Spirits of New Orleans. Kala Ambrose
Now that there were just a few of us in the streetcar, I turned my attention to him to see what he was up to riding in the streetcar. Not long after my attention was directed his way, he turned around, and discerning that I could see him, he stood up and moved closer to me, sitting in the seat directly in front of me, where he could turn to the side and chat with me, like any other passenger in the car. I was relieved that I was alone in this part of the car at the time, for should I want to speak aloud to him, it wouldn’t be the first time that people have looked at me with great concern as they saw me whispering to myself and the thin air around me.
He introduced himself to me as Mr. Charles, stating that he was of no relation to the streetcar being on St. Charles; indeed, he said with a smile, he was no saint. He went on to tell me that he was of Italian descent but that he had gone by the name of Mr. Charles to make it easier for people to pronounce his name, rather than his longer Italian name. He also shared with me that unlike other ghosts, he knew that he was dead and knew where he was buried. On rare occasions, he would visit his grave—not so much to see where his bones lay, but rather, he enjoyed going when it was a holiday and groups of people came out to decorate the tombs and spend time there honoring their families. He enjoyed milling about the crowds and taking part of the activity in the cemetery. He said that he had had a good enough life while alive, though he had experienced his share of sadness, including the loss of his wife, who was the love of his life and had died during childbirth. He had mourned her for the rest of his life, choosing never to marry again. She and the child had died during the birth, but they had already had a daughter, who his family helped raise after his wife’s death. He has continued to watch over his descendants who still lived in the city, though he sadly bemoaned that many of them had moved away and were now living in New York.
He then told me the story of being at his cemetery during one of these holiday occasions. As he was standing near where his wife was buried, he saw a little girl who became interested in his wife’s tomb. He watched her closely, interested in what she was going to do. The young girl, whom he described as wearing a white dress and having long blond hair and blue eyes, was clutching a bouquet of yellow flowers that her mother had given her to hold. As she began to wander over to his wife’s burial place, the young girl’s mother called to her and instructed her to come back to where the rest of the family were placing their flowers on a family tomb. The young girl replied to her mother that no, she wanted to put her pretty flowers on this lady’s tomb, and as the mother watched, the young girl placed the bouquet of yellow flowers in front of his wife’s tomb.
Mr. Charles, in his ghostly form, was so touched by this act, one that he had wished he could do that very day. He said that had he been physically able to weep with joy and gratitude, he most certainly would have. Intrigued, he followed the family around for the rest of the day and accompanied them to their home to see where the young girl lived. He decided to check in on this girl on a frequent basis, becoming a guardian for her throughout her life. He assured me that he never got near enough to her to cause her any concern or fright, but many times he had accompanied her in her daily and nightly activities as she grew up, to protect her in any way that he could. As she grew up into womanhood, he said he visited her less and eventually lost touch with her, though he still visits the cemetery and would love to see her there again one day.
It was one of the most poignant, touching, and yet completely normal conversations that I have ever had with a ghost. He was not confused on any level about his current state; he knew he was dead and had chosen to remain here on the earth plane and not cross over. He was aware that time had passed and observed the passing through watching generations of his family and others grow up and move on. He was at peace and happy with his state of being in this half life as a ghost. I asked him why he stayed here in this twilight life, and he said, “This is what I know. What is there in heaven? Beautiful music, sweet smells, laughter, and lush gardens? Why, I have this every day here in New Orleans. This is my heaven. Why would I not stay right here?” I gently suggested that perhaps if he did move on, he could be reunited with his wife whom he missed so dearly. He replied to me that his wife was an angel and that he knew that when he did move on to the other side, that where he would be living in heaven would be no place near where she was allowed to reside.
He spoke fleetingly at this point and became guarded, even looking around to see if anyone could overhear his conversation to me, as he now spoke to me in a whisper. He shared that while he had been a good man, he had been forced into doing some activities that were, as he described them, unsavory. He alluded to the Mafia element in the city, a powerful underworld during his time. Being Italian, he was asked to do some favors for these men, and while it was possible that he could decline their offer, those who did decline were typically found dead or worse. He didn’t want to elaborate on what was worse than death, and I didn’t want to interrupt his story. He explained that the favors went up a level each time he was asked, and that he had participated in sorrowful activities that haunted him to this day. He had done his best to keep this information secret from his wife as not to worry her, but he said that like most women, she had a way of knowing when something was wrong and questioned him often about why he looked so worried and tired many times. He would shrug it off as the pressures of doing business and then try to distract her with other news of his day.
Life, death, spirits, drinks, and jazz all blend together in New Orleans.
It was his belief that because of the sins he had committed during his earthly life, he would be living in a lowly place in heaven, if he made it to heaven at all, while his wife was a proverbial saint and would be living in the holiest of holy places in heaven, and that they would not be together over there. Understanding that he was a Catholic, I said that surely he must have gone to confession and asked for forgiveness. He replied that he did many times, but that he knew that this did not truly release his sins for what he had done.
He explained to me that he thought that the best thing he could do was penance, which he tried to do every day by riding the streetcar and looking after the people in the city. He said, with a smile to me, that while he was still just Mr. Charles, perhaps one day, if he did enough good things, he, too, could be called St. Charles like the streetcar he rode.
At this point the streetcar lurched to a stop, shifting everyone in their seats. Some of the brakes on these cars are not the best and the drivers really have to stomp on them at times. As I steadied myself and then settled back in my seat, Mr. Charles was standing and moving away. I looked up at him to see why our conversation had concluded so abruptly, and he pointed to an elderly lady who had just entered the car. “She’s one of my regulars,” he said as he went to go sit next to her. The next stop was mine, and as I exited, I smiled and whispered as I went by that I hoped to see him again sometime when I was in the city. He smiled and said, “Here in New Orleans, it’s highly likely we will meet again.” To this day, he is one of the most aware and astute ghosts that I have ever communicated with in my lifetime.
Should you want to meet the ghost of Mr. Charles, take a ride on the St. Charles streetcar and ask aloud, “Mr. Charles, are you along for the ride?” Don’t be surprised if he strikes up a conversation with you right there.
Commanders Palace Restaurant in the Garden District has the reputation of being haunted by the former owner of the restaurant. Almost any local will share a story with you about experiencing the ghost while dining at the restaurant. Built in 1880, the Brennan family continues to uphold the highest level of service and cuisine, and you’ll enjoy the dining experience so much that you’ll want to haunt the place yourself in the afterlife.
Even vampires love a good funeral. Jazz funerals and second lines are so adored in New Orleans that author Anne Rice arranged her own mock funeral, which began at Lafayette Cemetery #1 in the Garden District. Anne dressed in an antique wedding gown and was ceremoniously placed in a casket. The funeral procession began with a brass band and huge crowds following Anne in her casket through the streets to the Garden District Book Shop, where she signed her book Memnoch the Devil for thousands of her fans.