The Bayou Banshee

By James Sarti

Hear ye hear ye, let it be known not all who are born on the bayou end up joining a rock-n-roll band. A few find darker paths to follow. I'd like to introduce to you the one and only inventor of the CRUEL-SHE-FIX—Alexis jezebel Barnes. Discover what infamous deed created the beast better known as the Bayou Banshee and what horrendous events led to her inventing such a horribly effective device.

 

The Big Easy has a history of being anything but easy on those who reside there. The Crescent City has a colorful past filled with far more ghosts in its closet than skeletons. Add to all that spooky stuff the ancient spiritual beliefs and customs of faraway lands and New Orleans is undisputedly the ideal breeding ground for the paranormal.

 

Women are undoubtedly God's greatest gift to man yet so unappreciated and exploited that a few become the devil's greatest curse. Eventually inevitably every woman gets her full of the bull of the machocentric world. Never underestimate the power of such a woman on a mission of equality for all; especially if that woman has powers most don't.

 

Alexis Jezebel Barnes does a hell of a lot more than roar for her respect for she has more weapons in her arsenal than most dream of…and absolutely no qualms about using any of them. From practicing Voodoo with a vengeance to conspiring with the dead, Alexis demonstrates hell hath no fury like a woman wronged. When her supernatural powers are no longer satisfying enough, she takes on a hands-on approach to putting men in their place.

 

What if you were done horribly wrong by your "righteous" Reverend father at an early age?

What if your family tree were ripe with Voodoo and you the ripest fruit on it?

What if you found vengeance so tasty you couldn't get enough?

 

For some justice just isn't enough.

For some shedding light isn't nearly as fun as shredding flesh.

For some only darkness will do.

 

The futility of it all gets to us all at one time or another but life can be damn more frustrating for a woman. And so I reluctantly offer womankind a way to vent their frustrations as never seen before; a genuine serial killer woman can root for…at first.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Sarti
• Release date: Jan 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393371311

Book preview

Chapter One: Believe it or not, I don’t care

MY SMILE BEING ALL but a memory now leaves nothing but the permanent grimace carved upon my face for all to see. Through pure ambition and naiveté I’ve dug myself a grave which only the grace of God can save me from now. The sweat upon my twitching brow and the quiver in my voice makes my desperation even more obvious; my shaking hands and clenched teeth indications of the percolating rage barely lurking just below my surface. I find myself a dark trembling shadow of my former self, no longer whole; for I’ve met the devil and she’s torn my faith to shreds. What she did to my body wasn’t much better. Inside and out, I’ve been chewed up and spit out.

I’m now on a quest for the impossible: someone who will believe me. In spite of all that’s been done to me I reach out for hope in a world devoid of it. But how do I find my bearings when the universe as I knew it has completely disintegrated overnight; stuck in a vast void where I can’t even figure out which way is up.

Pardon my faux paus. My manners aren’t what they used to be. Calm and collected just aren’t possible anymore. Ranting and raving like a lunatic has become the only sane choice left to me. My screams may fall on deaf ears but at least they force some to acknowledge I exist even if only to command me to shut the hell up. For my cries of anguish are all I have left; all I can do to fight the immense injustice done me; to cling to what shred of sanity remains. Volume is the only thing that has any effect anymore.

Pleading is never pretty but sometimes it is necessary. There’s no shame in begging if you have no other choice. Anyone with a noble heart and a caring sympathetic soul; please help me, I deplore you!  Please listen to the desperate pleas of a lunatic who’s not as crazy as she seems; who’s fallen on terribly hard times. Only I didn’t just fall, I was pushed; dragged down with a vengeance and vigor of a madwoman, with a repulsive relish only the truly fiendish can muster. My last deplorable stand made from within this tiny windowless room behind a single securely locked door. I fear what I look like. I fear more what I sound like. I fear a lot of things these days. Most of all I fear her.

Believe it or not, belief is all I have left to hold onto... belief in God...belief in myself...most of all belief in justice in the end. I must believe in miracles for they are all that can save me now. It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long. Best get my story out while I still can recall each and every minute detail. Someone needs to warn the world; to set the record straight. Someone needs to stop the evil before she devours us all. I may never see justice in this life; however that doesn’t mean I can’t do everything I can to ensure seeing it in the next.

