The Voodoo Curse

The story I share with you may be considered of a preternatural nature, but it carries a mystery embedded within the haunting essence of its unspeakable manifestation. The eerie sounds of drums beat in the distance, and chants echo as the wandering spirits of the night are summoned with fervent incantations and hypnotic dances.

There exists a hidden realm where the undead have risen and roam with the gusts of wind. Tales abound of countless victims who have succumbed to a curse imposed upon them. To fully grasp this story, one must understand its true origin—an origin terrifying in name and daunting in realization. Whoever is fortunate enough to survive its madness is never the same. Such was the case with me, Charles Beauregard III.

My carriage had passed the vast plantation grounds to reach the Rochefort Mansion on a sunny afternoon in the year 1850, just outside the illustrious city of New Orleans. It was my first visit to the mansion. I had come to meet the well-regarded Mrs. Angeline Rochefort, who had recently sold me an excellent property in Baton Rouge.

Our business dealings had been profitable for us both, and they would allow me to visit New Orleans more often than I had expected. I was eager to deepen my relations with the city’s prominent elite and engage my mind with its expanding commerce. To be within that exclusive circle was motivation enough. So I made the conscious decision to visit Mrs. Rochefort in person.

The colonial mansion was a red-brick building with a slate roof and a white colonnade of eight narrow columns across the front. It retained the original rectangular design and was surrounded by the lush greenery of the endless plantation.

I had seen several luxurious colonial mansions in my travels, but this one stood out. It uniquely reflected the French influence that once dominated the region before the American acquisition. The distinctive columns piqued my interest and stirred my curiosity.

I became increasingly fascinated with learning more about the ancestral history of the mansion and its owner. This thought occupied my mind as I considered what to ask Mrs. Rochefort. When we finally met—after exchanging greetings and formalities—she welcomed me with a cordial smile. One of her Black male servants escorted me to the main hall, where she awaited me. She was a widow, having recently suffered the tragic loss of her husband, Mr. Alton Rochefort.

She wore an elegant turquoise silk gown with delicate lace and ribbon trim that complemented her natural complexion. Adorned with a necklace, tasseled earrings, and bracelets, she carried herself with poise. Her hair was parted in the middle; her eyes were mocha, and her long raven hair flowed freely. I wore a brown frock coat over lighter trousers, and a red cravat. I stood at average height and build, with medium-length hair, a curled mustache, and a black top hat I removed in her presence. We were both struck by each other's charm.

“It is a pleasure, madam, to finally make your acquaintance. I regret it comes under such tragic circumstances, with the recent passing of your beloved husband.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Beauregard. I trust your business ventures and investments bring you the satisfaction you seek through this transaction.”

“That is what I hope, madam.”

“I believe you will achieve your ambitions, Mr. Beauregard. You seem a man of esteemed character.”

“With the support of others, I look forward to better days in New Orleans.”

“How is Baton Rouge these days?”

“It’s growing, much like New Orleans, though not at the pace of this lively city of yours.”

“If my late husband Alton were here, he would urge you to move to New Orleans. He was buried just a week ago.”

“I deeply regret that I never met Mr. Rochefort, nor attended his funeral.”

“He would have enjoyed your company, as I will while you’re here.”

“May I ask you, madam, about the history of the mansion?”

“What would you like to know, Mr. Beauregard?”

“Forgive my curiosity, madam.”

“There is no offense taken. I am happy to answer.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“The mansion was originally built in the year 1750.”

“A hundred years ago!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, indeed. It was built by my late husband’s ancestor, Viscount François Rochefort. It was inherited by his son Frédéric Rochefort in 1795, and later by my husband Alton in 1830.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty years. You see, Alton and I were already engaged when he inherited the mansion. We were married that same year.”

“I imagine you’ve grown quite fond of it and will miss it dearly.”

“Very much so, Mr. Beauregard. But I know it will be in good hands. You've made a fine impression on me, and from your manner, you seem a trustworthy man.”

“I’m honored by your words, madam.”

“I wish I could stay longer, Mr. Beauregard, but I must be on my way. I have urgent matters that cannot be delayed.”

“Of course, madam.”

“I’ve instructed the servants to attend to you. They will not disappoint. May you find comfort here, as I have over the years.”

“I shall try, madam.”

