New Story on The Whiskey Dregs

It’s a true story about a ghost-ish experience I had in a hotel in New Orleans. I know it’ll sound like bullshit so I won’t talk you out of that feeling — I’d probably think the same.


I then became curious about one of my own experience of dread, perhaps my only one if you exclude that “maybe one time” in New Hope, PA. I typed “haunted hotels New Orleans.” There could have been a hundred wood and cement buildings, dating back to the 1800s, all purportedly haunted. All great tourist traps…possibly. I didn’t have to wait long to find my hotel because it was listed on a website among the top 10 most haunted hotels in New Orleans. What fucking luck.

I couldn’t erase the feeling from inside that hotel room if amnesia had washed out my memory. Candelabras lit dimly the halls to guide hotel guests into mystery rooms and double beds. The wallpaper nearly matched the color of the candelabras; the reddish-yellow thing strapped against the walls, lit and sorrowful. The place felt old as if the walls were one storm away from blowing over but it was a fancy-ish establishment on Dauphine Street, the next street over from Bourbon. My first choice was Saint Anne/Marie Antoinette on Conti Street but the less-than-beautiful hotel was more expensive than this palace due to the deal I had obtained.

This was my then girlfriend’s first visit to New Orleans. We checked into the room, pocketed our card keys, then bounced into the hot cobble stone streets to deal with the rush of excited energy swirling in our bodies. To the bar. To the club. To the anywhere where we can vacate the lumbering, endless, labor of making ends meet in New York City. There was no time or energy to spend at the hotel, admiring its old structure or learning its history, etc., etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum. It was drink-yourself-ludicrous-while-dancing-amid-tourists-and-residents time. Read the rest here.


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