Chapter Seven
Seven
The Garden District Ghost Parlor is in the heart of, funnily enough, the Garden District. The New Orleans neighborhood is the French Quarter’s quieter, more respectable—though arguably less fun—older sister. It’s mostly grandiose antebellum mansions with ornate balconies and sprawling verandas.
The air smells of this morning’s rain and the Osmanthus blooms in nearby yards. Sunlight filters through the Spanish moss draped over oak trees. Starlings chatter and mourning doves coo.
It’s also hot as balls.
Today, I’m decked out in a red strapless sundress and a jean jacket. My hair is down in soft waves, which will be a frizzy mess in about thirty minutes. A string of Mardi Gras beads marks me as a tourist. Especially since Mardi Gras is about four months off.
The Ghost Parlor is an unassuming pink house, with dormers on the roof and rocking chairs on the front porch. There’s a chalk sandwich board out front that reads
Today’s guest medium is Angelique Laveau:
Woman, witch, and whisperer
Ordained by the spirits themselves!
By appointment only.
The door creaks as I enter, and I’m in a dark foyer. I can hear the medium’s voice from the other room, though I can’t understand what she’s saying.
“I’m sorry, it’s appointment only, and we’re booked today,” says a woman at a makeshift front desk.
She pushes up her glasses. There are six crystals on her person that I can see, plus a tattoo of a pentagram on her wrist and a rune on her necklace that people think means “wealth” but actually means “cow.”
“Too bad,” I say, leaning heavily on a Valley-girl-goth-hybrid accent.
“I’m Raven Wayland. Raven’s Rituals on TikTok.
Thirty thousand followers and climbing. What am I saying?
You work at a séance parlor, of course you’ve heard of me.
” I give a self-deprecating giggle. “Sorry, still not used to being recognized. Anyway, I’m partnering with Yelp on a series that explores some of the most reputable occult practitioners across the country and was hoping I could just take a peek at your operation.
See if the Ghost Parlor would be a good fit. ”
The receptionist reaches for her phone. “What did you say your name was again?” She frowns at the screen, as it suddenly shows no signal.
Maybe it’s bad carrier bandwidth. Maybe it’s Maybelline. Maybe it’s the cell jammer in my pocket. At any rate, she won’t be able to look up my identity to confirm it.
“If you’re busy, I can hit up Lafitte’s Whispering Chamber down the road.” I reference the Ghost Parlor’s main competition as I turn to go.
“Wait,” she says, standing. “I’m sure a peek won’t hurt. I mean, they do sign waivers for the session to be recorded for advertising. I don’t see the difference with letting you in, huh?”
I smile. “No difference at all.”
The parlor is down a narrow hall and behind a thick velvet curtain.
I push it back to reveal the standard séance fare.
At least, what’s standard as far as TV and movies are concerned.
Round table, smoke and mirrors, a group of people holding hands having their wits scared out of them for a small fortune.
I lean in the doorway and watch.
The séance is led by a young Black woman with long box braids and dramatic eye makeup.
“Well now, let’s see if we can’t summon Carl, yeah?” She has a Yat accent, typical of this part of New Orleans, her voice a tinkling bell. She stretches her arms to clasp hands with the people beside her. The already dim lights grow dimmer, and the air conditioner kicks on.
There are two ways to do a séance in our field. The first is to fake the possession armed with information you’ve already conned out of the Dead loved one.
The second way is to actually do a séance. You literally let the Dead possess you.
Possession is more difficult than it sounds. It often requires smuggling organic material into the Afterlife.
Bones, hair, blood, anything that came from a living thing can be used as a conduit for the Dead to enter the Beforedeath.
At least, in a limited capacity. Not even a full skeleton could resurrect someone, but you could become a ghost for a short while to pass along a message to a loved one or act as a poltergeist to scare off the family living in your old house.
Or, in certain situations, you could possess someone.
You might think this sounds pretty limiting, as mostly, living people are still attached to their body parts.
But we’re losing parts of ourselves all the time, and not just metaphorically.
Shed skin cells, loose hairs, menstrual blood—the list goes on.
Luckily, most of these aren’t enough material for any real magic.
Bones, on the other hand…
Baby teeth are the easiest to come by, as they shed naturally. But if someone is desperate, or deeply unscrupulous, they’ll just as soon take an arm or a leg. It’s all pretty nefarious, and this is coming from someone with the moral compass of a stray balloon.
And yes, I did give Vinny a baby tooth, but I have my reasons. And those reasons basically boil down to: I’m desperate and deeply unscrupulous.
A gasp from the medium draws me back to the séance.
“I think I feel something,” she says.
The table starts to rattle and the crystal ball on the table starts to glow. The others gasp as the medium’s eyes flash open and they’re a milky white. Her body seizes, and she stares blankly at the ceiling, mouth agape, arms hanging at her side.