Mrs. Rochefort departed and climbed into her carriage, which slowly rolled away from the estate. I entered the mansion, drawn to its unique ancestral charm. The inner architecture boasted mosaic tiles in four rooms across two stories, galleries on the north and west elevations, mortared walls, arched doorways, gable dormers, a central brick chimney, stucco exterior, plastered interior walls, decorative cornices, tall casement windows, a quaint parlor, and elaborately designed dining and main halls. The mansion was furnished with the finest pieces in the region.

My room was on the second floor. As I ascended the staircase, I marveled at everything I saw. One room, however, particularly intrigued me. It appeared to be intentionally sealed—perhaps the late Mr. Rochefort’s room, off-limits out of respect. At least, that’s what I assumed. If not, it was certainly peculiar.

In the meantime, I busied myself getting better acquainted with the mansion and its loyal servants. I expressed my good intentions as their new master and hoped to earn their respect over time.

What I didn’t know was the unspeakable horror lurking in the shadows of the house—a darkness tied to the clandestine practice of Voodoo. I spent the rest of the day attending to private affairs, including preparations for my return to Baton Rouge the following week.

But the mansion’s eerie atmosphere would soon make itself known. While writing a letter in the private study, I suddenly heard strange voices. I couldn’t determine their origin. At first, it sounded like French, but there were African words interwoven that distinguished it from standard French—perhaps a Creole patois spoken by the servants.

I rose from my desk and stepped into the corridor to investigate, but no one was there. I dismissed the sound and returned to my letter. I had arrived with high expectations—never suspecting the terrifying ordeal I would endure. I hoped to join the circles of New Orleans’ aristocracy.

Back in Baton Rouge, I had already established a network of worthy associates. In New Orleans, I hoped to meet esteemed men like Olivier Leblanc, Guy Broussard, Thierry Chauvin, Michel Duclot, Bernard Grovinger, and Jean Paul Maupassant. These men, rooted in the French Quarter, were revered for their lineage and wealth. They remained the elite of Louisiana’s Creole society after the Louisiana Purchase.

The next morning, I woke to a delicious breakfast and informed the servants that I would be away for the day. I entrusted the household to a Black servant named Pierre.

Mrs. Rochefort had found him at a slave auction. He was originally from Haiti, though his ancestors came from Senegal. Brought to America by slave traders, Pierre had once been a free man. When I asked how he had been captured, he told me that slave traders had abducted him while he was fishing off the Haitian coast. Though he spoke perfect French, his dominant language was a Creole patois. We conversed in French, but used English with guests. He was always neatly dressed in his uniform.

“Do you miss your beloved Haiti?” I asked.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“What do you miss most, Pierre?”

“I miss the breath of freedom. Haiti is a free land. With all due respect, monsieur, I plan to return to its beautiful island one day.”

“How long have you been a slave?”

“Too long to remember.”

“Were your parents slaves too?”

“Yes, to the French, monsieur. But they were freed afterward.”

“If you were free again, what would you do in Haiti?”

He paused for a moment before replying, “I would build a mansion of my own.”

“Would you own slaves?”

“Never, monsieur. I could never enslave my people.”

That was the end of our exchange. I then boarded my carriage and departed for New Orleans to meet Mr. Olivier Leblanc. He lived in the French Quarter, the Vieux Carré, on Saint Ann Street. His home was even more impressive than mine.

I had come to discuss business, but Mr. Leblanc was oddly more interested in my recent purchase.

“I hear you’ve bought the old Rochefort mansion?” he asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“How are you finding your stay there?”

“Well, to be honest, it’s too early to say. But I have no complaints. Still, there’s something I didn’t expect.”

“You’re not aware of its history—or what happened to Mr. Rochefort?”

I was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“So you weren’t told?”

“Told what, monsieur?”

“Perhaps it’s best you don’t know,” he said.

“Why the mystery, if I may ask?”

“Have you heard of Voodoo, Mr. Beauregard?”

“I believe I have, but I must admit I know very little.”

“Then you don’t know the real story of Mr. Rochefort’s death?”

“No. I don’t.”

His expression grew more serious as he said, “Some say he was murdered… by his wife.”

“What? I find that hard to believe. She seems a very kind and genuine woman.”

“People say she practices Voodoo.”

“With all due respect, monsieur, I find that difficult to imagine. Perhaps we could change the subject and discuss what brought me here?”

