost sad smile plays at her when as she sees she’s hurt her friend. Sometimes there’s no way of saying ‘no’ without hurt feelings.

“Cool. No pressure or anything. The festival’s still a little while off.”

Alice: With this latest defeat, what little fight was left in Alice for the night is rapidly running out. She sounds and looks tired. Penny might just chalk it up to a bit of letdown, but the ghost certainly had its part to play. Despite her look, however, an ember of resolve still smolders behind Alice’s eyes.

“I’ll say the same to you, P.”

Alice musters up a bit of false bravado, having enjoyed her moment of self-pity. Save it for later, girl!

She grins up at Penny and says, “I bet the party is still in full swing down there. Why don’t we head back down? I think I’ve got at least a little bit of party left in me before heading home.”

GM: Penny nods emphatically, seemingly glad to put the incident behind them. “Sounds good! I don’t think they’ve even played any Michael Jackson yet. What’s an ’80s party without, right?”

Alice: Despite the ache in her heart, as Alice leads he friend back to the party she walks a purpose and clarity she hadn’t felt in weeks.

Fuck. I’m pissed, and depressed. I want to cry, or punch something, or maybe both. So, why the fuck do I feel so relieved? Because I’m not pining away in secret anymore? Fuck, I dunno.

Alice reflects on the roiling feelings bubbling in her breast.

She didn’t say yes… but she didn’t say no either. I guess… I did what I wanted to. I confessed. Just gotta keep my cool for a few dances, then I can go home and fall apart.

Friday evening, 28 August 2015

GM: The two girls make their way down the stairs. A figure blocks their way down from the second floor. Tall. Dark. ‘Run DMC.’ Cold eyes sweep over them both.

“I got some private bid’ness to talk over wit’ you, girl,” he says, staring at Alice. When Penny opens her mouth, he adds, “Nothin’ you’d find too interestin’.”

The other college student leaves whatever’s on her mind unsaid.

Alice: Eyes blazing with a barely contained heat flicker back. Normally, Alice tries to be as harmless and friendly as possible to the leeches. She looks and sounds like she is having a very bad night however, and a bit of her frustration comes across.

“Alex, right? I’ve seen you around, and stuff.”

As if realizing how irritable her tone sounds, she adds a bit apologetically, “Sorry. That sounded rude. Let me try again.”

She breathes and says, “I’m always happy to do commission work. You know us starving artists.” She turns and tells Penny, “Try not to bring the house down without me! I’ll be down in a few minutes, and I promise I’ll come say goodbye before I head out.”

GM: Penny looks between Alice and ‘Alex’, but it seems as if she tries to avoid looking at the latter for too long.

She finally replies after a moment, “I’ll do my best! You know I’m just a floor away.”

Penny heads off. Alice is left alone with the vampire.

Alice: As Penny leaves, so does Alice’s false bravado. She is in no way, shape, or form prepared to deal with an angry lick right now.

“Um, so. You definitely have my attention. You have some business to talk about?”

GM: Wright wordlessly advances up the stairs. His footsteps are thick and heavy. Alice seems expected to follow.

Alice: Alice pauses a moment before doing so.

Shit shit shit shit. Please just be interested in art.

GM: They reach the building’s next story. The vampire opens a door to a dorm room. It’s about the same as any other dorm one might expect to encounter on a college campus. There are two beds festooned with pillows and stuffed animals. Photos, posters, and other homely mementos decorate the walls and refrigerator, while school papers, binders, and two laptops are semi-haphazardly strewn about the floor. A darker-skinned brown-haired girl dressed in ’80s attire lies on one of the beds, face-down and motionless. She could just be sleeping.

Wright closes the door after Alice steps in.

Alice: Alice’s face goes pale. “I’ve heard some stuff about the Windsor. I’m not, uh, I don’t do that sort of service, dude.”

GM: “You been watchin’ me, girl,” the vampire states. “Why?”

Alice: “Because you guys make me nervous?” Alice answers honestly. “I mean, sorry. Listen, you probably didn’t choose to be uh, y’know. You’re just making do as best you can, right? But the way you guys look at us. Like cats watching mice. It’s spooky. I’ve got friends at this party. I was afraid you’d…” she gestures at the girl on the bed, “someone I know.”

GM: Wright looms over Alice’s petite form. He’s a big man, broad-shouldered, and thickly-muscled. And that’s just the man he was before being turned.

The vampire takes a step forward.

Alice: Alice lets her instincts kick in.

Is he about to attack me?

GM: “Take three steps back.”

Alice: Step, step, step. Alice, like a deer caught in headlights, backs up.

GM: Alice’s stomach explodes in pain. The impact knocks the ghoul square off her feet and back-first onto the bed. She feels like she’s been shot. The soft blankets hurt less than hitting the floor might have. She briefly jostles against the other girl lying there, who doesn’t stir.

Alice: Alice can feel the broken rib, conscious only by the unholy fortitude granted by the vitae in her system. She soundlessly cries out at the pain, the wind having been knocked out of her.

GM: Wright looks her over impassively.

“First. Do not give me shit about bein’ a black guy hittin’ a white girl.”

“Second. You’re welcome.”

Alice: Alice coughs a bit of blood and weakly says, “If anything, I was profiling you. You probably get enough of that shit already. You could have killed me, and I know it. So thank you. Uh, not because of being black. Because of the other thing. So, I am sorry.”

And Alice is sorry. Not just because she was been hurt, but because she treated him like a monster instead of a person.

GM: “You’re new to this, ain’t you?” Wright asks flatly.

Alice: “About a year? My uh, ‘domitor’ was an art guy. Liked my work, then got tired of me after a month and left. He was pretty new too, I think.”

GM: “Torries,” Wright snorts. “My boss? He’da ripped your head off. No hyperbole.”

Alice: Alice does not look like she is going to argue. “Understood. In the future, um. What should I do? I know that people in my position don’t really have any sort of sway. Would coming up and asking to have my friends ignored be the right thing to do?”

GM: Wright stares at her for a moment. “Christ, girl. You green as a new dollar bill.”

He finally sits down on the empty bed across from Alice’s. “What you do is you do not fuckin’ watch us. An’ you do not tell us where an’ when t’ eat. You stay outta the way. An’ if you’re lucky, that’s where you stay.”

Alice: Alice looks a bit sick at talk of ‘eating.’ Or maybe it’s just her crushed guts. Probably a bit of both, actually.

She looks like she wants to ask Wright more questions. To learn more, but she isn’t sure whether doing so will reward her with another blow.

GM: “You gonna toss your cookies, do it in the bin.” The vampire glances towards the trash can. “This somebody’s bedroom.”

Alice: “I’ll be all right.” Alice examines herself, to see how visible the damage is. She resigns herself to having to use up some of the vitae in her system to mend the rib.

“Do I look reasonable enough to return to the party, without uh, making people ask tough questions?” She looks to Wright. “I don’t know much, but even I know drawing attention to this sort of stuff is a death sentence.”

GM: “Got that right.” Wright looks her over. “Try standin’ up.”

Alice: Alice stands, gasping as the rib scrapes her innards.

GM: “Better mend up,” the vampire states by way of answer.

Alice: Alice focuses, feeling some of the rushing power in her veins draining into the broken bone, speeding its recovery.

GM: The ghoul still feels a bit unsteady on her feet, and she’s pretty sure she’d have blacked out if she wasn’t on the “red stuff,” as she likes to call it. But the painful scraping against her liver recedes.

Alice: Alice isn’t quite sure where to go from here. Awkwardly, she looks at the vampire. “Thanks for informing me, and not killing me. Um, if you ever need artwork done, feel free to call me.” She rattles off the number of a burner phone she uses for ghoul stuff. “I mostly do street art, but I can handle some basic engineering and metal, or woodwork too given the right tools.”

Alice realizes how weird it must sound, for her to basically give her ghoul resume to this guy, but she’s gotta get her next fix from somewhere.

GM: Wright gives Alice another flat look-over. This time it’s maybe tilted a few degrees. Maybe even in her favor. It’s hard to say.

“That how you get your month-to-month fix?”

Alice: “I’d say this is the first time I met a client by getting pummeled by them, but I get a lot of work from Mid-City, so it would be a lie.” Alice shrugs. “Anyway, you have been extremely clear, and I understand your message. There won’t be a next time. Yeah pretty much. Mostly, other ghouls bring stuff by and ask me to fix it up for them, or paint pretty things for their higher ups.”

GM: “Painting, huh.” The vampire’s expression looks a bit speculative now. “What else you do?”

Alice: Oddly, the funk Alice felt earlier has gone. Getting into a one-sided scrap with this vampire, and standing up has left her feeling more alive than she has in weeks.

“I know a bit about ghosts, I guess. After I started my uh, habit, I wondered if other stuff was real. I dunno about a lot of it, but ghosts and spirits sure as fuck are.”

GM: “Ghosts, huh.” Wright’s repeated nearly the same words, but his face looks a little more thoughtful. “You jus’ know a bit, or can you do a bit too?”

Alice: “I can do a séance, I guess. It’s not a very pleasant experience though. Ghosts are fucking mean. Might be able to send one away, if I knew enough about it.” Alice shrugs. “I’m still learning. Theres a lot of restless dead in the big easy. Uh, not you guys. Ghosts, I mean. I feel bad for them. I’m no mambo, though.”

GM: Wright raises an eyebrow. “Bad for ‘em? Now why’s that?”

Alice: “They are trapped here, unable to go… wherever the fuck we go after. Unlike us, they don’t even get to enjoy any of the nice perks of having a body. They are just souls, trapped and twisted forever. That’s a pretty sad state, y’know? I’m gonna die someday, hopefully not soon, and hopefully pass on wherever. I don’t know exactly how it works with you guys, but you at least have the option of checking out if you want to. Ghosts don’t.”

GM: “Oh, f’us it’s pretty simple,” Wright states. “We’re gonna burn in the big fire below. Gonna roast us some marshmallows wit’ the Devil. Roast ‘em over pitchforks an’ have fuckin’ s’mores.”

Alice: “I have a feeling lots of people are on their way to that particular barbecue, dude.”

Alice nods, deciding something. “It isn’t my usual thing, but I guess if you want help putting a ghost to rest, I would be up for helping out with that too. As best I can, anyway.”

GM: “Maybe,” Wright replies to Alice’s initial remark. “Still up t’ them.”

Alice: Alice isn’t really much of a theologian, and arguing damnation with a vampire seems like a pretty hard fight.

This dude probably knows more about sin than I’ll ever know. No way am I arguing that shit with him.

With her business pitch made, and Wright’s lesson hopefully finished, Alice waits to see what the vampire has planned next.

GM: The vampire doesn’t say anything for a few moments. He glances at the room’s door, from where dim music can still be heard, and then glances back at Alice.

“Some party, huh?”

Alice: “Well, the girl of my dreams shot me down, I danced like an idiot on a table, broke at least one rib, and maybe found some work. I just need to crash on the way home, and it will be complete.” Alice grins, just a little giddy from the vitae and adrenaline. “Definitely not boring.”

GM: “That girl was you?”

Alice: Alice gives a sheepish shrug. “I wanted to dance with somebody. Uh, on a table.”

GM: Wright looks as if he could snort. But Alice doesn’t think she’s ever seen his kind do that. Josua never did.

“Well, it was entertainin’. Fuckin’ spoiled-ass white bread college kids. Of all the ways to piss away my evenin’.”

Alice: Alice isn’t sure whether she is included in that statement, but doesn’t really disagree with his assessment either way. Most of the kids here probably are white and here using their parent’s money.

GM: “You got any aspirin on you?” Wright asks, abruptly changing the topic.

Alice: Alice rummages in her purse, removing a pack of the little miracle pills. “Here.” She offers it over to Wright.

GM: The vampire sets it on the bedside table adjacent to the motionless brown-haired girl’s head. She hasn’t moved or made a sound since Alice entered the room.

Alice: Alice peers at the girl as Wright draws attention to her. To herself, she mutters, “I hope she’s gonna be all right, whoever she is. She hasn’t moved once.”

GM: Wright stares at Alice. The leeches have damnably good hearing, she knows.

“I ain’t a killer.”

