It has been a busy few weeks, but I have been gathering stories nonetheless...
A few weeks ago I had a man on my tour with many awesome ghost stories. I'll only share one for the moment. He said that his mother died when he was nine years old. When he was a young man (he's a grandfather now) he worked at a gas station. Every night he had to deposit money in the after hours deposit box at the bank. One night he was driving there when he was overcome by this feeling that he should not go. As if someone was screaming, "Don't go to the bank!" He pulled over to the side of the road: the feeling was that strong. Well he had to go, how could he not. Finally, he got back on the road and went to the bank. He got out of the car and was on his way to the deposit box when a man jumped out of the bushes with a gun, took the money from the gas station and demanded his wallet. He told the man that he only had a dollar to his name and opened up his wallet to prove it. The robber took his dollar and ran.
Needless to say, he was convinced that it was his mother who was warning him not to go to the bank that night.
I have more ghost stories in the pipeline that I'll be posting soon as I can.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Washington's Farm House
Last night, I told some of my fellow tour guides about this blog, and, bless their hearts, they sent a story my way. This gentlemen was not on the tour last night but was considering it for later in the week. (Last night LSU played Alabama for the championship and this translates to myself and the tour group -- 6 foreign students, and 2 disinterested wives -- tiptoeing around the French quarter peering into every bar we pass to see if a fight has broken out, nothing like the double or triple digits that normally show up for a ghost tour.) Nonetheless, this gentlemen wanted to share his story with us. Really, it’s his sister’s story.
She worked for a historic house somewhere in New Jersey along the Pennsylvania line, or maybe vice versa. A farm house Washington may or may not have stayed at during the American Revolution but certainly his officers did. Every night she had to close up. She would lock the door, deadbolts, chains, bars, top bolts, bottom bolts, and ten minutes later she would go upstairs to the office and wrap up the day’s books. Well, one night she was doing this and while sitting at the desk she could see someone out of the corner of her eye, standing in the far corner of the room. Unsure, she continued her work. Finally, she knew she would have to turn and look; at the same time whatever it was realized that it had been seen. Just as she turned, the figure bolted down the stairs and she ran after it. She could hear footfalls on the stairs, but when she got to the front door it was wide open and no one was anywhere in sight.
She worked for a historic house somewhere in New Jersey along the Pennsylvania line, or maybe vice versa. A farm house Washington may or may not have stayed at during the American Revolution but certainly his officers did. Every night she had to close up. She would lock the door, deadbolts, chains, bars, top bolts, bottom bolts, and ten minutes later she would go upstairs to the office and wrap up the day’s books. Well, one night she was doing this and while sitting at the desk she could see someone out of the corner of her eye, standing in the far corner of the room. Unsure, she continued her work. Finally, she knew she would have to turn and look; at the same time whatever it was realized that it had been seen. Just as she turned, the figure bolted down the stairs and she ran after it. She could hear footfalls on the stairs, but when she got to the front door it was wide open and no one was anywhere in sight.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Inexplicable Weirdness
New Orleans is hopping this week-end, full of football fans. On Friday night I had a family of three from Lafayette, LA on my tour.They were one of the few who didn’t claim to be here for the football game, just frequent visitors.They had a son, maybe twelve or thirteen. The lady told me that a few years back she’d had a strange experience on Frenchmen. She hadn’t told her husband about it before because she wasn’t sure how to tell it, and it seemed a lot to expect someone to believe. He and I both heard her story for the first time two nights ago.
A few years back they went to Frenchmen Street to listen to music, as many people do, walking all the way down Decatur to the fire station. It was their first time. When they crossed Esplanade she felt a wave of, she couldn’t really explain, inexplicable weirdness. She didn’t say anything to her husband at the time because she felt ridiculous. They walked down the street and went into a club to listen to the band. They were probably there five minutes, but the band, the room, everything made her uncomfortable. Her husband agreed; he didn’t feel quite right either.
When they walked out on the street and there were oddly shaped people everywhere. A woman who looked like she was covering a strange growth underneath her tee-shirt came up to the lady and began talking to her, but none of the words made any sense. Everyone on the street seemed to be misshapen, elongated limbs, droopy eyes, lumpy bodies, and all of them were talking, but none of the words made any sense to her. She and her husband walked quickly back to the fire station and across Esplanade. As soon as they were off Frenchmen the atmosphere lifted, like nothing had happened.
Just a note:
Before I began doing ghost tours in the French Quarter I wouldn’t have understood what she meant by this wave of “weirdness.” But after years of night walks, I do. Some nights just have their own character, strange people lurk around corners, and everyone’s mood is off. There’s anxiety in the air. When I pick up on it, the first thing I do is look to the sky and often there is a full moon, but not always, and there are plenty of full moons that don’t seem to have this effect. I haven’t noticed many nights like this, but the few I have made quite an impression.