He smiled. “Of course, Mr. Beauregard.”

When I had left his home, I could not help but ponder his strange and revealing words as I made my way back to the mansion. The mention of Voodoo—and the insinuation of Mrs. Rochefort’s possible connection to its cultic practices—was deeply unsettling. How could I confirm such a far-fetched notion? The mere suggestion was enough to be dismissed as fanciful, yet my curiosity refused to let it rest. I felt compelled to investigate further.

Upon my return, I summoned Pierre to my private study to speak about Mrs. Rochefort’s life. I did not want to appear intrusive or improper in my questioning, so I chose my inquiries carefully, unsure whether he would divulge anything sensitive regarding his former master or mistress.

“Pierre, I was wondering,” I began.

“Yes, monsieur?”

“You knew the former master, Mr. Rochefort, quite well, and you are familiar with Mrs. Rochefort too.”

“It might sound strange, but what can you tell me about their involvement with Voodoo?”

“Voodoo, monsieur?”

“Yes, Voodoo.”

“I see the venomous tongue of local gossip has found its way to you.”

“I wasn’t aware the Rocheforts were spoken of in such a way regarding Voodoo.”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but I would not give much weight to the idle talk of envious locals. Many resented the master and mistress.”

“I see. Still, I find myself intrigued by this primitive cult. What can you tell me about it, Pierre?”

“Do you truly wish to know, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Well then… according to our tradition, the first enslaved West Africans brought to New Orleans were mostly of the Bambara and Kongo tribes. They blended their ancestral beliefs with the Catholicism of the local French and Spanish settlers. The French arrived in 1699 and brought slaves by 1719. The Spanish assumed control in 1763, remaining until 1803. Throughout these changes, our people never abandoned our traditions.”

“I had always thought Voodoo was associated with witchcraft, Satanism, or black magic.”

“Some might interpret it that way, monsieur, though that is not the full truth.”

“How, then, did the Rocheforts become involved in such practices?”

“On the sugar plantation—through their interaction with the slaves, of course.”

I let the conversation cease there and allowed Pierre to resume his duties. He had shown himself to be a responsible servant—someone in whom I was beginning to place growing confidence. If I were to achieve success in my endeavors, I would need trustworthy confidants with whom I could share my ambitions. No man builds an empire alone.

My ambitions were born of personal aspiration. What I would accomplish with them would be determined by the course of my actions—and by fate. This lesson I had learned through experience, and through the teachings of the man who had instilled virtue in me from birth—my dearest father. Without him, I might never have dared venture so far in my pursuit of a place among the aristocracy of New Orleans.

In my study, I sat in quiet reflection, contemplating Voodoo and its possible connection to the Rocheforts. I had only just arrived at the mansion, yet already I had been warned of its inexplicable past. I was not yet prepared to confront the intimate secrets of this place, nor was I inclined to accept the idea of Voodoo’s influence over it. Could I trust mere hearsay, spoken with vague alarm? It seemed too implausible.

Still, I could not shake the disturbing thought of Voodoo’s presence among the enslaved on the plantation. Times were changing, yes—but old traditions were stubborn, and not easily erased, especially in this part of the country. From that moment on, I was uncertain of what to believe.

Once more, while seated in my study, I heard again the strange voices echoing from the dark corridor. This time, I chose to ignore them. I was reading a book I had found on the topic of black magic. Every page fascinated me more than the last. And although I now suspected the Rocheforts may have dabbled in Voodoo, I had no proof of their involvement in sinister rites. I needed evidence—something undeniable.

The disembodied voices grew louder. I left the study to investigate and discovered the rhythmic pounding of drums. The sounds came from behind a closed door to a mysterious, long-unused room. The corridor, however, was empty. No one else appeared to notice the disturbance. I leaned in and listened—yes, the sounds were still there. Compelled by a mix of dread and curiosity, I knocked, then pounded on the door, calling out to whoever—or whatever—was inside.

A black female servant approached me, drawn by the noise I was making. I asked her plainly if she too could hear the voices and the drums. She listened but claimed to hear nothing. Was I truly the only one? Was I going mad? It felt real—so real that I demanded she fetch the key to the room at once.

She notified Pierre, who arrived promptly.

“Monsieur, what has happened? Why were you banging on the door?”

“There is something about this room, Pierre. Something hidden—something beyond mere mystery.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t hear the noises coming from inside? The voices? The drums?”

