The Haunted Sultan (Skeleton Key) (9 page)

W
hen the stars
faded from Sierra’s eyes, she propped herself up on her elbows and looked at Owen. She marveled at his wide shoulders and flat stomach. She grinned when she saw his dick jutting out in front of him, not sated. Neither was she. She touched it, biting her lip as the warm flood of arousal washed over her. He was soaked with her juices.

“Baby, stop.” He sat up and moved her hand away, making her pout.

“We need to get out of here, then you can touch me all you want. We’ll spend the rest of our vacation in a hotel room, yours or mine, I don’t care. As long as we are ordering in.”

“That sounds yummy,” she purred.

“It will be, but we have to get out of here. Look.” He gestured to the room around them. The pillows they lay on were still vibrant but the room around them was gray and blurry as if it was fading from existence. The spell was almost over.

“I don’t know what happens to us if the place fades,” he said.

“Yeah, we need to get out of here.” She ran a hand over her chest and gripped the skeleton key that had gotten them into this situation. Hopefully it would lead them out.

She got to her feet, looking around for her clothes. They were scattered around the fading room. The bright red material stood out in stark contrast to the gray surroundings. She slipped back into the costume and turned around to find Owen in his jeans and shoes, sans a shirt which was still wrapped around her forearms in pieces. The cuts didn’t sting anymore.

“How do you think we should get out of here?” she asked.

“The same way we came in.” He pointed to the atrium that led to the front door and they both moved in that direction. The floor was strange, it shimmered and moved, making Sierra walk slowly. A haze had descended over them, becoming thicker and thicker the more they moved away from the main room.

By the time they got to where the door was supposed to be, they had lost visibility. Sierra gripped Owen’s hand in a death grip and extended her arm in front of her, feeling for the door.

Her fingers touched something solid and she slid them across the surface until she found a door handle. She tugged on it, but it wouldn’t open. It was locked.

“It’s locked,” she said.

“Use the key,” he replied.

She slipped it over her head and she was careful as she used her other hand to locate the keyhole. She slipped the crystal key into the hole when she found it and it slid into place, clicking when she turned it.

The door popped open with a hiss and the key slid into the lock, almost slipping from her fingers. She pulled it back out of the keyhole and held it in a death grip in her hand. She didn’t want to let go of skeleton key that had gotten her into this mess.

Owen slipped an arm around her and muscled the door the rest of the way open. It was old and it groaned as he pushed it wide. The cool night air washed over the both of them. The wet touch of the humidity, mixed with the sound of a jazz band and the honking of a car horn clued them in that they had succeeded. They were back.

They stood on the sidewalk outside of the house as if nothing had happened. Sierra looked down at her palm, at the key that lay heavy and startling cold against her skin.

“What do you think we should do with it?” Owen asked in a whisper. But, the question was unneeded. They gasped as the key shimmered and burst into a cloud of mist. Gone from her hand. Gone from this world. Sierra felt relief wash over her, she had done what was needed. She knew that now.

“Oh my God! You guys went in there? What the hell?” Sierra looked up startled to see her friend rushing from across the street.

“What were you thinking? Jesus, Sierra. I didn’t know where you had gone. I looked up and you had disappeared and I was with the tour and didn’t even notice. I came running back here to this friggin’ creepy ass street. What the hell, Sierra?” She eyed the two of them with suspicion and crossed her arms over her chest to cement her grumpiness.

Sierra didn’t know if she should tell Cecilia what had happened, if she would even believe them.

“We were curious.” Owen made the decision for her.

“Yeah, curious, sure.” Cecilia eyed his shirtless look and then noticed Sierra’s arms. “What happened there, and I hoped you used protection and your tetanus shots are up to date?”

“I cut myself. It’s a long story, Cecilia, and right now all I want is a really stiff drink,” Sierra sighed.

“You better tell me this long story. What in the world could you guys have gotten into? I was only gone for about five minutes.” Cecilia frowned at them.

“Five minutes? What time is it?” Owen asked.

“It’s only just past midnight.” Cecelia looked down at her phone.

“We were only gone for a few minutes,” Owen said looking at Sierra.

“Well, I guess we still have a lot of night left ahead of us,” she laughed.

“You still want to go out and party after that freak fest?” Cecilia asked, looking over Owen’s shoulder at the creepy house behind them.

“Uh, yeah, it’s Halloween in New Orleans and only midnight. There is a lot of fun to be had, plus this big guy owes me a drink.” Sierra slipped her arm around Owen’s naked back.