A few years back they went to Frenchmen Street to listen to music, as many people do, walking all the way down Decatur to the fire station. It was their first time. When they crossed Esplanade she felt a wave of, she couldn’t really explain, inexplicable weirdness. She didn’t say anything to her husband at the time because she felt ridiculous. They walked down the street and went into a club to listen to the band. They were probably there five minutes, but the band, the room, everything made her uncomfortable. Her husband agreed; he didn’t feel quite right either.
When they walked out on the street and there were oddly shaped people everywhere. A woman who looked like she was covering a strange growth underneath her tee-shirt came up to the lady and began talking to her, but none of the words made any sense. Everyone on the street seemed to be misshapen, elongated limbs, droopy eyes, lumpy bodies, and all of them were talking, but none of the words made any sense to her. She and her husband walked quickly back to the fire station and across Esplanade. As soon as they were off Frenchmen the atmosphere lifted, like nothing had happened.
Just a note:
Before I began doing ghost tours in the French Quarter I wouldn’t have understood what she meant by this wave of “weirdness.” But after years of night walks, I do. Some nights just have their own character, strange people lurk around corners, and everyone’s mood is off. There’s anxiety in the air. When I pick up on it, the first thing I do is look to the sky and often there is a full moon, but not always, and there are plenty of full moons that don’t seem to have this effect. I haven’t noticed many nights like this, but the few I have made quite an impression.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Maiden Voyage, January 6, 2012
Everyday ghost stories have been a guilty pleasure of mine
for years. In 2004 I started doing ghost tours in the French Quarter. I met a
lot of people from all over. As we chatted some shared their own ghost stories
with me. I think simply to share such a story with someone who would not think
they were crazy. Well, I’ve been collecting them over the years, and I fear I’m
becoming something of a hoarder, so I’ve started this blog to share my own
guilty pleasure with whomever is as curious as myself.
This is the story that got me started. I’m afraid it wasn’t in the French Quarter but during a Garden District ghost tour. Just as the tour was wrapping up one of the participants offered up his own ghost story. If I remember correctly he was from Ohio and in the landscaping business. His brother married a girl from China, right off the boat as it were: she knew little of America
and nothing of his family. One night she woke up and saw a man standing at the
foot of the bed. She screamed and woke his brother, made him search the house
top to bottom. No one. It must be a ghost she said, it’s a warning, be careful.
Well a few days later he was waiting at a traffic light and when the light
turned green he hesitated. A spilt second later a Mac truck blew through the
red light. He would have been killed. It got his attention, but it was still
something he could rationalize away. Well months later it was Thanksgiving, his
new wife’s fist Thanksgiving with his family, and she was meeting everyone for
the first time. His mother sat her on the couch and gave her a family album to
look through. Moments later she called to her husband, “This is him. This is
the man I saw at the foot of the bed.” She pointed to a picture of one of his
cousins, a young man who’d been killed in a car accident over four years before
his wife had arrived in America.
for years. In 2004 I started doing ghost tours in the French Quarter. I met a
lot of people from all over. As we chatted some shared their own ghost stories
with me. I think simply to share such a story with someone who would not think
they were crazy. Well, I’ve been collecting them over the years, and I fear I’m
becoming something of a hoarder, so I’ve started this blog to share my own
guilty pleasure with whomever is as curious as myself.
This is the story that got me started. I’m afraid it wasn’t in the French Quarter but during a Garden District ghost tour. Just as the tour was wrapping up one of the participants offered up his own ghost story. If I remember correctly he was from Ohio and in the landscaping business. His brother married a girl from China, right off the boat as it were: she knew little of America
and nothing of his family. One night she woke up and saw a man standing at the
foot of the bed. She screamed and woke his brother, made him search the house
top to bottom. No one. It must be a ghost she said, it’s a warning, be careful.
Well a few days later he was waiting at a traffic light and when the light
turned green he hesitated. A spilt second later a Mac truck blew through the
red light. He would have been killed. It got his attention, but it was still
something he could rationalize away. Well months later it was Thanksgiving, his
new wife’s fist Thanksgiving with his family, and she was meeting everyone for
the first time. His mother sat her on the couch and gave her a family album to
look through. Moments later she called to her husband, “This is him. This is
the man I saw at the foot of the bed.” She pointed to a picture of one of his
cousins, a young man who’d been killed in a car accident over four years before
his wife had arrived in America.
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