We’re pulling out of the parking lot just as the cop car pulls in. CJ throws the hazards on, as though there’s a body on board, and the police don’t even try to wave us down.
I’m sure CJ can feel elation rolling off me in waves. They don’t snap at me to tone down my emotions like they usually do, but their knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel.
We ride in silence for a while, but once we’re on the highway, I turn to them.
“You said everyone left because of what I said. But you didn’t leave. At least, not completely.”
CJ’s quiet for the longest moment. “You have to trust your crew.”
Like I said, once CJ’s in, they’re in. And once CJ’s in, the rest will fall like dominoes.
I flash them a wide grin. “Then let’s get the crew back together.”
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,” saysa 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.