There’s a beat.

“‘Less they’re askin’ for it.”

Alice: Alice touches her stomach. “I know. Plus, you left her aspirin. That is… you didn’t have to do that. A killer wouldn’t do that.”

GM: Alice hears a dull thud from the floor.

Wright gets up from his seat on the bed.

Alice: “Uh, right. The party. I told my friend I would be down in a few minutes.”

Alice looks worried. How long had they been talking? What was that noise?

GM: A low growl sounds from Wright’s throat. Alice can see a hint of fang protruding from his mouth. He strides across the room, opens the door, and tromps downstairs.

Alice: Alice stands out of his way as he goes, then likewise leaves, closing the door. She follows, unsure if his business with her is finished.

GM: Downstairs, the party seems to be winding down. A number of students lie slumped against walls with bleary-eyed, out of focus expressions, being attended to by friends. Many people are sneezing and coughing. Girls help inebriated roommates upstairs. Some of them look really out of it. They don’t just look drunk, though. They’re sneezing and coughing too.

Alice: Alice looks around for Penny, shooting her a text.

Hey! Sorry about that. Still at the party?

GM: A reply pings back in short order.

Yeah! You seen Angela, she’s disappeared on me!

Alice: Alice’s face drops. Angela. I wonder if Penny… well. Mom and my friends were right. Maybe I waited too long. Fuck. She feels any lingering rush from her near-death experience wash away, and briefly considers misleading Penny with some story about Angela going upstairs with some other girl.

No, I feel shitty enough. I don’t need my conscience giving me shit too. Plus, I lie to Penny too much as is. Texting she says, Sorry, no. It looks like things are winding down. I’ll make my way to you, and keep an eye out for her as I go.

GM: Thanks A! People seem pretty out of it, hope she’s ok!

Alice: No longer suffering the fugue inflicted by the ghost, Alice finds the little voice in the back of her head much harder to ignore. There might something going on here.

She shakes her head, intent on walking through the party straight to Penny, then leaving. Making only a token effort at scanning the room around her. I’m barely standing. I’m done. I’m running on empty here, the voice persists.

No! Something isn’t right! Alice stops mid-step, mentally arguing with herself. Why do I feel that way? Aside from Wright, who turned out to be at least sort of okay, I don’t see any monsters.

Alice frowns, shaking slightly, memories race through her mind. Summer, talking to Wright. Her instincts screaming at the danger Summer represented. Angela, saying she would go talk to her sister. Influenza victims. Sick people. Wright growling, striding out of the room. A brief, shining moment as she and Penny danced and all the world fell away.

Fuck. It isn’t fucking fair! Just one moment? That’s all I get? I get one happy moment, as the world takes a big fat shit on me, and I’m supposed to be content!?

The fire flares. People need protecting. They NEED to be PROTECTED. Alice looks up, battered, beaten, but resolved.

Fine! …fine. I had my fun. I haven’t been looking properly. If there’s a chance people need help… someone has to help them.

A final flash of memory, as Angela puts her hand on Penny’s shoulder.

Even if I fucking hate doing it.

Alice strides with newfound purpose, casing the dregs of the party, and wracking her brain trying to connect the clues she has.

I don’t know what has been going on in this party… but I am going to find out.

Previous, by Narrative: Story One, Amelie V
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Next, by Character: Story One, Alice Epilogue

“Life insurance is overpriced, but life isn’t.”
Anonymous note

Friday afternoon, 21 August 2015

GM: Amelie’s first week of classes goes by.

Mr. Thurston’s class is enjoyable enough, if one likes finance and listening to his stories about the city’s families and banking “in the old days”. The retired investment banker has a fairly laid-back attitude to class and doesn’t assign homework, quizes, or projects. He mostly just lectures and says there’ll be one exam every month throughout the semester. He says that’s “closer to how the real world works,” though he offers extra credit to students who read any of the recommended books off his syllabus and write 10-page reports on them. He also offers extra credit to any student who’ll grade his exams for him, as he evidently doesn’t assign enough work in his classes to justify a TA.

To the surprise of few, Sarah Whitney receives this position, although a black-haired girl he addresses as “Miss St. John” seems like she also wanted it. Amelie gets the impression that Mr. Thurston has no interest whatsoever in spending any of his own time on the class outside of class. Amelie hears he doesn’t even have Sarah read the book reports, just check to see if they’ve been plagiarized (and are actually about the chosen book).

At the same time, the old man has “about forty years” of experience in the financial sector and genuinely seems to enjoy imparting that knowledge to the daughters of his former banking clients. He also has a seemingly photographic memory for the names and family histories of many of his students. He often meanders off-topic from his lectures to relate stories about students’ families in his lazy Southern drawl, and some of the time they’re even relevant to the lectures’ subject matter. All told, his class is a peculiarly personalized blend of zeal and sloth.

“Just like college at the Ivy Leagues,” Mr. Thurston even briefly quips.

Amelie: Amelie tackles her schoolwork intensely: she only has a year of advanced schooling like this before she graduates. It’s a sobering thought and reminds her that being at the very top here is important to her future.

Finance is probably her least favorite class, thanks to Mr. Thurston’s constant tangents, but she uses the chance to memorize names from the old boys’ clubs he seems to be part of. His stories also provide some context into how the finance game’s players operate, and maybe even give her an in with those people. If she hears a name in this classroom there’s always a chance she can ask the teacher for introductions.

GM: Mr. French’s history class is more straightforward in its content matter, and perhaps more professional in how it’s structured. Mr. French treats it like the college course it is: there’s some amount of homework and assigned readings, as well as exams, but it’s mostly lectures geared towards writing a term paper. He seems like a hard grader, and most of the students seem like hard workers. Golf doesn’t come up beyond his initial introduction. Amelie’s own passion for the subject matter likely makes the prolonged lectures more enjoyable for her than they are to the other girls.

Amelie: History class is Amelie’s bread and butter. She sits with a straight back and laps up everything in every lesson, keeping detailed bullet point notes. She fails to keep a small smile off her face as they go over wars, changes in maps, political and religious shifts, and more. This period of history is fascinating and exhilarating for her, and she’s already working on drafts for her paper on the Hundred Years’ War in her spare time. Her initial concern about a male teacher in the girls’ school seems less valid every day, and downright silly by the end of the week. They clearly picked the right man for the job. She frequently raises her hand to asks questions and sometimes stays after class to clear up certain dates and faction names.

GM: Mr. French clearly expects all of his students to be raising their hands and asking questions about the material, and appears to take notice of Amelie simply for doing so more regularly than her peers (which she can hope will earn her a good participation grade).

In contrast, students in Ms. Perry’s third period seem to have a lot more fun. The teacher is younger and more energetic than Mr. French, and tries to give the girls more hands-on roles in the class through small-group discussions and presentations. She still gives lots of lectures herself, but punctuates them with jokes, wry commentary, and frequent pictures on the room’s smartboard (including the occasional cartoon and popular meme). She seems to hold strong opinions on a number of historic figures, especially John Law, who she repeatedly calls a “ne’er-do-well-scoundrel,” “sweet-talking hustler,” and other such variations, usually with a smirk. When one of the students brings up the topic, she laughs and admits she has a soft spot for “bad boy” types.

Amelie: Amelie does her best to keep her hand in the air during Mr. French’s class. She sometimes feels like he doesn’t go into certain topics on purpose, just to keep his students asking questions.

Ms. Perry’s class is more Amelie’s milk and honey, however, and she sits there with a big dumb grin on her face throughout the teacher’s lectures. She can’t help but chuckle at Ms. Perry’s half-hearted admonishments towards John Law. There’s plenty of ‘bad boys’ in New Orleans’ history. Jean Lafitte is a big name that springs to mind: French pirate, spy, smuggler, and war hero. Amelie suspects that more than a little class time will be spent learning about this man.

The figure she looks forward to hearing about most of all, though, is Jose ‘Pepe’ Llulla. The famed duelist was only seven or eight when Laffite died, but one of his best-known business ventures was ironically the purchase of Grande Terre Island in Barataria Bay: the former island base of Jean Laffite himself. Amelie enjoys sharing tidbits like this during the more hands-on portions of the class and discussing them with her teacher and classmates. It’s a dream class.

GM: Ms. Perry seems to appreciate Amelie’s knowledge and enthusiasm for history, and the Canadian transplant soon finds herself being regularly asked, “Ms. Savard, you have anything else you want to add for us?” during lectures. Ms. Perry laughs when she brings up Jean Lafitte and admits that her “crush” on the notorious pirate turned folk hero is well-known among her students. They’ll spend plenty of class time on him and his lesser-known brother Pierre in due order.

Amelie: Amelie’s great passion for history is finally stoked! And in a school, by teachers, of all people. The irony of her surprise and delight isn’t lost on her. Amelie always seems to have at least a small tidbit to add whenever Ms. Perry calls on her: the city’s history of the city has a lot of little offshoots and interesting facts, enough that she even researches more outside of class just so that she’ll have more to do.

GM: Lunch breaks continue to be lonely times for Amelie. All of the girls know each other, have their own cliques, and seem to possess an invisible map that designates what spots are acceptable for which people to sit. The school lunches, however, continue to taste delicious, and could easily be restaurant-level fare. The girls who go off-campus for lunch mainly seem to want some extra variety in their diets, and can be found eating at the cafeteria just as often.

Amelie: Lunch becomes a time for review as Amelie figuratively balances her food in one hand and her laptop in the other. She doesn’t deny that she’d like to sit by other people and resolves to make some friends as the days go by. Yvette and Sarah seem like good candidates once they feel more comfortable around her.

GM: Amelie observes that Sarah Whitney spends every lunch period with Susannah Kelly and two other girls she recognizes by sight, and whose full names she eventually fills in as Mackenna Gallagher and Aurora St. John. The four of them appear to be quite popular, and their table is usually surrounded by hangers-on who listen to their every word and laugh at all their jokes.

It’s seemingly by chance that Amelie observes with whom Yvette spends her lunches: her sister Yvonne, and two smaller girls who share their blanched complexions, pale blonde hair, and translucent blue eyes. The physical resemblance between the four young women is already uncanny, and their identical McGehee uniforms make the effect even more pronounced. Only their obvious disparities in age make it possible for Amelie to tell the younger two girls apart. The four eat their lunches in the library and talk exclusively in their formal-sounding metropolitan French.

Amelie: At least lunch allows Amelie to observe the school’s social hierarchy. Sarah is definitely one of the untouchables. It seems Yvette has a family rife with siblings and what she hopes is only selective breeding and not that other thing people often accuse high-class families of.

GM: Ms. Ward never sends Amelie to the principal’s office, but she never seems to quite forget how the new girl showed up tardy during the middle of her introductory speech about why she’s teaching at McGehee instead of pursuing a research career. She’s younger than Ms. Perry, but somewhere between her and Mr. French in terms of the seriousness of her class. She’s friendly enough, and can relate to the students fairly well (she looks maybe a decade older than them at most), but work comes first. In fact, she’s probably the harshest grader out of all of Amelie’s teachers, and clearly has very high expectations for her students. Class follows the same college/AP model of lectures, more emphasis on exams than daily work, one group research project, and the syllabus actually matters.

Amelie: Inorganic Chemistry is a little more tense than Amelie’s other classes. She keeps on her best behavior and often shows up first or second from then on to avoid the teacher’s wrath and demonstrate through her actions that her first day was a one-time accident. The coursework itself is much more serious, but Amelie knows she’s good at this. Inorganic chemical reactions and the understanding of them are what makes a smith a good smith. You know how steel hardens and how different levels of heat affect the introduction of oxygen-leeching borax. She pays close attention, less from mirth like her morning classes, and more from duty. She takes her trade seriously.

GM: Mrs. Laurent doesn’t appear as unenthusiastic for her class as Amelie initially thought and turns out to be maybe slightly more easygoing a grader than Mr. French is. However, the woman speaks in a damnably quiet voice. She isn’t impossible to hear, but missing bits and pieces of her lectures is inevitable unless one pays extremely close attention. Amelie may be amused by the convoluted and always—always—flawlessly polite ways through which her peers entreat their teacher to please, please speak at a higher volume. Mrs. Laurent seems oblivious to each and every one of these requests, and also has a habit of lecturing with her eyes half-lidded, which further compounds the sense that she isn’t quite present during class. Fortunately, small group discussions take up a good chunk of each period.