I can’t just stand by and let evil get away with it all. Desperate times call for more than desperate measures. They call for telling the truth and nothing but...and praying someone will recognize it when they hear it! I fully realize how crazy I sound but that doesn’t mean I’m a liar. Don’t try to make sense of it. Just believe it for your own good. Logic doesn’t come into play here. Reason has nothing to doing with it. So how on Earth do I even begin explaining the unexplainable? All I can do is relay to you what my teary eyes saw, what my tortured body endured, and who broke my body, mind, and spirit. I’ll even try to explain her diabolical motives. For have no doubt about it, Alexis Jezebel Barnes is the devil incarnate. Come along with me to Hell if you dare and risk losing your reason too.

The devil incarnate is counting on you ignoring me. Evil thrives on ignorance. I tell the truth and nothing but to shame her nonetheless Alexis is counting on you not believing a single word I say. Despite the overwhelming darkness I’ve experienced firsthand, I freely admit knowing next to diddly about the dark arts mentioned later in this volume. I don’t know what makes fire hot. And I don’t know what makes water wet either. But I know enough not to stick my hand in the fire. And I know stay submerged long enough and you will drown.

Some books are meant to be heavier than others; especially those meant to enlighten. Before my downfall I never had a Bible in my personal library but now it’s all I have. I don’t know much about religion but the Good Book may very well be my only chance for salvation. With Holy Bible under palm, I swear what I now testify to is the God’s honest truth. Still if you’re looking for rock-hard evidence of the undeniable, you won’t find it on these tear and sweat soaked pages. Fact is I don’t have any real proof, that’s been my problem all along. If I had any I would have used it a long ago. I’d still be accredited in my field. I’d still have a future. I’d be filthy rich from making all the rounds on all the talk shows and you would all know my real name...and never forget Alexis’s.

Enjoy it while it lasts. Civilization is a fickle thing. Madness isn’t. How fragile sanity can be. How insanely quick it can all fall apart. It’s easy to believe in an all- forgiving and loving God for all that is required is a little faith. But the devil, on the other hand, no one wants to believe in. People would much rather dismiss evil; considering the darkest sins merely fables told by parents to get their kids to behave; for no soul wants to contemplate eternal damnation. It is that denial of the darkness that allows it to devour the light so easily.

Mad...absolutely! Crazy...perhaps? But delusional...not at all. Despite how I may sound, I am not sadistic, just sad. Some may find pleasure in pain but I do not. I get no joy in reliving my torrid tale. This is simply my last chance to extricate myself from the mess I’m in. I now serve the unabridged truth. I stand now while I can. I stand for those who have fallen and will continue to do so...as long as Alexis remains unbridled.

If only God would smite the wicked instead of leaving us to set our own fates. Although the devil is more apt to preach, the Lord always listens. Pray for me if you will. I expect no miracle. I merely hope you show me enough patience to hear me out and postpone judgment while I offer you the chance to live and learn through my eyes; to protect yourself from forces unseen. That’s more than I got. Realize Satan is quick to reward those who do his bidding while God makes us wait for our just reward. God help you if you actually manage to find Alexis. I guarantee she’s ready, willing, and waiting for you.

Doubt me if you will but hear me for you must. While my sanity remains in question the facts are not. You may question my state of mind, many do; especially myself. Many claim I’m a liar just to be able to sleep soundly. Slanderous rumors surrounding my tarnished name go unchallenged to this day. There’s not much left of me now, even less of my integrity. My family, friends, and all other forms of support have vanished into the wind along with my hopes.

I know I’m supposed to but I can’t. Forgiving she who trespassed against me is impossible ergo I can’t say for certain where my soul will end up. My body belongs to the State. My mind belongs to her now but my idle hands still are my own. I have become at expert at wasting my time for I’ve got plenty on my shackled wrists. Can you think of anything more futile than writing a story nobody will believe? But I have to try. This is all I have left. Society may have damned me, but I haven’t damned myself...yet. I can only pray each word I jot down isn’t a nail in my coffin. Come and read the real story behind the publicized circus...if you dare...if you care...if you don’t fear the truth. Be brave and find the purest reason of all to be terrified.

