Chapter 1
He had arrived in New Orleans on the eve of the first full moon of the year. It seemed inconsequential to him at the time but soon it would be so relevant to the rest of his life. He had spent the last 24 hours on a binge in the French Quarter with his golf companions. They'd been to every bar from Decatur to Bourbon Street and back. They'd seen just about everything while wandering through the mass of staggering bodies, it seemed the party raged nonstop whether it was Mardi Gras or a steamy Sunday afternoon. They'd heard every kind of music imaginable; the pounding techno in the neo dance clubs, the unmistakable sound of Dixie Land at Preservation Hall and modern interpretive Jazz that brought Miles Davis and John Coltrane to mind, as well as the persistent, infectious tempo of Cajun Zydeco. But what caught him most was the blues he heard drifting from a small corner pub. It wasn't the rocking blues he knew like BB King or the raw southern delta blues of Robert Johnson, it was something more haunting. He caught the sound of it intermittently, at moments it was drowned out by the noise of the filled streets or the blasting of another band just 5 feet away. He walked closer and the sounds around him began to fade as he focused on the strains of music, he still couldn't make out the words but the melody was written in an eerie minor key and rang in his ear like a woman's cry. He entered the doorway where he was certain the song had been coming from and found a small, dark, dirty pub with a huge, bald bartender and an old man perched on a barstool that looked as decrepit as him. He glanced around, there was no music playing, no band or even a jukebox and yet he was sure this was where it had been coming from.
Seven long hours later he was still inebriated from the night before and felt the intense need to get away from the stench of stale beer, urine and vomit that seemed to permeate the French Quarter. Heading up Chartres he caught the trolley heading towards the Garden District. The ride took him through the Uptown area and along the oak tree shaded St. Charles Avenue where many of the grand homes built in the 1890s are meticulously maintained. It was like walking back in time when he stepped off the trolley at Jackson Avenue. He strolled along taking in the different architectural styles that defined this region of Louisiana.
New Orleans was also known for its cemeteries or Cities of the Dead as they are called, that are unlike any burial grounds in the world. Since New Orleans is actually below sea level, the graves have to be above ground so they don't wash out. The trolley guide had mentioned there was one on Washington Street so he pulled out the guide book he'd picked up and walked the few blocks up Magazine to the Lafayette Cemetery Number 1. According to the book this was one of the oldest in the city and boasted paranormal activity that he highly doubted existed. As he explored he was struck by the artistic and creative above ground tombs and vaults, the artistry and statuary was surreal and he found himself stopping at each grave to take in the intricate details and read what engravings were still legible.
It was then that he heard the faint sounds of a siren's call. The hum drifted along with the breeze sending him snippets of the same haunting melody he'd heard coming from that dark pub. He looked around trying to find the source as the strains became louder. He walked to the next aisle, his eye sweeping, ears straining; he knew it was a woman's voice but he couldn't quite make out the words. He crossed over to the next aisle, the voice now clearer and the lyrics decipherable.
"Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless,
Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless."
Her voice was wrought with emotion, a sob just at the edge as she continued.
"Little white flowers will never awaken you
Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.
Angels have no thoughts of ever returning you
Wouldn't they be angry if I thought of joining you?
Gloomy Sunday"
His gut tightened as the dark words passed her lips, he stopped and wondered if he should just leave her alone in her mourning but the pain he heard in her voice urged him forward another aisle.
"Gloomy is Sunday, with shadows I spend it all
My heart and I have decided to end it all;"
Now the voice sounded as if it was coming from behind him and yet there had been no one there just a moment before.
"Soon there'll be candles and prayers that are said I know
Let them not weep let them know that I'm glad to go
Death is no dream, for in death I'm caressin' you
With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessin' you
Gloomy Sunday"
He caught a glimpse of a woman stepping behind one of the vaults and rushed in that direction.
"Excuse me, Ma'am? Are you alright?" he asked "Ma'am I don't mean to intrude but are you ok? Can I be of assistance?"
He heard a quiet sob muffled by a hand and the swish of fabric as he stepped behind the tomb where he had seen her briefly, only to find nothing. The melody began again, the gut wrenching emotion of the lyrics and the sadness in her voice sending the hair on the back of his neck on end. Now the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere, with dozens of voices echoing repeatedly like an endless loop of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Louder and louder, layer upon layer until he covered his ears in an attempt to drown out the echoes. His heart began to pound as the music reverberated through his body; a blinding sharp pain ripping through his head forcing him to one knee before ceasing in an instant.
He stood slowly gasping harshly, shaking his head to clear the fog. When he opened his eyes she was standing at the far end of the row of vaults. She was dressed in a knee length black dress, with layers of crinoline filling out the skirt, her long coal black hair coiffed perfectly, and a string of pearls around her neck; she looked like she just stepped off the cover of a 1940's magazine. Her face was like pure porcelain china and her lips a dark blood red that seemed severe against the fairness of her skin. Her eyes were large, almost doe like and the most amazing color green; they were brimming with tears and yet she smiled at him as if she knew him.
He cleared his throat and asked quietly if she was ok. She nodded but dabbed at the tears falling down her cheeks with a black silk handkerchief. He took a step closer but she remained still and whispered
"Joseph." How did she know his name? Was this one of the many women he'd spent the last evening dancing with? Everything was such a blur but he was certain that he would never forget a woman as beautiful as she, regardless of how drunk he was. His eyes swept across her gorgeous face and petite frame; he scoured his memory for a name to match her image but came up empty.
"Do I know you?" he asked quietly. She nodded with a slight Mona Lisa smile.
"I'm sorry; I can't remember your name. I've been drunk for 24 hours and I'm afraid my memory is a bit patchy." He combed his hand through his hair; he felt like an ass. "So, um, are you ok? Can I do something to help you?"
She stepped toward him and like a magnet he walked towards her. She stopped a few feet away and extended her left hand, palm down; he reached for it and brought her knuckles to his lips like in the old movies. He'd never done that before and couldn't figure out why he had now, except that somehow he knew that was what was expected. He stood and looked into her eyes but didn't release her hand; she smiled and opened her lips slightly. Suddenly he began to hear static like on an old transistor radio with the squeals as the dial moved to find something on the air. He would swear it was coming from her; he took a step closer as the static gave way to the sounds of an old phonograph playing the same song he'd been hearing all day. Her lips began to move along with the lyrics; this sound he was sure was coming from her mouth and he was spellbound as he saw the physical manifestation of that sad melody reenacted upon her lovely face. She slowly turned and holding his hand she led the way to the cemetery gates still singing softly and then out onto Washington. They walked down a few blocks and stopped in front of a grand home that was the quintessential Garden District manor house.
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Submitted by:
KdDiva
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