It’s a little over-the-top, if I’m honest, but who am I to judge?
She draws in a croaking breath as her body relaxes and she takes in those seated around her, eyes now clear.
“Gracie?” the medium says, her voice now deeper. “Gracie, can you hear me?” Her accent is no longer New Orleans but Long Island.
“Carl?” the woman next to the medium asks, squeezing her hand. “Is that you?”
The medium frowns. “Who else would it be? What other dead people are you talking to?”
Gracie scowls.
“Is that you?” the medium mutters. “What kind of question is that?”
“Seriously, Carl, we’re going to do this now?”
The medium gestures wildly. “I’m just saying, you only got a few minutes to ask your questions, and you waste one of them asking if it’s me?”
“Fine,” Gracie says. “Here’s a question. Where’d you put the clicker for the upstairs TV?”
“That’s your question? No ‘hi, how are ya, Carl, what’s it like being dead?’ ”
Gracie turns to a younger woman at her side. “I told you he would be like this. Didn’t I tell you he would be like this?” She turns back to the medium and slams her hand down on the table. “The clicker, Carl! Where’d you put the goddamn clicker?”
I groan. This is going to take a while.
It’s another fifteen minutes before the séance is over. Gracie still doesn’t know where to find the remote. She’s muttering angrily under her breath as she files past me. The medium is counting the cash she just received.
I clear my throat. “You had a little too much fun with that one, Ms. Laveau.”
She looks up and freezes. She’s too good to let her shock show, but I don’t miss the moment she takes to gather herself.
“I was just giving her the runaround Carl gave me.” She cracks a smile and holds up the cash. “I had to earn this money. Boy gave me nothing.” Her Yat accent is gone, replaced with something softer and higher.
“Is this what the Phantoms have you doing?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
She grits her teeth through a fake smile. “Nah, I just do this for fun.”
I saunter around the room, looking at the cheap tricks she’s set up. The fans, the mirrors. I peek under the table and see her stash of props.
“You’re working with some pretty shoddy equipment here.”
She shrugs. “People only believe it when it looks cheap.”
I stop in front of her, and she narrows her eyes.
For all of five seconds, and then she throws her arms around me.
This is not, in fact, guest medium Angelique Laveau, though I’m sure she has at least one fake ID that claims so.
This is:
Poppy Champagne
Yes, that is her real name.
She was our gadgets gal, distraction, and runic witch. She was the last to join our crew and the only one not to know our parents. She didn’t talk much about her past, but we pieced together that she lost her old crew.
The last time I saw her was that day when I asked everyone—politely—to fuck off. Apparently, Poppy doesn’t hold it against me, because her hug is tight enough that I can’t breathe. Or maybe she’s trying to strangle me.
When she pulls back, she looks at my clothes. “Girl, that dress makes your boobs look amazing.”
I roll my eyes, gesturing to where she has much more impressive cleavage on display.
“Oh, these old things,” she demurs, tossing her braids over her shoulder.
Poppy’s figure is an hourglass on steroids, and she knows how to dress to accentuate her assets.
Today, she’s wearing a black dress cinched at the waist, with flowy sleeves and a leather pouch amulet on display right between said assets.
It’s part of what made her a great distraction.
It doesn’t matter where your preferences lie—you see that much boob, you’re going to stare.
Poppy’s expression becomes serious. “I missed you, boo.”
I’m not really sure how to respond. Yes, I asked her to leave, but she could have come back at any time. She could have texted.
I snort. “Nah, you were too busy doing séances and apparently perfecting a Long Island accent.”
Poppy gives me one of her signature unimpressed looks. She knows I’m deflecting, but she’s not going to call me on it right now.
“How are the others?” she asks. “You been keeping in touch?”
“Just CJ,” I say.
Poppy’s eyebrows raise. “CJ? I woulda thought…They doing alright?”
I shrug. “They’re CJ.”
Poppy’s quiet for a moment, her eyes glazed over, so I clear my throat. She jerks back to herself and gives me one of her smiles.
“So I’m guessing you have a job?”
“Well, I was going to buy you dinner first, but I suppose we’ll jump right in. Yeah, there’s a job.”
“Ooh, you can still buy me dinner.”
I came up with several versions of the pitch on the plane, and after talking to Poppy for less than five minutes, I know which one to use.
“It’s a big job,” I say. “We’ll need the whole crew. CJ’s already in, but I—”
“I’m in,” Poppy says.
I almost laugh. “I didn’t even give you the pitch yet.”
Poppy shrugs. “I trust you.”
The lie hangs in the air between us, but she did the favor of ignoring my deflection earlier, so I’ll let this one slide.
“When do we start?” Poppy asks.
I hand her the extra plane ticket CJ got for my return flight. “How are the next few weeks looking for you?”