ONE
Hi. My name is Harmony Roundtree. I’m twelve years old and I see dead people.
Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t actually see dead people. I would like to see dead people. Not their dead bodies, but their spirits. Or their shadows? Uhhhh … let me start over.
Hi. My name is Harmony Roundtree. I’m twelve years old and I love ghost tours. (Okay, that’s a little better, right?)
“Welcome, souls! My name is Vampire Dan. Well, that’s what the dead like to call me.”
On the cobblestone corner, under a vintage gas lantern, a tall man in a black velvet cape and top hat greets a small crowd huddled together. I stand in the back, on tiptoe, stretching to hear his every word.
“This is the Ghoulish French Quarter, New Orleans’s premier ghost and vampire tour, if I do say so myself.
Which I do. Often! Tonight, we will venture through the quarter, where I’ll point out some of our legendary haunts and the history behind them.
You’ll learn about real-life vampires, witches, a famous voodoo queen, and a pirate who won’t leave a church alone. ”
I break out my camera, testing the lighting. I’ve been getting pretty good at shooting without using the flash. Flash kills spooky vibes. If I had a better lens, my photos would be crispy clean, but ain’t no one got that kind of money to spare right now. Maybe someday.
“Hang on! I see we have a stowaway,” Vampire Dan says, and I know instantly he’s talking to me. I don’t just stand out ’cause I’m the only kid in the group. I’m also a Black girl with a natural curly crown and thick black glasses.
“Where’s your mommy and daddy?”
The entire group turns to me, staring.
“My daddy is playing at the Spotted Cat. My mom’s dead. Can we go now?”
Vampire Dan holds up his hand. “Ah, ah! Not so fast. I’ll need to speak to an adult if you’re going to be on this tour. Some of the stuff we talk about here … it’s pretty brutal.”
I sigh and pull a note out of my camera bag. Figured he’d confuse me with a toddler.
“Here’s a permission slip.”
Vampire Dan tips up his glasses, unfolds the sheet ripped from a hotel notepad, and reads.
“ ‘To Whom It May Concern: Please allow my hardheaded daughter to go on your tour. She’s mature for her age, but don’t let her come home with a ghost. Any problems, you can find me onstage at the Spotted Cat nightclub.
But there won’t be any problems because she knows better. Sincerely, Big Al.’ ”
A few people in the crowd giggle.
Vampire Dan shrugs. “Well, I guess it’s okay,” he mumbles.
He says it like a question, so I jump in for the kill.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “Daddy gave me money for a tip.”
At that, he brightens and folds the note away. “All right, souls, let us begin!”
The crowd starts to move through the dark streets, everyone giving me a curious once-over. I don’t mind. I’m used to being the only Black girl on the ghost tour.
My best friends back home, Kiki and Truth, think I’m weird. Which is fair. They send me pics of hairstyles and funny dances, and I send them pics of haunted houses.
You might be wondering: What is a girl like me doing on a tour like this?
It all started when my grandma died last year.
See, my grandma took care of me while Daddy traveled all over the country performing at clubs.
My mom died when I was a baby, so it was always just us three in our fourth-floor walk-up apartment in Harlem.
Grandma was old-school. Like, wake-up-on-Saturday-morning-and-clean-the-whole-apartment-while-listening-to-gospel-music old-school.
She hated mess. Dust bunnies were her enemy.
One Saturday morning about a month after she died, I was sitting in the living room watching TV when I heard this loud slap come out of the kitchen. When I went to check it out, I found the closet door open, with the broom, mop, and duster all lying on the kitchen floor.
You ever have a feeling that something’s … off? You can’t explain but you can sense it? Well, at that very moment, something felt off. Not wrong, but not all the way right. As soon as I saw that stuff on the floor, I ran out the building.
Later on, when I told Daddy what had happened, he brushed it off, said that he probably left the closet door half-open when he grabbed his coat. But my aunt Peggy (that’s his younger sister) laughed and said, “Mommy’s probably telling y’all to clean up around here. It looks a mess!”
She was calling my grandma a ghost. Like Casper. Or those creatures in the Ghostbuster movies. But ghosts aren’t real.