Amelie: Mrs. Laurent proves to be slightly frustrating, in that her students are always leaning forward to try and make out what she’s saying. Amelie has a solution in mind in the form of a collar-mounted microphone and simple belt speaker to amplify the teacher’s voice. But for now the she just keeps her ears open until it’s time for the group talks, and proves that new kid jitters do not affect her as she shares her opinions and listens to others.

GM: It’s easy for Amelie to see why so many students signed up for Mrs. Flores’ class during sixth period: it’s a relaxing way to end the day and feels more like an extracurricular activity than a proper class. Grading is participation-based, which would be bad for any cutters, but Amelie doesn’t see much cutting in any of her classes—the students all seem to take their studies seriously.

Mrs. Flores spends the first week of class on waltzes, which she calls the “easiest type of dance—most of your grandmas can probably still do it.” She also permits a notable deviation from the school uniform: girls are not only free but encouraged to bring high-heeled shoes to class. “Nothin’ too risque, of course, but you do want to learn to dance in the shoes you’ll actually be dancing in,” the teacher adds.

Even more notably, Mrs. Flores also allows “dress Fridays” when her students don’t have to wear their uniforms. That privilege comes with three caveats, the first of which is that attire must be at least semiformal—skirts or dresses of a minimum knee length, and “definitely no blue jeans.” Secondly, the girls have to change in a nearby locker room before class starts, as the offer is not good for other periods. Finally, they have to change back into their uniforms when class ends, even if they’re driving straight home. Not wearing the uniform is a privilege, Mrs. Flores emphasizes.

That cautionary aside, the class is abuzz with enthusiasm at their teacher’s announcement (though many girls also seem as if they knew it was coming ahead of time), and almost everyone seems as if they’re going to show up in non-uniform come next Friday. The class is generally a very enthusiastic one, and everyone seems like they have a lot of fun, though there are a few occasions when Mrs. Flores has to sit down and direct things from her stool because of her leg.

Amelie: Mrs. Flores’ class proves to be quite fun for Amelie too, and gives her a chance to show off her more physical prowess. She still prefers to lead during dances, but she learns from her first day and plays the female role too, even though she’s sure that the other girls find it awkward to lead around their tall and masculine classmate. Still, she probably needs the practice there.

The mention of dancingwear makes Amelie a little nervous. Her earlier shopping trip with Kristina hasn’t changed her opinion that her fashion sense is… fairly bare-bones. She thinks she can do the dancing shoes at the very least, though.

Amelie stays behind on days when Mrs. Flores seems to be in pain. She offers to help the older woman with stretches to ease the pain and shows her the rigors of ice skating injury recovery.

GM: Mrs. Flores thanks Amelie several further times for her thoughtfulness on the first day of class. On subsequent occasions, she simply smiles and tells the young woman she’s “very sweet, but you don’t need to worry about me. My leg’s been this way since ‘03, so I’m used to managing.” She laughs. “It won’t be too much longer before it’s old enough to take this class.”

Amelie: Amelie still offers her services every day the pain seems to be a bother for her teacher. Long-term injuries are a different story than injuries from the last few years, but unless the muscle itself is missing Amelie keeps the offer open. Either for fetching ice packs, being a partner for stretches, or helping her walk to her car.

GM: Amelie’s after-school afternoons are fairly open. She has an hour to kill every Tuesday and Thursday before driver’s ed begins, but she receives enough homework from her classes that she can put the time to productive use studying in the library. Getting behind the wheel is intimidating at first, but it doesn’t take long before she can drive a car in basic laps around an empty lot.

Christina also helps Amelie set up a bank account at Whitney Hancock National Bank. She leaves a monthly allowance in it for expenses like clothes, cab fare, eating out, and the like so that Amelie doesn’t need to ask her for money all the time.

Her aunt also recommends that Amelie apply for a credit card, and is willing to co-sign for one if her first two applications get rejected. She cautions Amelie to always pay back the monthly balance in full, and to use it simply to establish a good credit history—which she will need even more than the average person if she intends to open a business. Banks and would-be investors alike will want to see evidence that she can handle money responsibly.

Amelie: Amelie’s life outside of school moves quite a bit faster as they get the bank account set up and apply for a credit card right afterwards. She does some reading and postulates that the longer she has the card the more likely the bank will be willing to set up a corporate card once she gets her business off the ground.

The monthly alllowance is another matter. Given the facts she rarely eats out, considers it wasteful to take cabs, and already has a bunch of clothes from both Quebec and shopping with Kristina, it simply feels like free money. Still, she leaves it at that.

GM: Amelie is able to purchase a pair of rollerblades without issue. Her aunt pointedly makes no comment.

Amelie: For all the silence that purchase meets, Amelie doubts her aunt can argue with the results. It’s not long before the she’s whipping in between traffic like she’s gliding on ice. She’s actually faster than the streetcar on days with congested enough traffic.

GM: Ms. Nguyen gets back to Amelie several days later about the Rebecca M. Whitney Foundation’s ISA program. She has a brochure and repeats that she can arrange for Amelie to meet one of the foundation’s members. She adds that it will not be a formal interview or anything of the sort, merely a simple ‘question and answer’ meeting that the foundation is happy to entertain from potentially interested students.

Amelie: Ms. Nguyen’s pamphlets are as useful as always. She pours over the information inside, thanks the counselor for her time, and says she’ll have more information for her in the coming month. She would would love to have that Q & A meeting once she has some examples her work and a write-up of the material costs she’ll need to get her feet wet.

GM: Ms. Nguyen clarifies that the foundation will be happy to meet with Amelie simply to answer questions, as opposed to deciding whether she qualifies for the ISA, but leaves it at that.

Ms. Perry provides some time during Friday for her students to do research on their group projects. She also admonishes them, “With only ten of y’all, I can tell who’s checking Facebook!” Yvette mentions that she spoke with her mother and Sarah Whitney, and that the Devillers invited the Whitneys over for dinner a few days ago. Sarah’s grandfather Lyman, the bank’s now-retired CEO, was willing to pull some strings and get Yvette into the LaLaurie House for a night as a favor to her family. Amelie still isn’t sure how allowable that is under the bank’s policies, but nepotism and old-boy networking seems to be everything in Louisiana.

Lyman is willing to let Yvette bring along a single classmate of her choice, but was stern this was not to turn into a slumber party. If there’s any damage to the historic house, the Devillers are paying for it—and Yvette’s mother expects Amelie’s family to pay for it.

“’E also mentioned a liability waiver to sign in case the curse kills us,” Yvette states dryly.

Amelie: Class with Yvette is a real kicker. Amelie is surprised that it only took a week for Sarah to not only get back to her grandfather, but for the two families to meet and give them the thumbs up.

“That’s… that’s great! Honestly, I didn’t think it’d be this easy. As for the curse, I think it might only apply to the owners of the house. As long as Sarah doesn’t come with us.” She laughs lightly before asking, “Are you sure you want to do this, then? Spend the night in this scary old place? It sounds like we aren’t allowed to bring that priest or voodoo mambo like I suggested.”

GM: “Of course,” Yvette answers. “It’ll be a much better presentation if Ah can actually go inside the ‘ouse we’ll be talking about, no? Besides, mah mother and Ah already asked Monsieur Whitney. ’E’s been so nice to us, Ah’d be rude to back out now. Ah didn’t ask ‘im about any priests, though. Ah wouldn’t want to bother one over something like this. And don’t be silly, Ah wouldn’t want to damage the ’ouse letting in some voodoo clochard.”

Amelie: “That’s wise,” Amelie nods. “But I want you to know the offer is open. I can always spend the night alone with a camera. Though I think I’ll bring one anyway.” She doesn’t overlook Yvette calling Vodouisant priests tramps, but she lets it go.

“I’m heading to a cathedral after school today, however. I’ll at least ask the priest their advice on the matter. The interaction between religion and ghosts is something interesting I’d like to explore. How Catholics love to have buildings consecrated and exorcised of spirits, and how New Orleans’ Vodoun traditions interact with hauntings. Did they give a certain time they’d like us to visit?”

GM: “Oui,” Yvette answers, “Frahday next week. Monsieur Whitney said it would take a bit to pull strings, and mah mother would rather Ah did something like that on a non-school night.”

“And that’s very nice of you, but Monsieur Whitney is letting me stay the night as a favor to mah mother. ’E’s letting me bring one classmate, but Ah ’ave to be there with ’er.”

Amelie: “That’s good of him. I’ll have to think him personally, if I ever get the chance. Friday gives us time, though, that’s good. Maybe we should call Ms. Perry over and inform her of the good news. I’m sure she’d be amazed.”

GM: “Be mah guest,” Yvette offers as she scrolls through something on her laptop.

Ms. Perry is talking to another pair of students, but in the ten-girl class, Amelie does not have to try very hard or wait for very long to make herself heard. “All righty, what can I do for you gals?” the black-haired teacher asks as she strides over.

Amelie: Amelie nods and beckons Ms. Perry when she can, smiling as the teacher approaches. “We just wanted to give you the good news. We secured a night pass to stay in the LaLaurie House for our project.”

GM: “Oh wow, for real? You two better watch out for that curse, no telling if it might haunt you later,” Ms. Perry smiles.

Yvette replies with a faintly sardonic one. “We can only ‘ope not, ma’am.”

Amelie: “The curse has only ever affected owners though, hasn’t it?”

GM: “Good point,” Ms. Perry laughs. “you two are probably safe if you don’t plan on moving in. But that’s wonderful for you though, really it is. Who knows when that house is going to get snagged up by another movie star… take as many pictures as you can, hear?”

Amelie: “How about you make a small list of things you’d like us to document specifically? I’m sure we can help you out with your curiosity. As long as the ‘attic’ isn’t on that list, of course.” It’s a question in the back of her mind she knows the teacher doesn’t have an answer for, if they sealed that space off or filled it in.

GM: “Oh, that’s a great idea. If the attic is off, definitely the courtyard… that’s where a young slave was supposed to have jumped to her death, because she was so terrified of what Madam LaLaurie would do to her.” Ms. Perry’s smile turns a touch self-depreciating. “I gotta admit I’m just a little jealous. The most haunted house in the city, all yours for one spooooky night.” Yvette smirks and rolls her eyes as Ms. Perry raises her fingers to eye level and wiggles then as if to pantomime a ghost.

Amelie: Amelie chuckles lightly, enjoying the banter. “Actually, ma’am, I do have a question. The slaves in Madam LaLaurie’s possession… were most slaves in those times Christian, or followers of voodoo?”

GM: “You know, that’s a somewhat tricky question,” Ms. Perry answers as she sits down. “We have to remember that Vodoun developed in response to early African slaves being forcibly converted to Catholicism, and as a means for them to continue practicing their native faiths under the watch of their owners. West African religions are syncretic, so the slaves had no problems adopting Catholic saints into their ‘pantheon’, or just viewing them as equivalent names and faces to loa they already revered. The loa Papa Legba, for instance, is considered the same figure as the Catholic St. Peter, and Damballah is another mask for St. Patrick. Fun myth there-,” the teacher smirks, “-the saint who drove the snakes from Ireland in Catholicism is a giant snake in Vodoun.”

“As time went on,” she continues, “Vodoun adopted more Catholic trappings, and its followers didn’t see all that much difference between being Catholic and being a Vodouisant. Marie Laveau considered herself both and she was married in a Catholic ceremony by Padre Antonio, the city’s probably most famous priest. It took time for Vodoun to evolve from an underground religion in the early 1700s into a more public one and even influential social force by the mid-1800s. By the time of Madam LaLaurie, there were around fifteen different voodoo queens who’d amassed quite a bit of power. In fact, it was only a year after Madam LaLaurie’s abuses were exposed, in 1835, that Marie Laveau became New Orleans’ more or less supreme voodoo queen. There’s actually a story that the two of them knew one another—which isn’t impossible, Marie Laveau had a lot of upper-class customers—and raised a baby who was the Devil’s own son together.” Ms. Perry smiles over the rims of her half-oval glasses. “I can’t vouch for whether that last bit’s true, though.”