“No, monsieur.”

“But I swear it. I heard them. Didn’t you?”

“No, monsieur.”

"Surely, you must have heard it. Someone must have. Or am I going mad?"

"I would not dare suggest that monsieur."

"I swear I heard noises."

"What did they sound like?"

"Voices—and drumbeats, I tell you."

"Are you certain of that, monsieur?"

I bit my lip and fell silent. There was no sense in trying to convince Pierre or the other servants of what I had heard; they clearly did not believe me. Still, I knew I would not be able to rest until I discovered the truth behind that closed door. Pierre instructed one of the servants, a Black woman named Leslie, to fetch him the key.

When she returned, he unlocked the door. The hinges groaned as it creaked open. To my astonishment, the room was empty. It had clearly been uninhabited for quite some time. Dust coated every surface and cobwebs stretched from corner to corner. I stood before Pierre, speechless.

Despite the fact that I had distinctly heard those voices, I refrained from pressing the matter further. I retired to my quarters, deeply troubled. What had I truly heard?

More pressing than the voices was the unsettling notion that the mansion I had recently purchased might be haunted. In the days that followed, I tried to occupy my thoughts with more pleasant distractions, yet the horror continued to haunt me, an ever-present shadow I could not shake.

One afternoon in New Orleans, as I passed through the streets by carriage, I heard the lively sounds of a gathering. It came from an abandoned brickyard on Dumaine Street. Curious, I stepped out to investigate. There, I saw a group of Black people dancing, invoking their Voodoo gods, the rhythms of their drums pulsing with fervent intensity.

One of the men spotted me and questioned my presence. His gaze left me momentarily transfixed. When I came to my senses, I hurried back to the carriage—but he followed me. What happened next would change everything.

As I was leaving, another carriage laden with cargo crushed the man to death. I could not have imagined the terrible omen that event would bring. I would later learn that the man was no ordinary practitioner—he was Papa Jean, a Voodoo king of great influence in his community. The image of his mangled body haunted me for countless restless nights, manifesting in unbearable nightmares.

When I returned to the mansion, I went straight to the study and poured myself a glass of Médoc. My hands trembled as I drank. Pierre entered and, seeing my state, asked if I was all right.

I attempted to feign calm, but Pierre’s perceptiveness could not be fooled. Eventually, I confessed the dreadful incident that had taken place on Dumaine Street. Upon hearing my story, Pierre grew solemn. He warned me that the man I had seen killed was indeed a powerful Voodoo priest. Perhaps I had been a fool to dismiss the severity of the event—or blind to the peril now looming.

Pierre suggested that we visit the community and ask for forgiveness. But I refused. I did not want to involve myself further—especially not with the authorities. The death had not been my fault, and I did not intend to take the blame. I instructed Pierre to keep what I had told him strictly confidential.

"I want this to remain private, Pierre. You are not to speak a word of this to anyone. Is that understood?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Good. I’ll be gone for a week—leaving tomorrow. I must attend to some discreet business in Baton Rouge. You’ll be in charge of the mansion until I return."

"You can trust me, monsieur. I will inform the other servants of your departure."

"By the time I return, I hope to be rid of this wretched burden—the thought of Voodoo."

"Monsieur, be careful on your trip."

I eyed him suspiciously. "Is there something you're not telling me, Pierre?"

"Forgive me, monsieur. It's just a common expression."

"I’ll be in my study if you need me."

"Then I must return to my duties, monsieur."

"I won’t keep you from them any longer."

"You are no distraction at all, monsieur!"

Later that evening, I was in my room when I noticed a lone serpent slithering across the floor. It must have entered through the open window—or worse, someone had placed it there with malicious intent. I used my walking stick to lift it and called for a female servant to bring me a chest in which I could confine it.

Shaken, I questioned every servant to see if anyone had seen a stranger near the mansion. None had. There was no point pressing them further; their expressions betrayed no deceit. However, I also found grave dust on the windowsill. Was this some form of vexation?

While seated at my escritoire in the study, a sharp pricking sensation coursed through my body. It was as though someone was deliberately tormenting me. The pain would momentarily subside, only to return stronger. Desperate, I summoned one of the servants to fetch the local doctor.

