Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans

The Gay Caballeros

The Gay Caballeros Away down in the lower part of the city known as the Third District, stood many years ago a large and imposing mansion, called La Casa Rosa, built in 1770 by Don Juan Luis Angula, a native of Barcelona, Spain. A reporter, scenting a spicy story for his paper, made a trip to La Casa Rosa early in 1874. He was a young man, tall and straight, dark-eyed and fresh-complexioned—a youth of cultivated manners and exceptionally pleasing appearance. La Casa Rosa was that day his oyster. After his visit, he wrote only half the tale for his paper. The other half—by far the more astounding portion-—he reserved for his diary. To give the incident in its entirety, we shall begin at the moment when the reporter, William Dawson, ascended the crumbling brown steps of the mansion. He had previously rung the clanging bell set in the rusty iron gate. After waiting an interminable time, and ringing twice thereafter, the wide front door had opened a crack and a withered brown countenance had appeared. After some parley, during which young Dawson had employed every persuasive quality he possessed, the old creature had crept down the steps and unlocked the gate, permitting him to follow her inside. The moment he stood in the big gloomy hall, the mulatto woman slammed the door shut and drew two enormous iron bolts into place. Then she dragged a heavy chain across the door and dropped a link of it into a thick hook fastened into the casement. "We has to shet 'em out," she croaked in a queer singsong. 83 (z8?4) 84 Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans "Dey conies a-rompin' an' a-ravin', hull comp'nies ob 'em, when dey takes de notion. Sometimes it's one at de fust, lak yo' comes —an' de res' dey trails right 'long, an' squeezes in 'fo' Ah kin git de do' bawd. Yo' sho' yo' am 'lone? Yo' am sho' tellin' de trufe? Ain't no foolin' 'bout de res' what'll come flockin' in attah yo'?" "I'm all alone, Aunty," Dawson assured her. "I'd like to see Miss Angula, if I might." "De Sefiorita," corrected the servant. She spoke with a certain hesitant caution. Then, "Yo' wants to see de young leddy, Ah specks." "Oh—is she young?" Dawson had understood otherwise. "Ah sees her young," the crone replied, swaying her old head as though to some inner rhythm, her beady eyes resting on the caller. "Yassuh, Ah sees her young. But she done be old, Ah specks. She gwine on ninety-five dis yeah, yassuh. Ah's on'y ole Zimena—she wa' thirteen when Ah wa' bawned. Mah mammy wa' ole Bautista, an' she wa' sebenty when she die, way back in 1838. Mah gran'mammy she wa' ole Pedra—she wa' bawned 'fo' ole Mawstah.She die ten yeah 'fo' mah mammy die, an' she wa' sebenty-seben den. Yassuh, dey all be bey'd out dar in de yawd nex' de wall. Right good place, out dar nex' de wall, yassuh." A droll, crafty smile puckered the old brown face into knots. There was a glint in the slits of eyes, and Dawson felt a shiver run along his spine. "Awk—awk!" It was a strange and terrifying sound which echoed along the dark old paneling of the damp hall. "Awk— awk—awk!" "It's de Sefiorita," sighed Zimena, "She am wantin' me. Yo' kin come 'long, suh, still an' quiet, an' Ah tell her yo' am callin'. Yassum ma'am—Ah's comin'." "Awk—awk!" The sound was fretful and impatient, like some animal caught in a trap, imprisoned but not hurt. "Come on upstays—de Senorita she cain't git down no mo'. Her eyes dey am failin' some, an' de steps dey's steep. Ah kin climb 'em—ain't nuffin gwine stop ole Zimena— he-he-he!" The old cypress staircase was deep in dust. The baluster The Gay CabMeros 85 rail was cold and gritty to the touch. Dawson followed the old mulatto woman down a musty upper corridor to an open door. He wondered momentarily how many of these dozens of rooms were actually occupied nowadays. The whole place was icy cold. "Zimena!" came a cracked old voice. "Where are you? I feel a draft—have you been opening a door...