“Are there many voodoo followers these days?” Yvette asks.

The teacher seems to think for a moment. “They’re still around, but there’s a lot fewer than there used to be. Particularly after Katrina, since a lot of the real believers were poor and some of the most displaced by the storm. People who practice Vodoun these days might just be purely ‘in it for the money’ as something to commercialize and sell to tourists. Others might think of Vodoun as part of their cultural heritage but not ‘really’ believe in it, like an atheist Jew who still celebrates Passover and Hanukkah. Others might think of themselves as Catholic Vodouisants like Marie Laveau did. And probably only a small minority see Vodoun as an exclusive religion.”

“Of course, I might just be talking out of my rear end there,” Ms. Perry smirks, “I don’t actually have any Vodouisant friends. If you ask a Catholic, they’ll probably see Vodoun as a distinct religion, and if you ask a Protestant, they’re even more likely to. History shows us that religion is pretty mutable, and trying to assign hard labels to people’s beliefs can be a tricky thing.”

“But to actually answer to your question, Ms. Savard,” the teacher finishes, “Madam LaLaurie’s slaves were probably Vodouisants who also attended Catholic Mass.”

“Ah don’t see ‘ow that must work, ma’am,” Yvette frowns. “Catholicism isn’t just believing in saints. Do followers of voodoo, for instance, believe in the ‘Oly Trinity? It would seem more like another religion if they don’t. Ah mean, Islam believes in Jesus, but not that ’E is the son of God or rose from the dead.”

“Afraid I can’t answer that, Ms. Devillers. My degree’s in history, not theology.”

“Hmm, well, one thing you maybe can. Is that what they’re called, people who follow the religion? ‘Followers of voodoo’?”

“That’s a somewhat roundabout way of describing them,” Ms. Perry smiles. “The religion’s name is Vodoun, or ‘Vodou’ with a ‘u’—the spelling with two ’o’s is how Hollywood spells it. ‘Vodouisants’ or ‘Vodouists’ is the term we use for someone who believes Vodoun. Less of a mouthful, isn’t that?”

“Oui. Rather so,” Yvette smiles faintly back.

Amelie: Amelie keeps quiet as she listens to Yvette and Ms. Perry talk, nodding along and thinking up questions. Papa Legba makes her think of two things, the first of which is Baba Yaga. Despite her fascination with New Orleans, the study of fencing takes one to northern Europe and its own legends and folktales.

The other thing Legba makes her think of is an embarrassingly cheesy new TV series in which Papa Legba and Madame LaLaurie are prominent characters. The loa is depicted as a sly and playful man who makes iron deals and doles out harsh punishments in hell. Now that she thinks about it, his demon-like role paints him in a very Catholic light. She doubts West African Vodouisants had ideas about hell before the Catholics sewed it into their skin.

“The issue I think I’m taking is that I see Louisiana as a very strange spot, in that I don’t think I could rightfully lump it all together. From my reading, New Orleans’ development of voodoo, with all ’o’s’, basically became a local ‘folkway’. Not quite African or Haitian Vodou, not quite Deep South hoodoo, but very much a practice while I would be wary to call it a religion. Yet we all associate this Creole ‘folkway’ with the voodoo queen Marie Laveau. Of course, you can steal a name and commercialize it, and that’s indeed what’s happened. I can’t qeeqle any spelling of Vodou without some mid-50s white woman in middle America telling me her gris-gris is 30% off.”

She’s not smiling as she makes the joke. New Orleans’ commercialization bothers her.

“I think it’s a question to ask, though. Maybe I’ll snoop around for a living practitioner to get her two cents on New Orleans’ dearly not-so-departed for the paper.”

GM: “Talking to someone who knows more about Vodoun than us couldn’t hurt,” Ms. Perry nods. “Who knows, maybe you’ll pick up a new thing or two to teach us about the religion.”

Amelie: Amelie nods and taps the table with her finger as the wheels turn in her head. It might be best to get the opinion of both or either a Catholic priest and a Vodouisant. She hasn’t taken confession in a while, anyway.

“Either way, we should bring plenty of cameras and take some video as well. With how much it’s been renovated I’m sure it’s not anything like it once was, but if we work at it I’m sure we can identify original features between all the replicas. Though I have to wonder what they may have done with ‘that’ attic door.”

GM: “Perhaps you’ll just get to find out,” Ms. Perry smiles.

Friday afternoon, 21 August 2015

GM: After school gets out for the day, Amelie either walks or skates home on the now-familiar route past rows of old houses, verdant gardens, and majestic Southern live oaks. The muggy heat is no less stifling than it was on her first week in New Orleans, and perspiration is slick against the Canadian transplant’s back when she finally enters her aunt’s blessedly cool, air-conditioned house. Christina is not home. After a quick shower, Amelie hits up the internet for her latest line of research.

Amelie: Amelie enjoys the trip more on skates, at least. Her speed makes the wind rush right past her and cools her off slightly. Still, her first thought when she opens the door is a string of expletives in two languages as she feels sweat making her uniform stick to her back. The shower and change of clothes greatly improve her mood as she sits down by her room’s desk and turns on her laptop. The former already houses several stacks of printed reference material as she works towards her next goal: the Vodouisants of New Orleans.

GM: Amelie’s search proves slow going, but she eventually turns up the names of several Vodouisants who also sound like priests (mambos and houngans, as the female and male ones are respectively called).

A man named Toussaint turns up the most results. He is apparently known for hosting semi-public rites and ceremonies in Tremé, the Ninth Ward, and other poorer parts of the city. Toussaint does not maintain a personal website, Facebook page, Twitter feed, or other social media presence that Amelie can find. Indeed, she only finds out that he exists by cross-referencing a number of police reports (many people associated with him have been arrested at some time or other), and an article by the Times-Picayune about “modern voodoo kings and queens in the Big Easy.”

A woman named Julia Jackson claims to sell charms, curses, love potions, and assorted spells from her shop in the French Quarter. She actually has a website, if one that is fairly dated-looking.

A woman named Mama Rosa has been the subject of an anthropologist’s book about Vodoun. Like Toussaint, she has no website of her own, but she is mentioned in the Wikipedia article about the anthropologist (Margaret Harrell), which makes it sound like she lives in either Tremé or the Quarter.

Amelie uncovers two final names from some more online police reports: Doc Tom in Central City and Mama Wedo in the Ninth Ward.

All told, she concludes, legitimate practitioners of Vodoun do not seem to maintain a very large online presence.

Amelie: Two names catch Amelie’s attention the most. Mama Rosa and Mama Wedo. She’s in a girls’ school, so it makes sense to pander to that in her report. She could outline the prominence of ‘voodoo queens’ over the traditional patriarch-driven priesthood of so many other religions. Doc Tom and Toussaint both come up as possibilities too, though Toussaint’s semi-fame makes her a bit dubious. Just because you’re public doesn’t mean you’re authentic. Julia Jackson doesn’t even earn a footnote. Having a store, and one in the French Quarter no less, makes Amelie instantly disregard her. She starts with Mama Wedo, a very mysterious-sounding name if nothing else, and looks around for any means of contacting her.

GM: Amelie looks through page after page of Qeeqle results, but cannot find a surname (or given name?) to attach alongside Wedo. Locating an address or phone number for the potential mambo proves frustratingly out of reach.

Mama Rosa’s surname, however, proves easier to locate after Amelie pulls up the title of the book she is featured in (Mama Rosa: A Vodou Priestess in Little Cuba). A few more searches on the online yellow pages pull up both a phone number and a home address in Bywater.

Amelie gives the number a call. The phone rings for a while. “You’ve reached Rosa Rouzier. Leave a message,” states an older-sounding woman’s firm voice. A beep follows.

Amelie: Amelie plans out what to say before dialing the number, but she’s almost relieved when she hears the tone ask her to leave a message. The woman sounds old, which matches what her research turned up, and the name she gives matches too. It’s the best chance the teenager is probably going to get.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Amelie Savard, I was just calling because I was looking for your advice. I’m spending a night in the LaLaurie House for research purposes, and with the stories and my research pointing to those departed from life being Vodousiants in life, I wanted to approach the house as respectfully as possible. Thank you the time you’ve already spent listening to this message, and have a lovely day. Thank you.”

GM: Amelie hits the ‘end call’ button on her new phone. The rest of the weekend stretches before her—and the rest of the week until her promised night in the LaLaurie House.

Amelie: Amelie glances at the time, then grabs her things and hurries out the door. This is a good time to make the other half of her trip until she can talk to Mama Rosa. She uses her phone to navigate the city’s public transportation system and heads out to the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis in Jackson Square. The St. Charles streetcar has a route from the Garden District to the French Quarter every ten minutes. Perfect.

GM: The streetcar doesn’t sound like the bus. There’s a distinct clang-clang as it clatters along the tracks, like a tiny railroad car, and a low roar that follows in its wake. Amelie pays to get on, like any other bus. The seats are wood instead of cushioned, the ceiling is a woodish-hued maroon, and its largest advertisement for a local restaurant.


Amelie: Amelie enjoys the streetcar. It’s open-air and feels heavy as it moves. No plastic and paper-thin buses with fogged and closed windows whose wheels grind along bad roads. This mode of transportation feels solid, grounded, and loud not least of all. She puts her earbuds in and leaves the music off just to have a small bit of insulation.

GM: The terminus of her destination is just off Royal Street, at a restaurant called the Court of Two Sisters.


The first thing she notices about the Quarter is how much louder it is than the Garden District. The beeping noise of ongoing traffic was all but absent outside her aunt’s house, as was the indistinct din of multitudes of human beings walking, talking, and going about their lives. The occasional clop-clop of horse’s hooves reminds her that she isn’t in just any city.

So does the music from wafting from three men in white t-shirts and pale fedoras. Each sits on a folding chair in the middle of the street. Their cello quivers, low and deep, while their trombone and saxophone blare and wail. A small crowd listens. Some people record the performance on their phones. A man and woman pull one another into an impromptu swing dance and get cheered by onlookers. A golf cart-like patrol vehicle with a blue-uniformed police officer rolls by.

Not far off, spectators laugh, gawk, and snap pictures at another attraction.

Worth a picture—worth a dollar
Coffins are expensive—tipping is appreciated
Need money for a proper burial

Amelie: Amelie pulls out her earbuds just in time to be assaulted by a wave of new sounds. Royal Street’s noise and architecture is a feast for her senses. People using the streets to panhandle with clever routines and good music is an almost welcome change from the pockmarked tweaker back home who’d use broken French to ask “do you got any change, I need a coffee” from people who can barely stand. The dog gives her a fright for a split second before her eyes scan the sign.

GM: A man abruptly dashes up to Amelie. He is a short, weaselly-looking fellow with dark skin and watery gray eyes. “Hey, girl. Betcha twenty dollars I know where you got your shoes!” he calls.


Amelie: The man is the two in a one-two punch and makes Amelie nearly jump as she turns away from the dog and almost runs into him. She pulls herself together as the man talks and smirks lightly at his proposed bet. She digs a hand into her jeans and pulls a $10 bill out of her wallet to offer him. “Sorry, I’m a shitty gambler. Better just buy out before you know my tells. You mind giving me some directions though, Mr…?”

GM: “Oh, why, ’course, girl! I know this city like the palm of my hand!” the watery-eyed man exclaims, happily plucking the bill from Amelie’s fingers as he dances up around her.

Amelie: Amelie turns on her heel to keep the man’s eyes level with hers. She notes he didn’t take the hint to give his name. “I’m looking for the St. Louis Cathedral.”

GM: The man leans forward and taps Amelie’s shoulder, then quickly pulls away and slinks behind her, pointing down the street as she follows his hand. “One block down Royal, stop at the green lawn with the Jesus statue. Can’t miss it!”

That’s also when Amelie spots his other hand creeping towards the pocket she pulled out her wallet from.

