Storytellersunplugged

I think I may have mentioned a time or two that whenever I’m asked whether I prefer being called a writer or an author, my answer is always the same. Neither. I prefer being called a storyteller. The fact that I tell my stories with written words instead of orally really doesn’t make that big a difference in my opinion. If you have a tale to tell, you should tell it wholeheartedly, right? Tug the reader/listener into the story so they’re hanging on your every word. Truth be told it’s easier for me to tell a story verbally because I can use my hands a LOT when I speak, as well as body language, and eye contact to stress a point, help turn a phrase, add a bit of drama, etc. Having to put all that physical interaction in written form can be quite the challenge—but it can be done. For some folks I guess. . .

I met a woman a few weeks ago who really got me thinking about storytelling and appreciating the art. Let me set up a little framework for you. . . .

I’d set up a ghost tour for the guest speakers who’d attended a writers’ retreat I put on last month, a little lagniappe of appreciation if you will. Now I’d used one particular touring company in the past, and they’d always done a fine job, so I figured it to be a safe bet to have them handle this particular tour. Unfortunately, the tour owner was the same, but the tour guide was not. Her name was Jill, and bless her heart, she must have been doing the tour guide gig for side income to social security because she was pretty up in years and had a shrill voice that made me think of cats trying to claw their way through a steel door. Anyway, the moment I saw her I figured we’d be in for . . . something. Just wasn’t sure what exactly. Regardless, Miss Shrill Jill, all dressed in a polyester suit with white heels and hair permed just so, was accustomed to smiling that’s for sure, but I don’t think she was used to staying up past 9 p.m. because she seemed mighty antsy to get the show started and done with as quickly as possible. I’m not faulting the lady by any means. Heck, the final–absolute final deadlock Jeopardy could have been playing at that time for all I knew, and here she was stuck with us for heaven’s sake.

Now grant it, I’ll be the first to admit that not everyone is cut out for doing a tour guide gig, ya know. Showing folks historical landmarks, relaying the great stories behind them, especially the ghost stories, takes a little je ne sais quoi, don’t you think? Well, here’s a little taste of what we ran into that night with Miss Shrill Jill. . . .

One of the places noted on the tour was the Lalaurie House, purportedly the most haunted house in all of New Orleans. As many times as I’ve been to the city, I’d never had a chance to visit the house, so I was really anxious to see it. Story has it that back in 1831, Dr. and Mrs. (Delphine) Louis Lalaurie bought a mansion at 1140 Royal Street. Although Delphine Lalaurie would throw lavish parties with guest lists consisting of some of the most prominent people in the city, the heinous manner in which she tortured her slaves is probably the most widely known of the French Quarter’s macabre tales.

In 1833, after several neighbors allegedly saw her cowhiding a young servant girl in the mansion’s courtyard, rumors began to spread around town that Mme Lalaurie treated her servants viciously. According to one tale, a young slave girl had been brushing Mme. Lalaurie’s hair in the upstairs bedroom. The young servant hit a snag in Delphine’s hair, causing Lalaurie to become enraged. Lalaurie whipped the twelve-year-old slave girl mercilessly. The child tried to escape but fell off a balcony overlooking the courtyard, ending her life. The girl was quickly brought into the Lalaurie Mansion, but not before being observed by neighbors, who would later file a complaint. The neighbors later asserted that the young girl was buried under a tree in the yard.

The legal situation was handled by a local judge, who happened to be a friend of the Lalauries. The Lalauries’ slaves were soon confiscated, auctioned off, and the Lalauries fined a mere $300. It was later discovered that previous arrangements had been made for some of the Lalaurie relatives to buy the slaves back and quickly returned them to Delphine.

On April 10, 1834, during another party, a fire broke out in the kitchen of the mansion. The kitchen, as was the norm in Spanish mansions, was separate from the home and located over the carriageway building across the courtyard. The firemen entered the building through the courtyard. To their surprise, there were two slaves chained to the stove in the kitchen. It appeared as though the slaves had set the fire themselves in order to attract attention. The fire itself was soon subdued.

However, the biggest surprise was to be found in the attic, where the fire brigade was directed by the other slaves. The door was bolted, and the fire brigade had to use a battering ram to open the door. What they found made them retch for inside the crawlspace attic was the stench of death. According to contemporary accounts, over a dozen disfigured and maimed slaves were manacled to the walls or floor. Several had been the subject of gruesome medical experiments.

The exact details are unclear; owing to the horrific nature of the crime, many details were either swept under the rug or embellished. One man looked as though he had been victim of some bizarre makeshift sex change. Another one had a hole in his head where a stick had been inserted to “stir his brains”. A woman was trapped inside a small cage, where her arms and legs had been badly broken and then reset at odd angles, making her appear like some sort of “human crab.” Another woman had her arms and legs removed and patches of her flesh had been sliced off in a circular motion so that she looked like a giant caterpillar. Some had their mouths sewn shut and had starved to death. Others had their hands sewn to different parts of their bodies. One woman had her entrails pulled out of her stomach and was secured to the floor by her own intestines. A small boy of about twelve had the flesh on half of his face peeled back, revealing muscle, veins, and so forth. The wound had since been infested with disease and insects. Most of the victims were found dead. Those who were still alive begged to be put out of their misery and died shortly after.

Also discovered in the attic were teacups and saucers, encrusted with a “red substance.” However, there were several bottles lying about with what’s assumed to be the same red substance. The substance in the bottles was later identified as blood.

The discoveries were reported and described in the papers the next day, and a mob gathered outside of the Lalaurie Mansion, demanding justice of the LaLauries, but not before Delphine escaped by horse and carriage to Bayou St. John, where it is said she paid the captain of a schooner to carry her across to Mandeville or Covington. Many claimed they escaped to Paris. Others say they remained on the outskirts of New Orleans.

It is said that when the mob rushed after the carriage, they heard screams from the house. They thought the screams came from ghosts, which led to the initial rumors of the haunted house In reality, these screams may have came from the 75 people whose skeletons where found during the mansion’s renovation over a hundred years later.

Whew, now that’s a story, right? Yeah, I thought so, too. This, though, is the version we got from Shrill Jill . . .

“And this is the Lalaurie House, where some really bad things happened. The owner of the house was terribly to her slaves, and the mansion eventually wound up in a huge fire. By the way, anyone want to guess who lives in the house now?”

UGHH! Nooo, I’m not exaggerating, the poor woman was that bad. But it did give me an in-your-face lesson that’s for sure. If you’re gonna tell a story, by gosh, tell the doggone thing for all it’s worth!

Yep, the one in blue...