Don’t ask me why but I won’t damn the devil completely even after she’s done so to me. Even one as imprisoned by madness as me has to shed light where it is due. As dark as my tale of torment may be, all is not evil among these pages. Oddly enough love plays a key role in my story. It’s truly amazing how something so sweet can turn sour so fast, like wine to vinegar. Within these pages two star-crossed lovers are crucified; only instead of salvation the survivor seeks damnation. In this twisted tale there’s no denying that two hearts once did beat as one, even if for a cruelly cut short time. Consider it a reminder that love comes in all shapes, sizes, and forms, including hate and retribution. Where there is no fiery flame of passion there can be no red-hot rage. Underneath it all this is a tale of a heart wanting what it wants, losing it and to Hell with everyone else. The fact it’s a dark heart is immaterial.

Consider this a valuable lesson in why we shouldn’t worship the beautiful people. Beauty deceived me. Ugliness on the inside is to be feared far more than that easily seen. Evil, just like good, comes in all shapes and sizes. The monster in this book doesn’t have fangs, scales, or claws; not even a tail. When beauty and the beast are the same, few focus on the half they should. Alexis jezebel Barnes is a genuine fox; one that appears subtle and soft on the outside, but has been forged tough, rough, gruff, and a predatory alpha wolf down to her very soul. Alexis is no maniac running amuck; she is a beguiling masterfully manipulative cunning cunt of a cutie; a clever little rabid wolf dressed as raven-haired bunny, furtively burrowing her way into your soul in order to gobble you up from the inside out.

Life’s biggest ironies are often cruel. Sometimes what we fear most we become. I’m not claiming Alexis was born a monster but I won’t deny evil resides in her genes either. As twisted as they are, she had her just reasons for what she did. Her disturbing gut-wrenching tale is one of an abused child being molded by Lucifer’s claws into an even more abusive demon. Still don’t expect much justice in my tale despite just cause for much of it. No happy endings will be found here. No happy beginnings or middles either; only one semi-happy chapter in a novel of turmoil and torment.

Even though we’d like to believe so, destiny isn’t always of one’s own making. Discover how easily your fate can end up in the hands of another in the blink of an eye. Your downfall can start with something as simple as putting a little trust in someone you barely know; one who seems as sweet as the day is long, as pure as the driven snow. What lies before you is nothing less than the darkest journey into night; a foreboding warning of what can happen when doors are opened between this world and the next.

Dare to care or suffer the consequences. As always apathy is the enemy. All that is necessary for evil to thrive is for good men and women to sit on their big fat laurels and do nothing. After hearing my story you can chose to do just that. Turn a blind eye and become part of the problem.  Or you can take pride in becoming part of the solution. If in the end you believe, please make the effort to write your Congressman and demand justice for me. He or she will undoubtedly deny knowing what you’re talking about.

DANGER: KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN! Once innocence is lost it can never be found again. This book isn’t intended for small hands. If you discover this book in your kid’s room, ground him or her immediately and burn it right before their delinquently tempted eyes.

Can you hear me? Have I gotten your attention? Boys and girls, gentlemen and scoundrels, ladies and tramps, the well-to-do and the ne’er-do-wells, people of integrity, politicians, journeymen and thieves; all need take heed. The fact that I can’t stop trying to stop you from reading this should speak volumes. Reading on should be causing you some pause if you have any intelligence at all.

This is definitely not chicken soup for the soul; it’s more like grizzly gruel for your own good. Don’t bother to hope for the best; prepare for the worst instead. Visit the restroom for a break and empty your bladders. Take a few chill pills to calm your nerves. The freak-show is about to begin. Words that shouldn’t be spoken are about to string together a terrifying story, revealing that some things in life are completely out of your hands, and possibly even out of God’s as well. I’m about to give you an education on the most forbidden subject of all, the sheer darkness residing in the human heart.

Chapter Two: And away we go...far far down South and beyond

IN SPITE OF ALL THE nice nursery rhymes parents love to tell their kids; life is far far far more likely to turn into a nightmare than a fairy-tale. Despite what true romantics believe with all their heart, destiny and fate don’t always lead you steadfast to your soulmate. Into every life a little rain must fall and sometimes an unavoidable monsoon blows your way. Few can avoid it. No one can predict when evil will enter their life.

As to how my madness all began: Only now do I realize one shouldn’t be eager to explore one’s heritage unless one is willing to find just what they’re made of, no matter what. Coat of arms, heraldic bearings, genealogy, they’re all about not forgetting your roots. Family is everything. As an inquisitive child I loved exploring my family tree and our family traditions; taking a great deal of pride in my ancestors.