Amelie: Smooth as the man is (or thinks he is), he’s doing this in a heavy tourist area. Making movements too quick and close for anyone to follow just shows what he’s up to. The shoulder tap is an even bigger warning, and Amelie’s hands go in her pockets as she spots where the man’s hand is moving. She grips her wallet firmly and mentally thanks the Lonely Planet Guide to New Orleans for its sidebar about pickpockets and conmen in the French Quarter.

“Sorry, sir, but I’m not technically a tourist. Thank you though, you have a good day.”

She steps away from the man and briskly heads in the cathedral’s without another word. Her hands stay firmly in both pockets.

GM: “Fuck you, dyke! Even got your directions!” the man whines after Amelie as she leaves.

Amelie: Amelie just waves with the hand not gripping her wallet and doesn’t waste any more energy. He’s got to make a living too, and it’s not worth dragging him through the mud or reporting him to the police. Part of her really wants to punish him for trying, though. What a rude little man. Still, taking in the sights on her way to the cathedral puts her in a good move again.

GM: The man’s directions at least prove true. It is not overlong before the soaring cathedral fills Amelie’s vision.



Its semi-famed Christ statue is less ominous when the sun is up. The edifice casts a tremendous black shadow, like something distorted by a fun-house mirror, in the nighttime photographs Amelie has viewed. One’s gaze is still all but pulled to the Nazarene’s enveloping stone arms, which stretch wide as if to receive all the world’s poor sinners into his fold.

Amelie next passes through the so-called Pirate’s Alley to reach the front of the cathedral.


Jackson Square. The cultural and historic heart of the Big Easy.


The square is named for its iconic equestrian bronze statue of Andrew Jackson mounted on horseback, erected to commemorate the former president and general’s victory at the 1815 Battle of New Orleans. The area around the statue is landscaped with circular paths, fountains, trees, flower beds, gas lamps, and an iron fence. Benches and statues of the four seasons sit in the corners.


The Jackson statue is fronted on two sides by matching red-brick, block-long 4-story buildings: the Upper Pontalba Building and the Lower Pontalba Building. The ground floors house shops and restaurants; the upper floors are apartments, inhabited since 1849 by some of the city’s wealthiest residents, and the oldest continuously-rented apartments in North America.


The third side of Jackson Square overlooks the Washington Artillery Park & Moonwalk. The former attraction holds a Civil War canon in honor of the 141st Field Artillery of the Louisiana National Guard, while the latter is a brick walking path named in dedication to former mayor Moon Landrieu.



Jackson Square’s fourth side faces the church its image has become nigh-synonymous with in photographs: Saint Louis Cathedral, the oldest continually operating church in the United States, and the seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New Orleans.


The historic cathedral is flanked by the Cabildo and the Presbytere. Once, Amelie knows these two early Spanish structures were used by the state supreme court and by the city as a courthouse. Today they constitute the Louisiana State Museum.




But Jackson Square is more than historic buildings and tourist attractions.







Artists hawk their wares and works to flocks of chattering Japanese tourists, curious college students, and Midwestern parents. Painters and photographers try their hands at capturing the city’s image for posterity. Mimes pantomime their struggles to escape invisible prisons. Jugglers dextrously toss rainbow-colored clubs through the air to applauding audiences. New Age and neopagan devotees tell fortunes and read palms and tarot cards, promising to “lay bare the mysteries of your past, divine the portents of your future!” Horses pull carriages as tour guides regale audiences with anecdotes from the the Crescent City’s history (such as the murdered sultan of Dauphine Street, a fantastically wealthy Turk who moved into a renoved townhouse with a harem of bewitching slave girls and eunuch bodyguards, only for them all to be savagely rent limb from limb by assailants unknown). A man in a gold spray-painted sweatshirt, with equally golden spray-painted skin, mutely regards his onlookers as he proceeds towards some unknowable destination with exaggerated, robotic steps. Off by the Artillery Park, a small boy climbs onto the Civil War cannon while his mother shouts for him to get back down.

The music never ceases. There’s saxophonists, trombonists, and buskers aplenty throughout the area around the Square, but it’s the slow and heartful tune of a violin that most catches Amelie’s ears. An older man wearing plain clothes stands near the statue of Andrew Jackson, a violin case open in front of him. His eyes are closed as he gently plays a superb rendition of Schubert’s Ave Maria. Onlookers gather around the man. Some toss coins or bills into his case, but he doesn’t acknowledge them or open his eyes. He simply continues to play, seemingly lost in his music.

The cathedral’s tall black doors silently loom past the statue of America’s seventh president.

Amelie: Jackson Square’s degree of activity is almost dizzying to Amelie. She could always tell from pictures that New Orleans is a bustling city, alive with everything one could imagine, but actually being there is a completely diffetent experience. She stops every few steps to take something new in, and it soon gets to the point where she’s grabbing onto random objects just to feel them beneath her hands. Old walls. The alley’s wrought iron fences. Glass lanterns. Door frames. The city’s history is well and alive. Every sight is incredible. The style isn’t as intricate or grand as Château Frontenac, but the feeling is so much more open and classical. It’s like the people who lived here wanted to feel the wind every moment of their lives. It’s almost strange how touching that suddenly feels.

Amelie wanders for enough time to realize the heat might start to get to her if she doesn’t make her way inside. She slows her pace past the master violinist and the many artists and fortune-tellers. It’s only a few more moments before she makes her way up the cathedral’s doors and smooths her hands along the old wood before she pushes them open.

GM: It’s just as Amelie shakes off her semi-stupor that she feels a hand lightly brushing against her side. Against her pocket. She sharply turns around.


It’s the guy from earlier. The same one.

Amelie: Amelie’s expression is clear as death as her hand darts to check for her wallet. She’s starting to get angry. “In front of a church!? I was more than fair with you, leave me alone!”

GM: The watery-eyed man quickly withdraws his hand as Amelie catches him. His features are scrunched in frustration as she confirms her wallet is still there.

“Cheap-ass carpet-muncher! I’d rather suck dick than stick mine in a cunt as slimed over as yours! You wanna be a man so bad, ‘girl’, you too chickenshit to hack off those walnut-sized tits?”

Amelie: Amelie feels it coming like a crashing wave behind her eyelids. Her turning point towards violence.

“Cheap!? What planet are you from!? It’s my wallet, you windshield eye wiper-needing motherfucker! Why are you wasting your time being butthurt that I know a pickpocket when I see one, rather than going and digging too close to some tourist’s dick! What, you wanna hold a grudge like a woman, go cut off that gumbo shrimp you call a dick and cook it for your mother so you can both go eat a dick! I’m calling the cops!”

GM: The man dances behind Amelie and laughs in her ear, a sound not unlike an apoleptic hissing cobra. She feels wet flecks of spittle against her neck and hair.

“Ha ha! Go ahead, dyke hag! Cops don’t give a fuck! Go back to ’Frisco!” the man jeers.

Amelie: Pop. The crashing wave turns into a watershed.

Amelie doesn’t bother with retorts. Her expression visibly calms, but her body moves frighteningly fast. The ‘dyke hag’ steps back with her left foot and spins, putting her her whole hip into a hook shot aimed right for the man’s crotch.

It’s not her first fight. The little girl teased for being too strong while chasing scared boys with sticks got into plenty of those.

GM: Amelie’s fist drives into the jeering man’s testicles like a jackhammer. His bulging eyes are practically wide enough to resemble china plates as his mouth puckers into a perfect ‘o’, his knees buckle out from under him, and he topples helplessly to the ground.

“Ohhh-hhh-ohhh… hhh… yyyeeaaah…” he moans.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t say anything. She double-checks her wallet and pulls out her phone to dial 911 as she heads towards the church doors for protection. She gave the man slack before, but now she just wants the cops to take him away so she can get on with her afternoon.

Despite everything, though, she has to admit she needed that. It’s a chunk of frustration off her shoulders.

GM: The man’s watery eyes rapidly blink. His lips pull back from his teeth into a grimace… and quivering smile that has all the warmth and greasiness of melted butter. His left hand weakly caresses his battered manhood. His right one snags out to grab the leg of Amelie’s jeans.

“Hit me… ’gain… dykie!” he wheezes.

Meanwhile, exclamations of notice go up from Jackson Square’s many and now-gawking bystanders.

Amelie: Amelie stuffs her wallet into her sports bra to keep it safe as she pulls out her phone, dials 911 and calls to the crowd, “HELP! This man keeps trying to take my wallet! You! Guy in the red shirt, please come help me hold him down while I call 911!” She tries to cut through the bystander effect as she listens to the phone dialing and plants a foot on the man’s back keep him on the ground.

GM: A few more people gawk as Amelie sticks her wallet down her shirt, but calling 911 turns out to be unnecessary when she spots a man already making his way through the staring and picture-snapping crowd. He’s wearing a short-sleeved pressed shirt, dark green pants, and full black utility belt. The side of his shirt is printed with a six-pointed star with the Louisiana pelican in its center. His clean-shaven, ruddy-complexioned doughy face is set in a humoring smirk. “Ma’am, please remove your foot and step away from that man.”

“Off… cer! She att… acked me! She’s crazy!” the would-be pickpocket wheezes from the ground.

Amelie: Amelie hangs up the call and slides her phone back into her pocket. She puts up her hands and takes a step back, should the man not still be clinging to her jeans, and folds her hands in front of her as she waits for the police officer.

“This man asked for money when I stepped off the 12 to St. Charles. I gave him ten dollars and he tried to take my wallet. Followed me here when I caught him and walked away, sir.”

GM: “That’s… not true! Search me, officer, I ain’t got ten bucks!” the man wheezes, ambling to his feet as he dusts himself off. He has since released Amelie.

“Uh-huh, I see. What was he doing on the ground?” the cop asks.

Bystanders continue to hold their phones up around the trio. Clicks and tapping noises go up from many.

Amelie: Amelie steps a few more feet away from the man as he gets up. “He kept trying to get behind me and I was afraid. So I punched him in the crotch, sir.”

GM: “Uh-huh now,” the police officer clucks.

“She did! She’s crazy! She’s a psycho!” Amelie’s would-be pickpocket whines in agreement.

Amelie: Amelie just keeps a straight back and a calm face. “Should I get my IDs out for you, sir? I put them in my shirt.”

GM: There’s a few laughs and ‘wows’ from the crowd. The only person seemingly unmoved is the violinist. His eyes are still closed and his face remains tranquil as he gently strums the instrument.

The officer pulls out some handcuffs and snaps them around the dark-skinned man’s wrists.

“Hey! Bullshit!” he whines.

“Ma’am, please come with me,” the cop states as he takes the man’s arm and leads him away.

Amelie: Amelie obeys the officer, takes her wallet back out of her shirt, and puts it back into her pants. She keeps quiet as she lets him lead.

GM: “You’re under arrest, blah blah Miranda warning, I’m sure you remember it as well as I do by now,” the cop drawls to the man in a familiar tone as the three walk off.

“This is bullshit! You’d cuff her if she wasn’t white!” the man whines.

“Probably,” the cop agrees. “Now you know the first law in the Quarter as well as I do, pervert.”

Amelie: The exchange is hauntingly familiar. Just replace ‘black’ with ‘native’, turn the thermostat down, and Amelie’s back home again. But she knows it’s better to keep quiet and follow the officer’s directions until spoken to.

GM: The officer leads the three only a short distance off from Jackson Square where his Polaris is parked. The vehicle resembles nothing so much as a militarized golf cart. He helps the sullen-looking cuffed man into the back seat.

“I didn’t do nothing!” the pickpocket whines.

The officer turns back to regard Amelie and grins widely. “You know, ma’am, I’m on patrol for the French Quarter Response Force right now.”

Amelie: Amelie gives him a confused look. “French Quarter Response Force? I’m sorry, I’m new to New Orleans, I’m not familiar. But thank you for your service, in either case.”

GM: “Yeah, Mr. Moreno thanks us too,” says the cop. “I’m getting paid $50 an hour right now, plus goodies like gift certificates at Ruth’s Chris Steak House whenever I pick up troublemakers. Those are usually $100. Mr. Moreno doesn’t want any trash on these streets, no sir.”

Amelie: “That’s… wow, that’s staggering. Does Mr. Moreno own a lot of property in the French Quarter?”