Dr. Lagrange arrived from New Orleans. After examining me, he found no physical cause for my pain. He suggested that if it persisted, I should visit a hospital in the city—better equipped to handle such unexplained maladies. I had the distinct impression he thought the issue psychological.

Worried I would not be able to travel the next morning as planned, I tried to distract myself in the parlor. But Pierre noticed my distress.

He knew something was wrong. What he told me next chilled me to the bone.

Pierre believed I was suffering from a curse—a Voodoo curse inflicted by another priest in revenge for the death of Papa Jean. I was reluctant to believe it. Surely, there was a rational explanation for all that was happening.

But the signs were mounting. If this was indeed a curse, how could I possibly stop it?

Pierre again offered to accompany me to speak with the local Voodoo community. He insisted it was crucial that I ask for forgiveness—before the curse consumed me entirely. This time, I agreed.

We took a carriage to New Orleans. A somber mist hung over the city as we approached.

Before we left, Pierre gave me a talisman wrapped in red flannel, instructing me to wear it around my neck at all times. It was meant to protect me from evil.

He explained its powers and warned me of another kind of charm—the Ouanga—a dark talisman used to poison enemies. It contained a deadly root from the figuier maudit tree, imported from Africa.

The place we visited was secretive, tucked away in the Treme Quarter, where enslaved people once gathered to express their traditions and culture in private. I was nervous and uncomfortable upon our arrival. I didn’t know what to expect. I was practically a stranger to these people. Would they be receptive to me, especially after what had happened to their high priest?

The clopping of horse hooves echoed through the narrow streets, blending with the rhythmic throb of drums. People danced and chanted in Creole, clutching serpents identical to the ones that had invaded my room. They were communicating with spirits through rituals meant to bridge the world of the living and the dead.

They sought to open the immortal gate between darkness and light. A stone altar stood before us, erected in reverence to their gods—the Grand Zambi and Papa Lebat. From the crowd, a Voodoo priest emerged. He poured rum as a libation upon the earth and began invoking the spirits through animal sacrifices, including chickens.

Around the altar lay black crosses, lizards, bones, and oil. But something else troubled me even more—Voodoo dolls, human-shaped and pierced with pins. One of them bore my exact likeness.

Pierre spoke privately with the priest, explaining what had transpired. I had come seeking forgiveness, but that alone would not suffice. The priest revealed that the curse had not come from within their community. This implied that whoever was behind the dark forces was an outsider—someone who had targeted me intentionally.

We left the priest and his followers, passing Jackson Square, the St. Louis Cathedral, Marais Street, and Bourbon Street, until we reached Bayou Road. There, Pierre brought me to a fortune teller named Madame Lavine. He believed she could help uncover the source of the malediction placed upon me. It felt insane to surrender my rational mind to the arcane world of Voodoo—but I was desperate.

Madame Lavine began reading the tarot. We sat silently at the table as she shuffled the worn cards and spoke, her voice low and eerie.

"What I see is that someone has cast a wicked spell upon you, monsieur."

"Who is this person?" I demanded.

"There is someone you’ve met who knows the one responsible."

"Do you know their name?"

"Not yet...but it is a name familiar to you."

"Proceed!"

Her eyes intensified. "I see another...a woman. She is connected to the one who cursed you. And now—I can see the face of the first person."

"Is it a man or a woman?" I asked anxiously.

"It is a man...from the past."

"Alive or dead?"

"He no longer walks among the living...yet haunts this world still."

"Who is this man?"

"Alton Rochefort."

At the sound of that name, Madame Lavine began to convulse violently. The session ended abruptly as Pierre seized her, trying to pull her out of the trance.

"What’s happening to her, Pierre?" I cried.

"I believe an evil spirit has possessed her body."

Then, from her mouth, a voice not her own emerged—a man’s voice. Distorted and chilling.

"Get out of my mansion before it is too late!"

She fainted. Thankfully, she recovered. But when we left her, I remained disturbed. The suspense gnawed at me. I had initially believed the curse came from the Voodoo cult. I had been wrong. The true source lay elsewhere—in two individuals I would never have suspected. One alive, the other dead. And what I was dealing with, I realized, may not have originated in this world at all.

That evening, as twilight loomed on the horizon, I returned to the mansion. The sharp, painful episodes I’d experienced had ceased, thanks to the protective amulet Pierre had given me. I wore it around my neck, as instructed.