Paradoxes can kill...or at least send one’s life into a tailspin. Curiosity kills far more than cats; nevertheless a mind is a terrible thing to waste. As my curiosity and education grew, my research interests quickly expanded into the anthropological and sociological lifestyles and traditions of other cultures. Mating rituals and ceremonies were incredibly romantic to my adolescent mind, even the more primitive ones. Addicted to public television and National Geographic specials, my appetite for all things ethological was insatiable.

Ignorance may be bliss but it’s also often hazardous to your health. The temptation of knowledge cost Adam and Eve paradise; and to this day it still cost many dearly. If only I had the wisdom to foresee that. Once upon a normal time, Cultural Anthropology was my chosen career path. The rather dank and nasty can of worms I am about to open for you started out as my dissertation for a doctorate degree in said same at Stony Creek Medical College in upstate New York.

If you think I’m blowing things up way out of proportion dare read on and see just what an understatement I’ve been making. As deflated as I am, I have no delusions of grandeur yet I suppose you’d like to know more about exactly who’s been bending your ear? Who it is that’s done their best to get you to turn back even though the last thing I want is for you to turn your back? I have become a wacky author who writes what she hopes no one will ever read yet will believe every word of it; a cringing coward and victim trying to find freedom, above all a survivor wishing she could forget what she cannot.

Call me Chicken Little if you must but I’m not changing my story. The sky may not be falling but one’s world can come crashing down in far less time that anyone realizes. Less than a year ago, in another lifetime, when it came time for me to come up with a topic for my thesis I chose A Sociological Treatise on Voodoo Americana: The Arrival of Tribal Religion in the Colonies and the Effects Christianity had Upon It. Having done my thesis on the great melting pot that is New York City I felt sure New Orleans would add a splash of flavor to my hypothesis.

I like to think karma had nothing to do with it. Then again perhaps I was Hitler in a previous life...or perhaps a politician? To this very day my weary soul begs the question, Did I have it coming? I’m no saint, just a victim of my own naïveté. Fate, destiny, or the worst bad luck ever...I’ll never know.

Alright, I have to admit the sinner in me chose New Orleans just as much for the ambient party atmosphere of Mardi Gras than anything else. That and the fact my dear daddy was dead set against me going. Who knew daddy could be so right? Father dearest went to the Big Easy once, when I was a mere lass of ten, on a brief business trip and insists he’s never been the same since. He’s never gone into any details. When I mentioned I was thinking of going there as part of my dissertation, he went nuts; acting as if I were considering going to a third world country. In desperation my father even offered me a Yuppie dream European vacation, hitting Paris, London, and even Rome. Before I could seriously consider accepting, my mother insisted he take her instead. I likely would have gone to New Orleans sooner or later, just because he forbade it.

Innocent, possibly; however not as much as I used to be. Guilty, surely but not of the crimes I’ve been sentenced for. Damned, certainly...far more than I ever thought possible. Despite my innocence in some things I’m no idiot. I began my dissertation in the usual way. Like with just about any research project started today, the internet was my first stop. All off-site research led me to expect New Orleans to be a welcoming city. And it was. Virtual and real weren’t as far off as I thought they’d be...at first. Upon entering The Crescent City I found it to be even more historical than I had hoped; the indigenous population taking a great deal of pride in their ancestry...and their religious beliefs, including Voodoo.

You can’t count on everyone’s word but you can count on everyone’s word of mouth. One thing about the Deep South I can tell you everyone has their folklore and their timeless adages to back it up. Any true home grown Cajun will tell you, you can’t play for free...everything has its price. Known by the locals as the Boomerang Effect, the Louisiana natives take karma a step further than that. Down in the bayou they go by what’s commonly referred to as the Threefold Law. Those whom chose to set lose bad mojo will receive three times worse in return. Whatever bad vibes you put out will come back to you; the longer it takes to do so the higher the price will be. It happens to hold true for the light side as well, but the dark half is, by far more called upon. Karma, plain and simple multiplied by three; it all adds up to eventually getting what you deserve; whether you want it or not. Oh how I wish I took it more seriously than I did.

Down New Orleans’ way it’s super easy to stumble into darkness. Shopping for your own demise can be as easy as entering your local Walmart. No license or permit is required to practice Voodoo. ID is rarely checked. Most occult items don’t even have an age limit on them. Whether your magical interests are black or white, dark or light, Goth, Punk, or Emo the Voodoo shops of the Big Easy as well as the skilled and knowledgeable locals all make it easy to learn to cast spells.