GM: “Oh yes, he’s very concerned about public safety. There’s a lot of crime here in the Quarter,” the cop agrees. “Like psycho dykes punching people in the balls.”

“She did! She even said so!” the cuffed man wheedles.

Amelie: Amelie winces a bit and nods slowly. She deserves that. “I’m sorry, officer. I didn’t mean to cause trouble, I was up against a wall and stopped thinking. I was here to visit the cathedral for a paper, and already explained what happened after that.”

GM: “Oh now, ma’am, I understand how it is,” the officer smiles. “This pervert’s always making trouble. Frankly, I’d be kicking him in the balls too, if I didn’t know he got off to it.”

The smile widens to a grin.

“Sounds like you’re a student somewhere too, to be working on a paper?”

Amelie: Amelie nods slightly. “I’d tell you where, but I don’t put it past present company to visit me there.”

She instead pulls out her student ID and hands it to him. “I’m asking about the haunting at the LaLaurie House.”

GM: “Oh now, you go to McGehee? I hear that’s a pretty nice school. Your family must be rich,” the cop remarks unconcernedly as he looks over Amelie’s ID and hands it back.

Amelie: Amelie winces when the man says it out loud anyway. Still, it’s not like the watery-eyed man can easily get that deep into the Garden District.

“Not really, sir, no. But I had the grades for it. But if there’s nothing else you need, am I free to continue back to the cathedral?”

GM: “Really, your folks ain’t rich? You get a scholarship, something like that?” the cop asks.

Amelie: “More like… a loan. I’ll be paying it back when I leave high school.”

GM: “Now ain’t that a plum shame for us both,” the policeman clucks.

“Still, I can see how things might be for you. You must owe a lotta money already, going someplace nice like that. I sure wouldn’t wanna owe any more if I was you.”

Amelie: “Well, and then there’s college to think about,” she mentions, feeling a lump in her throat. She can’t follow the cop’s thought process here.

“But, do you mind I get going, sir? I’m kind of shaky still, and I’d like to… get my info for my paper, and head home.”

GM: “Since you said you’re new to town, ma’am, battery carries a fine of up to $1,000 here. Here in the great state of Louisiana,” the cop grins. “Plus up to six months in jail. The judge’ll see you up to three days later, and you gotta hire a lawyer to wrangle out the plea deal. You gotta strip naked in front of a buncha cops when you check into jail, too.”

The cuffed man shoots Amelie a rancid smirk.

Amelie: Amelie’s eyes widen slightly at the man’s talk as she clears her throat. Is he trying to blackmail her or just scare her?

“That’s… not pleasant to think about, sir.”

She’s not scared of the threats. It’s more the man himself who’s leaving her ill at ease. Americans and their shit law system are lots of fun to poke at from a distance, but right up close is another matter.

GM: “Oh yes, it’s not,” the cop agrees as he pulls out a second pair of handcuffs from his Polaris and walks up close to Amelie.

“But y’know, lawyer, judge, three days… you’ve got money. Be a lot easier on us all to cut out the middlemen, wouldn’t it?” he drawls quietly.

Amelie: Amelie gives an ‘aha’ in her head and mentally pulls herself together as the man makes his intentions clear. She takes a small breath and nods her head as she thinks. It’s a gamble, but she goes for it.

“I don’t have any family besides my aunt, sir. She was a lawyer, so I’m not worried about the legalities. The naked thing doesn’t bother me a whole lot, either. But I don’t have anything to give you anyway, the loan went right to tuition, not into my pocket. I’m only still in high school. I’m also sure there’s a lot of paperwork to fill out, and I don’t want to burden you. May I please go, sir? I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

GM: The policeman laughs. It’s a hard and mirthless sound, but his eyes glint as he takes another step closer to Amelie. He casually plants an arm against the building wall behind her head.

“Well, missy, that’s too bad you don’t got any money. I’ll still get a gift card bringing you in. Here in the great state of Louisiana, see, which you don’t sound like you’re from, 20-year-olds happen to be grown-ups. Even if they are dumb enough to still be in high school. They go to the grown-ups’ jail, face grown-ups’ charges, and get to keep it all on their arrest records.”

The policeman leans forward until his grin fills Amelie’s vision. She can feel his breath hot against her face as he whispers, “See, missy… in this city, nothing is difficult, unless it has to be. Understand?”

Amelie: Amelie gives an ‘oh’ look like it’s no big deal, taps her chin, and nods.

“I understand, sir. I’m sorry, like you said, I’m not even from the States. I hope you didn’t think I was trying to make excuses. But I was honest about the money, I have maybe 20 dollars left in my wallet. What could I do to make this easy for everyone?”

His breath stinks. She wants to punch him and run, especially after the comment on her age, but that’d only make things worse.

GM: “You can match the $100 I’d get bringing you in, is what you can do,” the cop answers, but his voice is no longer an easy drawl. There’s a dangerously rising impatience to it.

Amelie: "Can I get to an ATM, then? Please?’

GM: The policeman stares into Amelie’s eyes, then pulls back and smiles again. “Don’t get any funny ideas now. I know your face.”

Amelie: “You know more than that, I showed you my ID,” she notes before letting him direct her to the nearest ATM. She just wants to get this over with.

GM: The man does not do so, and seems unwilling to leave behind the arrested and handcuffed man who harassed her earlier. The latter shoots Amelie a sullen glare. A dark look is starting to reappear on the former’s face.

Amelie: Amelie shrugs and tells him she’ll be right back. She resolves to just take the hundred dollar hit to her allowance and come back immediately.

GM: Amelie weaves back through Jackson Square’s now-reoccupied crowds and past the still-playing, close-eyed violinist. She is fortunately able to find an ATM in short order. The modern-looking machine is discongruently all but jack-hammered into the side of a historic-looking building.

The cop counts the $100 when she’s back, pockets it, and offers a friendly smile. “Stay out of trouble now, ma’am.”

The handcuffed pickpocket is gone from the Polaris.

Amelie: Amelie looks back at the cart, looks towards the cop, and offers a wordless nod as she turns away. A ball of violent hate rolls around in her gut. It’s already been too long of a day. She proceeds towards the cathedral again and resolves to take confession and calm herself down before she asks for a priest. She wants to get as far away from this situation as she can.

GM: The cop lays his hand on Amelie’s shoulder just as she turns to leave. “Oh, now let’s have that Jackson in your pocket too.”

Amelie: Amelie sighs as she takes out the $20 bill and hands it to him. “I have to give it to you, you’re smooth. I’ll learn from this and stay out of trouble.”

GM: “I get paid either way,” the cop offers with a simultaneous smile and shrug as he tucks away the bill. He climbs into his golf cart-like vehicle and drives off.

Amelie: Amelie just sneers at nothing. Moreno. She’ll remember that name.

Friday afternoon, 21 August 2015

GM: The interior of St. Louis Cathedral is cavernous enough for Amelie’s footsteps to audibly echo. Flags of nations from France to England to the United States hang from the ceiling, interspersed by the soft light of candlelit chandeliers. Tiny cherubs proffer basins of holy water beside gold-festooned pillars. Stained glass images of Christ and the Twelve Apostles serenely gaze down upon the Friday afternoon’s small congregation. Many of their heads are silently bowed in prayer. There are tourists too, but they are quiet as they take pictures. There is some quality endemic to cathedrals this vast and old that engenders a silence more total than any library’s. Amelie can make out two black-garbed and white-collared priests near the altar at the far end of the chamber.





Amelie: The silence is like a soothing breeze to Amelie. She breathes it in through her nose and out through her mouth as she takes in the beautiful surroundings and tries to calm herself. The historic church is everything she imagined. Bright and grand, with painstakingly detailed work and hand craftsmanship that preserves its history and import. Just three years to go until the third centennial for this great building.

The young woman keeps her steps quiet and approaches the end of the aisle where the two fathers are. She hopes she won’t bother them too much with her interruptions.

GM: The two priests are engaged in discussion near the statue of St. Peter, who bears heaven’s keys in his right hand. The first priest is an older man in maybe his 70s with a full head of silvery hair. His equally full salt and pepper beard has only a few streaks of pepper still left among the salt. Bushy eyebrows meet over weary blue-gray eyes and a thick, wide nose. He leans heavily upon a cane.


The second priest looks much younger, perhaps in his early 30s. He has slim, almost facial features, ash-brown hair, and solemn gray eyes.


“…Father, you are unwell,” states the younger priest.

“You have responsibilities, Adam,” the older one answers. Both of their voices are quiet, though his volume is especially low.

“As do we all. But there are few parishioners here now, and you may better serve the later ones if you are rested and healthy.

The older priest seems to chew on the younger one’s words, then finally replies, “All right. So long as you stay here. I will call you if I need you.”

“Of course, Father.”

The priests exchange farewells as the older one limps off, clearly favoring one leg (and his cane). The younger priest initially moves to assist him, but the older one motions him off.

The younger priest watches his senior go, then turns to regard Amelie. “May I help you?” he asks quietly.

Amelie: Amelie initially approaches the priests with intent, but takes a respectful few steps back when she hears their still-ongoing conversation. She doesn’t mean to eaveadrop, but she can’t help but respect them both after what she overhears. One is concerned for the other one, who’s concerned for their flock. The end of their conversation is not good news for her intentions, though.

“I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to interupt. Though it seems less likely now that any priests are free for confession?”

GM: “I am available,” the ashen-haired priest answers Amelie.

Amelie: "Only if you’re sure, Father. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your senior. Do you take confession in the booth? "

GM: “The confessional is the only place a priest receives confession, barring a just reason to hear it elsewhere,” the priest answers Amelie. He turns and leads her a short distance away from the altar towards the grilled and box-shaped wooden structure. Amelie enters through a door-less latticed opening that leaves her still visible to the public. The priest remains hidden. There is no chair for the confessant to sit upon like some new churches have, but there is a kneeler.

Amelie: Amelie feels a bit sheepish when the priest has to correct her on how the confessional is used and even what it’s called. She follows him inside the wooden enclosure and slowly kneels. Movies made her think that was the confessant’s choice when she was younger, but historical paintings at least made her familiar with kneelers.

She’s silent for a few moments. It’s been awhile.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… four years and a half since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins,” she starts.

GM: The priest patiently listens.

Amelie: “When my father spun to the bottom of a bottle, he approached me with more and more anger every day. I was working in the shop to keep us fed, with the help of my neighbors. We were smiths in a small theme town in Quebec. Just a few months before I was taken from the house, he raged at me with a bottle and threatened to beat me. I took a sword off the wall. Just a sharpened blade with no handle. It made him angry and he lunged at me. When he did, I… I’m sorry. I swung at him, and sliced open his face from mouth to ear.”

“I stayed in a group home after that and was teased every day. I keep my hair short. People assume. But this one girl, an unapologetic terror, would not stop. Day and night. One day, she stole my clothes while I was in the shower. My hate boiled over the next day. I tore off my chair’s leg during group therapy and assaulted her with it.”

“I also feel like I’m taking advantage of my aunt. She worked to ship me across a country, took me in, gave me a home, and put me in a good school. But I feel like I have nothing to offer her. I feel like I’m a burden on her, and making her spend money on something she’ll get no returns on right away. I can’t even properly comfort her about her sister, my mother, vanishing.”

“I also… often think of fighting. It’s as though I need to best someone, or a tension behind my eyes won’t go away. I sated this by fencing when I was younger, but now that I’m not, I feel this pressure to strike out at people who wrong me. Like I did just today.”

“My final sin I can think of was just this past hour. A man approached me off the streetcar and tried to steal my wallet. I caught him and left, to come here. But he followed me. After he tried again, and I felt him becoming a threat, I struck him without thinking. Hard. A corrupt policeman blackmailed me into giving him money. So I paid. I was scared he’d arrest me for assault. But I didn’t realize until too late that he and the pickpocket were working together.”

“For these sins and all those that I cannot remember, I humbly repent and ask for absolution, counsel, and penance.”

GM: “Very well,” sounds the invisible voice behind the booth’s grill. “Let us begin with counsel. You say that you are a burden upon your aunt. Why do you believe she took you in?”

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t like the question. “I don’t know. We only saw each other a few times when I was growing up. I’d imagine it’s even painful to see me. Maybe just an obligation to my mother.”