Right?
By that time, Christmas break was finished and Daddy planned to leave me with Aunt Peggy while he hit the road. I love Aunt Peggy, but something about staying in the apartment, the place where me and Grandma made so many memories, made me feel … uneasy. So I asked if I could join Daddy on his tour.
It took some convincing and a lot of research, since no one knew much about homeschooling. But there’s an online program that keeps me on track with my assignments, tests, and reading. Even Daddy helps me study and now wants to be called Professor Dad.
Dad’s first stop was in Boston. I was sitting in the hotel lobby when I overheard a manager talking to some guests checking in.
“And if you’re up for a little spooky adventure, Boston Ghosts and Graveyards Trolley is always a fun time.”
When I boarded the trolley, I kinda expected it to be like the haunted house ride at Coney Island. But the tour guide broke out his iPad, with pictures of REAL ghosts in each of the spots we visited.
“So, these ghosts are still here?” I asked in front of a haunted brewery.
“Yup. If you stay long enough, you probably could catch one.”
Ever since that night, in each city we’ve visited, I’ve tracked down a ghost tour to jump on. Ghost tours take you around by bus or on foot, pointing out the different places in the city that are haunted. They could be homes, hotels, cemeteries, restaurants, even libraries.
I snap to attention as Vampire Dan, here in New Orleans, goes through the standard rules of the tour: (1) Do not stray from the group. (2) Do not go into buildings without permission. (3) No videos or audio, but pictures are encouraged. (4) Anyone breaking rules will be asked to leave.
“Are there any questions?” he calls. “Yes, you sir.”
“Why is New Orleans so haunted?” a man in front of me asks.
“Well, there are a number of spiritual and scientific reasons why the Big Easy is so haunted. The energy here calls for the paranormal. But I think of it as: Who says you gotta follow the rules of the afterlife? Some people stay because they want to, others leave to that great beyond. If spirits want to stay, they can stay.”
An older woman snorts. “How do we know this stuff isn’t fake?”
I suck my teeth. What are you doing on this tour if you think it’s fake? I think but don’t say.
“Ooooh, no! Nothing fake about us,” Vampire Dan laughs.
“We tell ghost stories passed down from us locals, sharing true, sometimes disturbing accounts of haunting. Like this one.” He motions to a two-story building, painted bright yellow with navy blue shutters.
The second-floor balcony is made of black iron twisted into a design that looks like flowers and vines.
“I always like to start my tours here, at the Andrew Jackson Hotel,” Vampire Dan goes on.
“In 1792, this was the original site of a boarding school for boys who had lost their parents in the yellow fever epidemic. But the fires of 1794 burned down the orphanage, with five young boys still inside. It was later the site of a federal courthouse, then this hotel. Through the years, hotel guests have reported being woken up by children’s laughter or even pushed out of bed before finding themselves alone in their room.
Guests have heard the sounds of little footsteps running through the hall or voices asking to play. ”
The group falls real silent. I gaze up into the tall windows, wondering if the boys are watching us, hoping we come inside to hang out. I take a few pictures, goose bumps covering my arms.
My grandma wouldn’t like this stuff. She wasn’t into Halloween, scary movies, or anything that isn’t of Jesus.
But I can’t get all these questions about ghosts out of my head, and she’s not around to answer them.
Or maybe she IS still here, stuck or something, and wants to go to heaven but doesn’t know how.
Maybe I can help her. Maybe the answer is on these tours.
I line up my camera and snap a shot of Vampire Dan raising his lantern.
The firelight dimly reflects off the slate tiles on a nearby roof, still damp from the earlier rain showers.
When it rains in New Orleans, it REALLY rains.
Thank God my curls enjoy this kind of humidity.
We’ve only been here for two days and I can never leave the hotel without an umbrella.
I also never go anywhere—especially on a ghost tour—without my camera. I’m determined to take my own picture of a ghost. To prove to Daddy and Aunt Peggy and to my friends back home that what happened in my apartment that day was real.
I haven’t gotten a picture of a ghost yet. But in every new city, I keep hoping.