That night, I received two unexpected visitors. At around eight o’clock, a carriage arrived at the estate. From it descended Mrs. Rochefort herself. Her visit was unannounced, and she carried no luggage. Was she here to stay? Or was there a more sinister purpose behind her arrival?

I was informed of her presence as I waited in the Main Hall, deep in thought. I had already resolved to postpone my trip to Baton Rouge until I solved the mystery plaguing the mansion.

She entered the hall, radiant as ever in her elegant dress and fine jewelry. But my mind teemed with questions. Why had she truly come? I greeted her formally, and soon, we began to converse.

Noticing the tension in my expression, she asked, "Is something troubling you, Mr. Beauregard?"

"I must be candid, madame. Since I moved into this mansion, which once belonged to your family, I’ve been haunted by terrifying events unlike anything I’ve known."

"Such as, Mr. Beauregard?"

"If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. But I suspect you already know."

"Know what, exactly?"

"That you may be involved in this nightmarish horror that’s pursued me since I arrived."

"Surely, you can’t be serious?"

"I am, madame. I speak of the curse—of Voodoo."

Her polite smile faded. Her eyes darkened with something far more sinister.

"So, you’ve discovered the dark secret of the mansion...and of us, the Rocheforts."

"I’m no saint, but I believe there are evils in this world—and in others—that truly haunt us."

"Indeed, they do."

"Then tell me, why curse me? What wrong have I done to deserve such a fate?"

"It was not I who cursed you, Mr. Beauregard. It was my husband."

"But why?"

At that moment, a shadowy figure emerged from the corridor—a tall, lanky man, cloaked in the grime and soot of the grave. It was Alton Rochefort himself. The dead had risen.

I stood frozen in disbelief. I had only seen his image in portraits or daguerreotypes. He now stood before me, imposing and unmistakable. Mrs. Rochefort saw him too—but showed no surprise.

"What does he want from me?" I asked.

"He wants you to leave the house."

"But why? What offense have I committed?"

"You purchased the mansion. A house he swore would never be sold."

"But it was you, madame, who sold it!"

"He was in love with me. That’s why he did not curse me."

Pierre entered then, his voice cutting through the tension.

"She murdered him, Mr. Beauregard."

"For what reason?"

"The oldest reason that is greed."

"How dare you accuse me, Pierre!"

"I speak only the truth, madame."

"You were nothing but a servant when you were bought!"

"That makes you a murderess, Mrs. Rochefort," I added.

"Perhaps...but you won’t live to tell anyone."

Suddenly, she pulled a pistol from beneath her dress and aimed it at me. I stood helpless, caught in a moment between life and death. Then, just as she prepared to fire, a ghostly force stopped her. The withered hands of Mr. Rochefort seized the weapon and exacted his revenge.

He exhaled a heavy, supernatural breath into her mouth, suffocating her with death itself. She gasped and writhed until her body went limp. Watching her die was grotesque beyond words.

But the curse still lingered. I struck a pact with Mr. Rochefort: I would leave the mansion forever and never return. I returned the original deed to him. He accepted it and vanished into the moonlight.

At dawn, I bid farewell to the loyal servants who had stood by me. I expressed my sincere gratitude to Pierre and offered him a position in Baton Rouge. He kindly declined, choosing instead to remain at the mansion.

Before I left, I found myself drawn to an unexplored part of the mansion—the east wing, sealed off by warped wooden doors since my arrival. Pierre had once warned me of its dangers, claiming the floorboards were rotted and unstable. But something had changed. The amulet around my neck throbbed with a low, steady heat, as if guiding me.

I pried open the doors. Dust billowed in the stale air like phantoms disturbed. Inside, the corridor was narrower, the wallpaper curled like ancient scrolls, revealing veins of decayed plaster. At the end was a single door made of black wood. It creaked open under my touch.

What I entered was unlike any room in the mansion. It had no furniture—only mirrors.

Dozens of tall mirrors leaned against every wall, some cracked, others fogged with age. They were all different—Victorian, Baroque, Creole-crafted. But each of them reflected a strange distortion. My face, in every one, bore different expressions—grief, rage, ecstasy, madness.

And then—one of them moved.

A version of myself stepped forward from inside the glass. I remained frozen, breathless. He looked at me with eyes not my own—clouded, sunken, yet burning with intent.