GM: “Perhaps. Tell me, daughter, what is your interpretation of this scriptural verse? ‘Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.’”

Amelie: Amelie has to wonder on the passage for a moment, but she knows what the priest is trying to say in the process. “That it wishes people to treat children as though they were treasures.”

She wants to point out how old she is, versus the age of childbearing in the times the scripture would have been written, and the fact that she’s not her aunt’s child, but leaves the man to make his point.

GM: “The scripture tells us that children are treasures,” the priest corrects Amelie. “But you are otherwise correct.”

“You say that you wish to compensate your aunt for the money she has spent on your care. Yet according to a recent study by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the average cost for a middle-income family to raise a child from infancy to 17 years of age is just over $230,000. That is enough money to buy a house. That is enough money to buy many material things. Yet even the most materially fixated parents choose to forgo those things.”

“The decision whether to bring new life into the world is a deeply personal one, and parents may arrive at it for many different reasons. Yet few parents in the developed world realistically expect their children to be financially profitable ‘investments.’ As the scripture tells us, children have value beyond the material. Their value is intrinsic and decreed thus by God.”

“I do not know your aunt or her motivations for taking you in. Certainly, however, if she wanted ‘returns’, then finding another relative to care for you or simply leaving the foster system to do so would have been a more financially sound decision. It would seem more likely that your aunt was motivated by altruistic reasons such as love or a sense of responsibility—and recognition that caring for her sister’s child was important for reasons beyond simply money.”

Amelie: The priest’s numbers and statistics catch Amelie slightly off-guard. She wasn’t expecting those from a man of the cloth. They certainly lend weight to his following words, however.

It’s clear to Amelie how much she’s worrying over nothing, and how she might have taken her aunt’s comment about ‘treating us as roommates’ slightly out of context. She came to New Orleans expecting… something different. Roberts women don’t seem wired to be up front with their affections and emotions, among other things. Her mother and Christina are—or were—very much alike in that way.

Still, the father’s words put a dent on the issue, or at least let it breathe.

“I should talk to her more about that. Thank you, Father. Maybe it’s just me misunderstanding her. I’ve not been here with her too long.”

GM: “Seaking with your aunt to understand her better would then seem only logical. As to your thoughts of violence, which you satisfied through fencing, the solution to this would seem self-evident.”

Amelie: Amelie nods again. “There are no reputable fencing schools in New Orleans, but I found something similar that will fill the void thankfully.”

GM: “Pursuing that alternative, too, would seem only logical, if there is no obstacle that makes you mention it alongside your other sins and dilemmas.”

Amelie: “It’s already in motion, thankfully. There is nothing in the way of my attending that I’m aware of.”

Amelie still feels a block in her stomach of things she could spill out, but she hangs on to them for now. There’s more pressing matters she could use help with after this, and she figures that asking about ghosts during confession may not be very polite.

GM: “As to your father attempting to strike you in anger, that is a grave sin. As was your response in doing the same. ‘See that no one repays anyone evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to everyone.’ Your penance will be to deliver him an apology. Written or verbal, over whichever medium you find more convenient.”

Amelie: Amelie can almost hear her drunken twitching mess of a half-man father growling at her over the phone last week. Refusing to even speak to her in French. Silence is the only reply from her end of the partition for a moment as she wrestles with herself.

“Written would likely be easier,” is all she can finally manage, past the flurry of pride and hate in her gut that screams she owes him nothing.

GM: “Very good. Do you know the name of the girl in the group home whom you attacked?” the priest then inquires.

Amelie: “Not her real name, no. She used a nickname or a… street name, as she called it.”

GM: “I see. Call the group home in which you stayed. Find out her name and where she is now staying, if possible, and deliver her an apology for your actions as well.”

Amelie: Amelie’s gut is much more clear cut on this issue. It says NO. But the father is right that it’d make her the bigger person.

“I’ll try my best to find her. If they’ll give me the information, I’ll call her.”

GM: “As to the pickpocket you attacked, I believe you have already suffered an unjust, but nonetheless instructive consequence through being extorted by the policeman.”

Amelie: Amelie nods. There is really nothing to say for or against. “Yes, Father.”

GM: “You say it has been over four years since your last confession. I am sure it has also been a long time since you last said a rosary. Do that as well,” bids the unseen priest. “I will now hear your Act of Contrition.”

Amelie: Amelie nods to herself at the father’s request. She claws at her brain to remember the proper words translated from French to English.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”

GM: The unseen priest’s somber reply sounds through the booth’s grill.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

There is a pregnant pause, as if the priest might be tracing the sign of the cross through the air.

Amelie: Amelie does not look to see if he is, but maintains her kneeling position and makes a mental list of what the things she needs to do to make right. This isn’t her first time taking confession, but she’s never done penance for any gods but herself. Soul or not, she knows from experience how it feels to scrub the slate you sit upon.

She takes a deep breath after several moments of silence and nods. “Thank you, Father. I was hoping I could take a bit more of your time as well, once we end our confession. If you aren’t busy. I need advice on a matter of spirit.”

GM: “You have been given penance and absolved of your sins,” the priest answers. Amelie hears the sounds of footsteps from just beyond the booth. “Confession is over, but I will give what advice I can.”

Amelie: Amelie follows the priest out of the booth. “I would like to hear your advice about ghosts. I’m going to be spending the night in the LaLaurie House and heard this cathedral was said to be haunted as well. I thought consulting the church on matters of protection from those not quite passed—but still quite wrathful, I hear—would be wise.”

GM: The priest frowns deeply. Perhaps at Amelie’s strange phraseology, perhaps at the topic of ghosts. “As Catholics, we believe in that which science tells us is unbelievable. We believe in the power of saints to perform miracles and to intercede on our behalf. We do not teach that souls, angry or otherwise, linger on earth after the deaths of their bodies. Any contact we have with the dead comes through the experience of faith, not the empirical channels employed by purported ‘scientists’ in pursuit of the paranormal. God alone has power to control and invoke the supernatural. Ghost hauntings are stories told for the entertainment of tourists and no more.”

Amelie: Amelie nods but doesn’t otherwise react to his statement. It’s a good quote to put in her paper.

“It’s for a paper I have to write for a class on the history of New Orleans, Father. I didn’t mean any offense. If that’s the official stance of you and the church, I can leave it at that. I’m happy to hear you haven’t been bothered or taken in by the trappings of tourist rumors, however. You must have more than a few people come to you asking about the ghost of Père Antoine.”

GM: “We do,” the priest answers. “We also see many self-proclaimed mediums, astrologers, tarot readers, psychics, and other spiritualists in the area around Jackson Square. If you were to ask them, they would purport to be able to establish contact with Père Antoine and countless other historical figures. If you would indeed like to know the church’s official dogma for your paper, we teach that all forms of divination are to be rejected. This includes recourse to Satan and demons, conjuring up the dead, and other practices falsely purported to ‘unveil’ the future. Consulting palm readers, interpreting omens, an interest in clairvoyance—all of this conceals a desire for power over time, history, and, in the last analysis, other human beings. Belief in the supernatural contradicts the honor, respect, and loving fear that we owe to God alone. Spiritualism is hostile to all of the world’s religions, and the miracles attributed to Christ and the saints stand on a level high above all spiritic interpretation.”

“Was there further advice you wanted to ask of me, daughter?”

Amelie: Amelie nods. She remembers quite a few of those psychics in Jackson Square, but the bulk of her thoughts are on the priest. She’s never really seen someone so straightlaced working for the church before. But she shakes her head at his question.

“No, Father. I’ve taken up quite a bit of your time, thank you for seeing me.”

GM: Amelie takes her leave of the cathedral and makes her way down Jackson Square’s tourist-filled streets on the route back to the streetcar. When she pauses to adjust her loose backpack, though, a note card tumbles out.

Amelie: Amelie keeps her strides quick and wide as she resolves to ignore the people around her—unlike last time. Movement still catches her eye, however. She stoops to pick up the card.

GM: Amelie sees that the faded, coffee-stained piece of paper is actually a business card for a one ‘Tante Lescaut’s Occult Curiosities, Horoscopes, & Palmistry.’ The back of the card contains a hand-written message:

Life insurance is overpriced, but life isn’t. See Tante before the slumber party at LaLaurie.

Amelie: Amelie looks up at the cathedral’s doors again. Someone had to have put this in her bag after listening in on her conversation with the priest. But no one was close enough to have done so. Or at least no one she remembers. The thought puts a chill up her spine as she slides the card into her pocket and resumes her walk towards the streetcar. She qeeqles the name ‘Tante Lescaut’ on her phone as she does.

GM: Several results turn up for a store that sells occult-themed books and knick-knacks just off Royal Street. The store claims to have been founded during New Orleans’ colonial era and close to three hundred years old.

Amelie: Amelie pauses, looks at the address, and turns on her heel. She might as well confront these people right now. She watches her progress on her phone’s map as she makes her way towards the supposedly centuries-old shop. Maybe she can even catch whoever thinks scaring high schoolers is so funny just as they return to the storefront.

She’ll give them a piece of her mind.

Previous, by Narrative: Story One, Alice III
Next, by Narrative: Story One, Alice IV

Previous, by Character: Story One, Amelie IV
Next, by Character: Story One, Amelie VI

“Let’s face it, Mom, things between us are weird, and have been for ages.”
Alice Guillot

Wednesday evening, 26 August 2015

GM: No work shifts or classes save for Professor al-Aidan’s on Wednesday leaves Alice time to do homework. She needs it: al-Aidan’s grading rubric is very confusing and he assigns plenty of homework on top of her other classes.

Evening approaches and Alice hails a taxi to Bywater. As she opens the orange door to her ride, her ears are blasted by the pounding, juxtaposable rhythm of shofar and synth guitar. The smell of aging veal and tahini from leftover shawarma is thick in the tiny cab. The Palestinian cabbie’s English isn’t too good, but he doesn’t talk much either.

Twenty minutes later, Alice is in Bywater. It’s a gentrifying, residential neighborhood bordered by the Quarter’s sleaziness, Fabourg Marigny’s libertinism, and the Ninth Ward’s abject squalor. With its back to the Mississippi River (hence its name of being “by the water”), the cornered district has adopted a siege mentality against its raucous neighbors. Windows are closed and shuttered, doors locked tight, and the streets nigh-deserted after dark. It’s only twenty or so feet to her mom’s house from where the cabbie drops Alice off, but it might as well be twenty miles for all the human contact she encounters.

Michelle Guillot’s house is a modest, one-story affair. The window shutters are dark blue. The house itself is a pale beige. An iron fence silently warns intruders away from the neatly-maintained yard. A few bushes sprout up around the two palm trees, and a few plants sit apart from their cousins in separate pots. They came with the house. Alice’s mom hasn’t ever been much of a gardener.

The front door regards Alice squarely, closed, locked, and silent. As ever, it falls upon one of the Guillot women to first bridge the distance.

Alice: Alice straightens her cap and takes a moment to fuss needlessly with her shirt. It’s just dinner. Stop it.

She reaches out, and hears the muffled chimed as the doorbell announces her arrival. Alice is dressed casually, with her courier’s bag slung over her shoulder.

GM: Alice hears footsteps. There’s a slight pause at the door and a darkening through the peephole. Then the door swings open.

“Hi, Alice. Come in,” says her mom.

Alice: Obeying the direction, Alice steps through the doorway and says, “Thanks for having me over, Mom.”

GM: A high-pitched mew sounds by Alice’s leg as she enters the home.

The source is a bushy-whiskered tabby cat she hasn’t seen before. It’s missing its eyes. There’s just more fur where they should be.

Alice: Alice smiles down at the poor fuzzball. “Hey there, kitty! Nice to meet you.” She gives her mom a questioning look, and waits to see if she will offer some explanation for the poor thing.

GM: Alice’s mother closes the door and gives her a brief hug hello. “You’re welcome. And that’s Pierre. I adopted him last week.”

Alice: Alice returns it. It feels a little stiff.

“From a shelter, or is he a refugee from the streets?”

GM: “A shelter. I felt sorry for him. Blind cats are always slated to be put to sleep first.”