As with most purchases in life, the buyer must beware. Few warnings are offered. So buyers beware; if you jinx someone into breaking a finger, you very well may break your arm to pay for your purchase. If you should chose to bind an enemy don’t be too surprise if their loss of eyesight is temporary and yours permanent. Should your arch nemesis run into an early demise, you should expect to be haunted to an early grave. Best be sure your motives are true if you seek a soulmate; for even love potions have their way of expiring. Greed and lust tend to overrule charity and love almost every time. One best have one’s affairs in order before deciding to mess with the affairs of others.

Taken seriously or taken lightly, the risks are all the same. Ignorant people who prefer to live in bliss may think of Voodoo as mere hocus-pocus; a publicity stunt put on for the tourist; entertainment and magic shows purely for amusement. But practitioner beware, despite how it may appear on public display pure Voodoo is anything but amusing. While some performers are more show business than dirty business, almost all respect the black art; those that don’t almost always regret it.

Courage can be a blessing or a curse. Off the battlefield foolhardy bravery will often brand you a fool. If you dare dabble in brimstone, expect to pay the ultimate price. In the occult, beginner’s luck almost always turns bad. For me Voodoo was more of a superstition than a religion, but that didn’t keep me from looking into as part of my research. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in its power, especially now. I must admit if I knew a few of the top secret recipes; I might have tried at least one. Sweet devotion, sweeter revenge, and the sweetest vengeance; I won’t deny it is all so very tempting. The Devil’s in the details and, visible or not, there are countless crossroads for you to make dark deals at in Southern Louisiana.

It doesn’t really matter if goodness is inherent in man or put there by God. I can’t say for sure if evil lurks in the hearts of man or is put there by the devil and that does matter. As do Voodoo’s origins and nature: When times get bad, really bad, people turn to their God or Gods as the case may be. And the days of slavery were about as bad as they get. Few change their spiritual beliefs just because they are forced to relocate. Clandestine Voodoo rituals were common for those followers that could get away from their master’s watchful eyes.

The Haitian Gods didn’t quite go untouched by the plantation owners’ influence. Gods of sun, moon, Earth, stars, sea, thunder, iron, trees, mountains, fire, wind, and rivers combined with more European Christian values. A merger of the more modern and formal civilized with the more ancient and ritualistic primitive was bound to occur. In an effort to appease their masters many slaves adopted Catholic Saints, Angels, and Archangels to serve as substitutes for their Orishas. Symbols, icons, and beliefs blended into a powerful spiritual brew. Chants and prayers became intertwined. As a result crosses and religious medals are still used in Voodoo today.

An Orisha, Ioa, or Loa is a guardian spirit that is usually perceived acting through forces of nature. (Don’t be too quick to judge. We do name our hurricanes after all) Orishas are looked upon as spirit guides that surround the living and may be persuaded to help us mere mortals for the right offering. Beware; most Orishas have a reputation as tricksters with a definite hidden agenda.

What’s sacred to one might be nothing to another; all that matters is faith is nothing to mess around with. Practitioners of Voodoo also pray to their ancestors for guidance and to show respect. Traditions are highly treasured and kept. Spells for protection, fortune, luck, love, revenge, vengeance, and hate abound. The few guidelines that are scrolled down are written in blood in the rarely seen Book of Secrets. Those few that have actually laid their eyes upon the sacred manuscript often refer to it as the Book of the Dead; for good reason...they have seen what it can do.

Zealots are always zealous no matter what god or gods they believe in. As with any faith the true power relies on the strength of the belief. Despite how it may look, sound, and be treated at times, gris-gris magic ain’t a toy, even if the colorful velvet baggies, rag dolls, and mini-coffins may make it all appear trick or treat. The candles that burn aren’t for blowing out and making wishes, even the ones that aren’t black or blood-red. Ignorance is no excuse. Whether one realizes it or not, invocations and incantations aren’t nursery rhymes. All those horror movies and urban legends should have taught you something. Even simple jewelry can pull you into jeopardy. Trinkets can be found on every street corner in the Quarter. Souvenirs aren’t necessarily just keepsakes: sunrises, sunsets or full moons all have their charms.