"You’ve opened what was meant to stay closed," the reflection whispered without moving its mouth.

I took a step backward. The figure inside the mirror did not mirror me.

"You carry the Eye, and so the spirits obey you—for now," he continued. "But even the Eye has a limit."

"What are you?" I asked.

"A memory. A warning. A man undone by a lie. We are the ones left behind."

Then, from the surrounding mirrors, faces emerged. The former occupants of the house. Alton. His mother. A child clutching a doll. They pressed against the glass, silently screaming.

The room grew cold. The light dimmed to blue shadow. I turned to run—and every mirror shattered at once. I fell to the floor, surrounded by fragments of glass. The figures were gone.

Only the dust remained.

The episodes of Voodoo faded, as did the curse. Still, some say they’ve seen the wandering spirits of Alton and Mrs. Rochefort, forever bound to the estate—phantoms of passion, greed, and vengeance.

A week afterward, Pierre and I ventured to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 that afternoon. The sky was overcast, as if mourning with us. We had learned the truth: Alton Rochefort had been poisoned by his wife, and his tormented soul remained tethered to the home. But one question still lingered—where was his body?

According to old records, Alton’s tomb was never listed among the family vaults. That was peculiar, given the wealth and stature of the Rocheforts. A man of such influence would not have been buried in obscurity—unless something was hidden.

We searched for hours, past tilted marble tombs and faded epitaphs. The scent of moss and iron hung in the humid air.

Then, in the far corner of the cemetery—partially consumed by ivy—we found it.

A modest stone crypt, marked only with the Rochefort crest. No name. No dates. The door was sealed with chains. Pierre produced bolt cutters from the carriage. Within minutes, we broke through the rusted links.

Inside lay a single casket, blackened by time.

I felt a chill run up my spine as Pierre lifted the lid.

No remains. Just dirt. Fresh, wet soil. Someone had moved the body.

Beneath the soil, we uncovered a strange relic: a shrunken head stitched at the mouth, wrapped in red string. Around its neck was the symbol of Damballa—the serpent god of Voodoo.

Pierre cursed in Creole under his breath.

"They did not bury him. They bound him," he said.

"Bound him to what?"

"To the mansion. To vengeance. This is not a tomb—it’s a prison."

We re-sealed the crypt. But I left with a new understanding. Alton Rochefort had not merely been killed. His soul had been ritualistically trapped—by his wife or by someone far worse.

Three nights later, a blood moon hung low over the Louisiana horizon, its glow washing the bayou in crimson hues. The mansion was eerily still. Even the cicadas had silenced their chorus.

Pierre came to me after nightfall.

"There’s only one way to break the tether, monsieur," he said grimly.

"What way?"

"By finishing what she started—and undoing it with truth."

He explained that a sacred Voodoo ceremony could sever the spiritual bond between Alton’s soul and the physical world—but only if performed on the blood moon, and only by someone whom the spirit had chosen to test.

We gathered in the courtyard behind the mansion. Pierre, dressed in ceremonial robes, drew a vevé in the dirt with cornmeal—a symbol meant to summon Papa Legba, gatekeeper of the spirit world. Around us, candles flickered in glass jars, casting twisted shadows across the estate walls.

"Do not speak unless spoken to," he warned.

I nodded.

Then began the chant.

As Pierre called to the Loa, I felt a force descend—not violently, but like a deep pressure in my chest. The wind changed direction. The flames on the candles turned blue.

Suddenly, a low growl sounded from behind us. From the thicket of trees emerged the hound. Alton’s spectral dog. Eyes glowing, its fur slick with otherworldly shadow. It circled the ceremony perimeter. Watching.

Then came the voice—from the wind, from the earth, from inside me.

"Do you seek to release me?"

"I do," I whispered.

"Then speak the truth or be bound like the rest."

I recounted everything—my guilt, my fear, my ignorance. I confessed the sins of the living, even those not mine to own. I told the spirit he had been wronged—that vengeance had festered too long.

The flames died out.

Silence.

Then the moon turned pale.

The hound vanished.

Pierre opened his eyes slowly.

"It is done," he whispered.

From that night on, the mansion began to breathe again. The air felt lighter. The house no longer moaned under invisible weight. I could finally sleep—dreamlessly. I left the house and the city of New Orleans then, hoping to forget the horrible sequence of events that had occured in that ineffaceable house and resume my life.

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