Alice: Alice scratches the cat’s ears. She thinks she has a guess who her mom named him after.

“Who’s a fuzzy little explorer then, Pierre?” She smiles at her mom. “Neither of us could ever turn away someone in need. I’m glad you saved him.”

To herself, Alice thinks, If only it was that easy to save everyone.

GM: Pierre mews again and rubs his head against Alice’s hand.

“Me too,” her mom states. “Dinner’s already on the table. You can go wash your hands.”

Alice: Alice stands and goes to wash up for dinner. At home she doesn’t bother, but she has long since learned that it isn’t worth arguing over something so simple when dealing with her mother. Better to save her energy for bigger arguments. On the way, she drapes her bag onto the back of her usual chair.

GM: The two sit down at the table. Dinner is crawfish etouffee, with brown roux and tomatoes over rice, and a side of salad with ranch dressing. Unlike a blond roux, which adds a nutty taste, a brown roux is cooked longer to deepen the lobsters’ flavor.

Alice is positive that her mother didn’t make it. Her enthusiasm for cooking is one of many things hasn’t changed over the last twenty years.

“Are you forgetting something, Alice?” her mom asks pointedly, not yet having started her meal.

Alice: Alice was waiting for her host, before digging in. She pauses at the question, having no idea what her mother is talking about. In the absence of real understanding, she removes her cap and sets it to the side. “Thanks for your hospitality, and the meal.”

GM: Her mom nods. Hats go off at the table. The awkwardness in the room is almost tangible as she replies to the somewhat odd thanks, “You’re welcome.”

She starts eating. The conversation doesn’t start quite as easily.

Alice: Alice waits for her mom to have a few bites before starting her own meal. Wish I understood why she cares about all that stuff.

Instead of asking, however, Alice finishes chewing, swallows, and asks, “How have you been?” As far as conversation goes, it is along the same lines as ‘how about that weather?’ but she is determined to have some sort of interaction, even if she has to force it a bit.

GM: “All right,” her mom answers simply. There’s a pause as she drinks from her water. “So. How was your first week?”

Alice: “Interesting. Art class is awesome, as usual. Uh, one of my professors is a real as—uh. A real jerk. He started the semester by telling us we would never make a difference in the world.” More to herself than her mom, she grimly says, “He is wrong.”

Blinking, she hurries on, “Penny and I are going to an 80’s themed event together. I was hoping maybe you could give me advice, for making a costume?”

GM: Fork clinks against plate. “I’m not much of a seamstress, Alice. Leg warmers. Neon colors. You can find that all out, I’m sure.”

Alice: “Oh well. I was sorting hoping you had some pictures of yourself or something. Uh, if you have time to look at old photos I mean,” Alice sheepishly replies. Come on, Mom! Isn’t this how bonding is supposed to work? Arg! Fucking pop culture, your education continues to fail me at every fucking turn.

GM: Clink.

“I did have a box full of old pictures, Alice.”

Clink.

“That was one of the things that got left at your dad’s.”

Alice: Alice’s face falls. Any talk of ‘Father’ or anything related to him is brief and doomed to a quick shutdown. She doesn’t even know what became of ‘him’ in the time she was sent away.

“Sorry to hear that.”

Alice is nothing if not determined though, perhaps there is some other way to salvage the dinner. “So, why Pierre?”

GM: Her mother sips from her water. “Lafitte. There are three bars in the French Quarter alone with ‘Lafitte’ in their name. There’s also an inn. Countless tourist guides. Halloween costumes. Probably a breakfast cereal, for all I know.”

Alice: “So, you figure Pierre deserves to have something named after him too?”

GM: Sip.

“There are more figures in Orleans’ history than just Jean I’ve-had-enough-of-him Lafitte.”

Alice: Alice smirks. Sometimes I forget there’s fire in your veins too, Mom.

GM: “Pierre held the colony together, back when the French settlers spent half their time living with the Choctaw because conditions at the colony were so terrible. Seemed fitting for this Pierre.”

Alice: She looks down, as spoon scrapes plate. “Oh, uh. I guess I was pretty hungry.”

GM: “There’s more salad in the fridge if you still are.”

Alice: “Y’know, Mom. I could paint Pierre, um, Pierre the guy not Pierre the cat, somewhere. If you wanted to see him being recognized more.” Alice shifts in her seat. “Like, that piece I put into the campus art show last year got a lot of attention.” Alice reflects that it was that award winning work that got her noticed by Josh, and led to her first dose of the red stuff.

GM: “He could use the PR,” her mom nods. “I’m sure there’s a few pictures of him floating online somewhere.”

Alice: Alice nods, thinking, “If he was a figure that stood for rallying the city, and standing up to hardship then I’m sure I can get inspired enough to paint the dude. I’ll have to read up on him.”

GM: “Try The World That Made New Orleans. It’s pretty digestible. The author has a sense of humor.”

Alice: She turns her attention back to her mom. “Uh, speaking of reading. Do you remember my text about someone wanting to buy some of Great-Granddad’s books?”

GM: Her mom raises an eyebrow. “I do. Tell it to me again face-to-face, Alice.”

Alice: Alice restates the information she offered in her text from yesterday.

GM: The older Guillot’s mouth downturns in vague disapproval that’s not quite a fully-grown frown. “What’s your read on this Sandra person?”

Alice: Alice looks a bit uncomfortable as she adds, “So, the books belong to you, and are yours to sell if you like, but.” She pauses, then gives her mother a more direct look. “She works for someone with a lot of money. I know that you are trying to turn the store into more of like, a normal one, but it’s still an, well, underground bookstore. You know what the community is like.”

“As far as Sandra, she wasn’t honest with me. She lied about her name, and wouldn’t say what she really wanted. Uh, she was very rude. Sort of… had contempt for everyone, I guess is the best way to say it? Like, she thought everything was boring, or boorish.” Alice makes a face of disapproval as she finishes, “She smoked in the shop.”

GM: Alice’s mom frowns, evidently thinking. Her thinking doesn’t take very long before she replies, “Then I’m not selling. You can tell her that once she finds it in herself to be honest, and courteous, then maybe I can find it in myself to do business with her.”

Alice: Alice’s face is a mixture of relief and worry. “Okay. If she makes any shady threats or something when I tell her, I’ll tell you right away. Um, if you do end up selling the books. Could I make digital copies first?”

She looks sheepish at the final request. “They are great inspirational material. And, it feels weird, thinking about them leaving the family. I’d like to keep copies, to pass on if I ever adopt or whatever.”

GM: “I never said they’d leave, Alice. Only that being a dishonest, irreverent, smoking liar disqualifies someone from even discussing business with me.”

“But if you want to make copies, feel free. One of us should probably do that anyways. No book lasts forever.”

Alice: Alice smiles and nods. “Knowledge lost is a tragedy. Even kooky occult knowledge, from back in Great-Granddadd’s day.”

GM: The doorbell rings.

Alice: Alice looks up. “Um. More company?”

GM: “I’m not sure. Wait here.”

Alice: Alice ignores the command, and subtly moves so as to keep an eye on her mom as she goes to open the door.

GM: Her mom gets up. Then she turns and states, her expression nonplussed, “While you’re in my house, Alice, you follow my rules. I recall that being one of the reasons you were glad to move out.”

Alice: Alice shrugs. “I can’t help it if I worry. It’s hereditary. I’ll stay here, but I’d feel better if I could at least watch from the kitchen, in case you need me.”

It isn’t the first time she has been scolded for her overprotective nature.

GM: Alice’s mother sighs. “It’s a doorbell, Alice. I’ve been answering them since long before you came along. But if you’re so determined to watch, fine. Feel free.”

Alice: “I know. It’s unreasonable. You don’t need me to guard you. But, it makes me feel better.” Quietly she adds, “Thank you.”

GM: Alice’s mother doesn’t respond as she moves to answer the door. A uniformed delivery man (FedEx, by his shirt) apologizes for the delay and passes her something. When her mom returns to the table, she’s holding a small bouquet of gladioli and pink roses.

Alice: Alice returns to her seat, relieved it was nothing. “Nice flowers.”

GM: Alice’s mother looks up from the card that came along with them. “Hmm? Oh, yes. They are.” She promptly fills a pitcher of water for the bouquet and sets it on the dining room table.

Alice: Alice politely browses her phone while her mom examines her parcel.

GM: There’s actually a bit of a smile lurking at the corner of her mom’s mouth, for the first time in the evening. “No phones at the table, Alice,” she states as she gathers up the dinner plates.

Alice: Alice notices the smile and is surprised at how bitter it makes her feel.

At least something in your life makes you happy. Since being with me doesn’t.

She feels angry at herself, but some part of her can’t help but acknowledge the truth of her observation.

Alice does her best to look cheerful. “Looks like good news.”

GM: Her mom returns after a moment with a plate of storebought chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Pierre follows by her heels.

“Yes, they’re from a man I’ve been seeing.”

Alice: Alice feels the familiar rush of anxiety, but she suppresses it. “Oh. That’s good.” She absently munches on a cookie as she wrestles with her thoughts.

GM: Her mom, in turn, looks as if she’s about to sigh, but suppresses it. “Thank you for at least saying so, Alice.”

Alice: “I hope. I hope that you guys, um. Get along?”

Alice awkwardly struggles to find words for the situation.

“Mom, I know that I… was never very nice to the guys you dated.”

GM: Alice’s mom does not look as if she disagrees.

Alice: She continues, “But, the only time you have smiled all night was when you read this guy’s letter. If he can make you smile… then I really am glad you are seeing him.”

She manages to keep any lingering bitterness out of her voice.

GM: “I’m glad to hear that, Alice. Thank you,” says her mom. “That’s very mature of you.”

Alice: “Living alone… I sort of get it. After I moved out, I realized how lonely things can get, when you don’t have someone to be with. I mean, I was living with you but… let’s face it, Mom, things between us are weird, and have been for ages. Living with me probably wasn’t that different from being alone.” Alice nods, more to herself than her mom. “So, I’m glad you have someone. I hope he is a good dude.”

GM: “He is,” Alice’s mom nods. “He works for a museum. Bookish type. Like me.”

Alice: “Yeah? That’s cool. Someone you can talk history with. Like me and Penny, with art.”

GM: “The two of you are together now?” her mom asks.

Alice: Alice blushes, realizing what she just said. “Not that we are dating, or anything.”

She goes to pull her hat over her face, but doesn’t find it there. Damn.

GM: “Well, you are blushing,” her mother observes matter-of-factly. “Do you want to?”

Alice: “N-not yet. I’m hoping that the ‘80s thing goes well. That’s sort of why I wanted your advice. That and as a chance to talk to you about something other than work. I really want things to work out with her.”

GM: “So ask her on a date. If you don’t, someone else is probably going to.”

Alice: Alice looks at her mom and nods. “That’s what my friends say too. I plan on asking her at the party. I’m hoping that, if I ask when she is already out having a good time with me as friends, it will encourage her to say yes.”

Alice mentally adds, Maybe I’ll be less nervous since I’ll be on a hunt, too.

GM: “Well, don’t wait too long or decide to put if off, or she’ll think friends is where you want things to stay.”

Alice: Alice looks horrified at the thought. “I won’t.”

“Um, Mom? Thanks. For the advice, and stuff. I know you are really busy, but maybe we could do this again? Dinner, or hanging out or whatever? If you have time.”

GM: “Of course, Alice,” her mom states. The ’you’re welcome’ is there in her tone. “Most nights that I’m not working late or seeing Rich are fine.”

Alice: “If you like, you are welcome to come visit me next time at my place.” She stands, and starts to clean her plates.

GM: “Sure. How has it been working out?”

Alice: “Good! It’s worth the price for the view alone. Watching the sun rise over the city in the morning is incredible.”

GM: “I’m sure. That is the nice thing about living on a higher floor.”

Alice: “It’s in the heart of everything too. I like being able to get to lots of places in the city, without having to bike for too long.”

GM: Alice’s mother agrees. With a full day of classes still looming for Alice tomorrow, she calls a cab to take her daughter home. The hug that marks their goodbye feels less stiff than the initial one.

Alice: “…love you, Mom. Good night.”