When attempting to shed light on the darkness one has to worry about unintentionally darkening the room instead. I should have known better and now I do, that’s the problem. What I do now, I must do; even though it shames me so. I should be whipped for what I am doing; for once I unfold my tale there’s no tucking it back between my legs. Now that I’ve shamelessly broadened your dark horizons a bit it’s time to get into specifics. The mix of Catholic beliefs with African tribal gods and the faiths of the islands (Santeria, Lucumi, Candomble, and a few others) became known as Voodoo. Priests were known as Houngans whereas priestesses were called Mambos.

All I can do is ask you to have faith and pray you put it in God’s hands and no others. Any true religion requires a strong heart, at least in spirit. Voodoo offers little comfort for the squeamish. Animal sacrifices such as lopping off the heads of chickens were quick attention grabbers and left lasting impressions. The splendid and grotesque often mingle during rituals honoring the Gods and ancestors. Upper level Priests can convince faithful followers to do almost anything. The one thing true devotees have in common is believing anything is possible; from simple love potions and gris-gris bags that arranged marriages in the most subliminal way to zombie powders and potions which are alleged to ward off even death itself.

Too many chose the wrong path simply because it’s almost always the easier one to follow. History tells of Voodoo rituals and ceremonies becoming so popular, occurring regularly with such large numbers of members, that in 1817 New Orleans Municipal Council passed a resolution forbidding blacks to gather except on Sundays at specified places, the Whites of the crescent City fearing a possible Black uprising. Back in the day Congo Square (now Beauregard Square) on North Rampart Street was the main Voodoo ceremonial ground. White tourists gathered to be entertained by the Blacks chanting and dancing to their primitive drums. There were also secret ceremonies of course, many of them performed up on Lake Pontchartrain; as to the nature of them, only those who attended can really say.

Shadowed in darkness; draped by stars; Voodoo rituals are typically performed at night in remote locales. In the late night air a snake god, the Gran Zombi, one of the most popular Orishas, is often worshiped via a snake ritual.  Placing a large ceremonial bowl containing a snake on the ground, the Queen of the assembly steps into it and begins to writhe seductively doing her best to imitate the serpent slithering at her feet. A circle is then traced in the dirt and a pledge steps into it. Holding a gris-gris bag in one hand the queen taps the initiate with a paddle clasped in the other; hell-week hazing in its original form.

The mysterious nighttime holds far more magic than the light of day. Entertainment as well as enchantment flourishes more in the darkness. There can be no denying that Voodoo ceremonies are spectacular sights to see. The overall mystifying effect is most alluring, seductive and festive simultaneously, nearly hypnotic. The huddled masses gather in the firelight to form a scintillating unit of one, a sea of flesh that seems to ebb in and out with a tide matched to the mysterious music. While chanting rhythmically with the crowd some of the more zealous members slowly fall into trances, swoon, and faint.

In addition to paying their proper due respects, members often ask their ancestors for guidance and protection. The more ambitious may ask for other extremely personal favors. The sign of the cross as well as Baptism and Confirmation ceremonies also occur. However, when members go into trances and become possessed by spirits it hardly reminds one of more traditional Catholic disciplines.

Don’t let the tourists’ board fool you. Voodoo is as an intoxicating religion as it gets. Zealots abound. The exuberant personalities of participants can blow your mind. While some of the possessed may faint others can take on animal characteristics or a frenzied behavior. Signs of the rabbit, rat, dragon, horse, and monkey have all turned up at ceremonies.

The most terrifying things in this world can come in pretty packages. Considering what the dark arts have put me through, I feel like a hypocritical fool mentioning that it’s not all the stuff horror movies make it out to be. Appearances can mislead; especially when not looked into beneath the surface. In many ways Voodoo can be beautiful; it is a very flamboyant religion. Black and blue, red and scarlet, lavender, chartreuse, and burgundy; even the language of Voodoo is a very colorful one. The locals’ dialect adds to flavored charm of New Orleans a thousand fold.

Omnipotence isn’t held by anyone but the One. No one but God knows it all. Still many accomplished Voodoo leaders have preached of knowledge forbidden to all but them. Even with all the gruesome, grizzly, grotesque lessons recently learned personally by my cursed hide the hard way; I still can’t claim to be an expert on the occult. One could easily spend decades just trying to record the nuances in the vernacular. Voodoo priests and princesses come with many titles. Babalawo, Hougan, Mambo, Obean, Santero, and Yoruba are but a few of them; it all depends on what island tradition inspires each particular congregation.

Chapter Three: The First Lady of Voodoo

THE PROBLEM WITH LEARNING from your mistakes is some can be fatal. If dark history tells us anything, it is to fear what we’ll never understand. My current dire dilemma with the aftermath of Voodoo has its origins long ago. Before I introduce to you the current reigning queen, I figure it only appropriate to tell you about the most renowned wearer of the infamous crown. The first name that floats out of the royal mist in any New Orleans’s occult mind is Marie Laveau; by far the most celebrated Voodoo priestess of all time. The mysteries that surround her are just as thick as the ghoulish gossip.

What doesn’t kill you may very well haunt you forever. As with most of Voodoo, Marie Laveau’s origins are somewhat of a mystery. Some say the Queen of Voodoo was born on Haiti, others insist in New Orleans. Some take credit as her descendants while others don’t even like to speak her name. Despite being of darker skin and wearing her long black hair in a single braided ponytail reassembling a Native American, all agree that she was the offspring of a Whiteman and thus a born free woman.

When it comes to the occult, not only can you not handle the truth, you’ll likely never find it. As in much of the forbidden ways, a clear-cut path to the truth is rarely found. Her exact birthday as well as her upbringing is shrouded in as much a fog as her birthplace. What is known is that in 1819 a beautiful young lady named Marie Laveau married Jacques Paris in New Orleans. Their blessed union didn’t last long before her newlywed husband disappeared; after which Marie became the Widow Paris. Shortly thereafter the Widow Paris is rumored to cast a love spell to become the courtesan of Christopher Glapion with whom she eventually spawned a daughter she fortuitously named after herself.

No matter how big the Penguin’s yardstick or how heavily it’s yielded, some Catholic school girls refuse to heed their lessons. Raised a devout Catholic, Marie couldn’t resist the temptations that came with her mother’s religion, Voodoo. Single-handedly Marie Laveau was largely responsible for merging the Catholic religion with her family’s traditional island faith.

Whether you see moral life as black and white or full of shades of gray, men of God have been swayed to the dark side far more often than anyone thinks appropriate. Befriending Pere Antoine, the Chaplain at St. Louis Cathedral, in no time at all Marie bewitched him into allowing her to perform Voodoo rituals behind the Cathedral. Whether it was on behalf of the Chaplain or herself, Marie did her best to add Catholic traits to her second chosen faith. She is credited for the Virgin Mary’s prominent place in Voodoo.

Although now a days it seems such behavior is immediately financially rewarded, selling one’s soul and teaching others how to sell theirs didn’t always come with quick reward. At first Voodoo was more a hobby than a career for industrious Marie; a popular hairdresser by trade, her hairstyles were all the rave. As time went by, Marie begot more children; taking her daughters on as apprentices; and not just as hairstylists.

The shrewder you are the lewder and vice versa. A common trait among leading practitioners of the black magic trade is cleverness. Marie’s hair dressing franchise came with the fringe benefit of access to the homes of the most influential and powerful. Affluent clients constantly gossiped indiscreetly about family secrets as Marie wove their privileged locks into elaborate designs; while her daughters took detailed notes of every single valuable word uttered. What few skeletons Marie didn’t get directly from her patrons’ mouths she acquired using her Voodoo power and respect over their servants and slaves. Bitch got all the dish.

Family is everything if you make it so; especially if you believe in power in numbers. A most fertile woman, Marie Laveau kept her business all in the family by producing a whopping 15 children in a relatively short span of her long life; establishing an immense intelligence network early on. With her immense volume of inside information and a touch of spin-control along with her hocus-pocus, Marie proclaimed herself The Pope of Voodoo in the 1830’s.

For as long back as honest history can tell, a woman’s work was never done...or rewarded as well as it should have been; unless one stood up for herself and had the backing of a few gods as well. A feminist entrepreneur ahead of her time, Marie was among the first to start charging fees for her specialized ritualistic services. And her rates could be quite excessive. A desperate, wealthy father of a young Creole man on trial for murder begged Marie for her help costing him the deed of his majestic home. He did get what he paid for. On the day of the trial several charms were secretly hidden in the courtroom and the accused was acquitted despite all evidence to the contrary.

If you could clone yourself, would you? For Marie having a doppelganger came in handy. One of Marie’s daughters, her namesake, grew up to be the spitting image of Marie; adding dramatically to Madame Marie’s mystical reputation by creating the illusion of her being two places at once. After Mama Marie passed on Daughter Marie continued to practice the black arts under the same name. Thus Marie Laveau seemed to live twice as long as most; adding an air of immortality to her mystique as well.

There are many ways to charm someone, including using charms. Look at the swinging pendant and listen to my seductive suggestions. A woman of many discrete talents, Marie was also an expert at individual as well as mass hypnosis. Knowing darn well that holding the right secret over the right person’s head got things done, her secret skill came in handy.

Make the right reputation for yourself and you won’t need an advertising budget. As Marie’s infamy spread so did the stories about her. Among the tall tales told of Marie, it was said that if someone displeased her she would write the offender’s name on a balloon and then attach it temporarily to a statue of St. Expedite. In whatever direction the balloon would float when set free the person named on it would soon follow.

Ask any woman and she’ll inform you diversity and multi-tasking are hardly new concepts. Setting hair, performing miracles and casting hexes weren’t her only sources of income. Madame Laveau sold charms and potions from her acquired manor house on St. Ann Street. Her rates for such concoctions varied widely, but with a predictable pattern. Whites would pay upwards of $10 per bottle, colored folk would be served for free; if you don’t count the respect and gratitude her services got her, as well as all the favors.  A notorious woman of too many skills to count, Marie was also into the performing arts. She and her pet snake, Zombie, led Voodoo dances in City Park and Congo Square. Marie and company also held Voodoo rituals on the banks of Bayou Street as well as on St. John’s Bayou.

The wealthy insist that money isn’t everything but the poor will gladly argue the point, if anyone bothered to listen. When you have money you have the luxury of spending it any which way you want. When you don’t, it’s all you think about. Being a woman of means she naturally had more than one residence. Marie Laveau named her mysterious cottage on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain Maison Blanche. Always open to new ways to make a buck, the oldest profession was bound to be one of them. Interracial relations were her specialty. Gossip has it that Marie arranged for secret lakeside orgies for wealthy white men seeking to hook-up with black, mulatto, and quadroon women.

Making amends is all in the soul of the sinner. Perhaps she finally saw the light. Or perhaps the darkness became too much to bear. In what might seem like a contradiction in her greedy nature, as her way of paying penance, later in life Marie became a well-skilled nurse; rendering first aid to the wounded during the bloody Battle of New Orleans; so appreciated for her war efforts that she was cordially invited to attend a State funeral for one of the heroes of the war, General Jean Humbert. Among other of her more noble endeavors Marie also visited the sick in New Orleans prisons, ministered to Death Row Inmates, and was called upon often by the city’s elite to help lay on healing hands during the harsh Yellow Fever epidemics.

If only history recorded the truth and nothing but perhaps we wouldn’t be doomed to repeat so much of it. Like most women, there was more to Marie than met the eye. Marie had a two very contradictory faces: the ruthless and all-powerful Voodoo priestess and the compassionate and nurturing nurse to the ill and downtrodden. Saint or sinner, only Marie knows what truly motivated her most, and that secret she took with her to the grave.

Like most legends Marie Laveau’s will likely continue on you generations to come. Despite what some practicing Voodoo might claim, nobody lives forever, not even formidable mistresses of Voodoo. Marie Laveau died in 1881 over 80 years old, no small accomplishment for today never mind the period in which she lived. The closest any of us comes to living forever is our children. Her daughter, bearing the same name and nature, went on to continue her mother’s preaching for years to follow. (Frequently pretending to be her mother) Undoubtedly there are still Laveaus dancing nude in the moonlight out there this day.

As monumental as she was she hasn’t any monuments in Washington; nonetheless Marie does have her shrine. Should you wish to pay your respects and soak up some spooky ambiance, Madame Laveau is entombed in St. Lois Cemetery No.1. If you chose to dance on her grave, best be sure it’s in an approved ritualistic fashion. I wouldn’t recommend peeing on it; for most look upon Marie far more as a Saint than sinner...and if they’re wrong you have even more to fear.

In many ways Marie Laveau left more behind than most politicians ever will. Although she may rest in peace one can rest assured the eternal power of Voodoo she possessed haunts New Orleans for as long as it stands. Some say Marie will as well. At Marie Laveau’s tomb you will find offerings of rosaries, coins, herbs, beans, bones, gris-gris bags, and flowers; all tokens left to pay homage to the Queen of Voodoo. Such lavish markers of respect help distinguish Marie’s tomb from