“I owe you a drink?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think I deserve one. I’ve been a really cheap date so far,” she laughed.

“I’ve enjoyed myself,” he said leering at her.

“Oh my God, y’all did not go in that place and have sex!” Cecilia said looking in horror at the two of them.

“It’s a long story,” Sierra sighed.

“Start talking,” Cecilia demanded as they walked toward the sounds of Bourbon Street. “Oh, and your necklace is missing. Did you lose it back there while you guys were humping in a haunted house?”

“Something like that.” Sierra smiled.

* * *

716 Dauphine Street | French Quarter
Photograph by David Rivera

T
he story
of The Sultan’s Palace is a real New Orleans ghost story, and one of the biggest mysteries of the French Quarter.

The home was built in 1836 for a dentist named Joseph Coulton Gardette, but only stayed in his possession for three years before it was sold to a Creole plantation owner named Jean Baptiste Le Pretre. The stunning wrap-around wrought iron balconies were added by Le Pretre after the purchase. The home was bought as a secondary home, what was called a
pied-à-terre
at the time. A place for Le Pretre and his family to stay while in the city.

The home stayed with the family until the Civil War, and they were unable to maintain the home. The story is convoluted at this point, but the story is that the Citizens Bank of New Orleans, which was organized within the parlor of the Gardette-Le Pretre house, foreclosed on the property and began to rent the property out to wealthy men. This is where the story is convoluted, because many recountings say that Le Pretre was around when the Turk rented the property, and the Turk sought him out specifically for the house.

The plaque on the side of the Gardette-Le Pretre house. Photograph by David Rivera

The story goes that Le Pretre agreed to rent to the Turk because he requested the house during the off season. Le Pretre would normally only visit the French Quarter during the social season when the French Opera was in town. He would normally be at his plantation during this time, his secondary home empty, so it worked out for both parties. This would put the story of the Turk at around the middle of the 19th century, instead of after the Civil War like some have assumed.

There is no real evidence that backs the story of the Turk, but the tale is so widely talked about that it has been accepted as the truth.

It is said that the Turk moved into the house with great trunks of gold and wealth and a dozen wives. He had guards, a whole entourage of servants and claimed to be a Sultan. He set up the Le Pretre house to reflect his culture and used it to entertain on many occasions. Some stories say that he had so much wealth, he set up lines of credit with all of the banks, funding the transformation of the house. His goal was pleasure, but also protection. He guarded the house as if he was a Sultan in a foreign land and installed high gates and large locks on everything. Unless you were invited, you were not getting within those walls.

The women of the harem he brought with him were rumored to be stolen from his brother, the sultan. Debauchery was the only term that could best describe the lifestyle of the Turk. The house was rumored to be full of attractive men and women, orgies were commonplace and the use of opium was widespread throughout the house. It was even said that the house was stuffed full of treasure, all stolen from the brother, the Sultan.

No matter the truth or cause, the end was that it led to one of the most horrendous crimes to have taken place in the French Quarter.

One morning neighbors found the house unguarded and the doors unlocked. The tour guides will tell you, there was a trickle of blood running out from under the door. When the authorities were called, they forced open the doors to find a massacre.

Side view of the Sultan’s Palace on the Orleans Street side. Photograph by David Rivera

The house was decimated. Everyone was killed within the walls and the Sultan was buried in his courtyard. There was said to be headless bodies all over the house and amputated limbs. Everything of value was taken from the home and all that was left was body parts and blood. It is even said that the body parts were so many and so mangled that they couldn’t piece together what belonged with which body. Even the wives were not spared, along with the boys of the Sultan’s harem. They were all said to be raped and defiled.

No one knows who perpetuated the crimes against the Sultan. The most obvious choice is the brother, the real Sultan, who vowed revenge for the theft of his treasure and his wives. But there are also those who say the crime was committed by pirates who had done business with the Turk and thought to take his great wealth. It is a mystery.

The only truth that the people of New Orleans know for sure is that the place is haunted. One of the most haunted houses in the French Quarter.

Residents of the home and passersby on the street have reported hearing “Oriental” music and the odor of incense coming from the house. Wailing has also been heard coming from the house and it is never from the same area. Many residents of the house have reported seeing an “Oriental” looking man walking through the halls and appearing in rooms and on the balcony. He is said to look confused and lost.

If you ever come to New Orleans, stroll through the Quarter and look for The Sultan’s Palace. Maybe take a haunted tour. The haunted ghost tour guides will lead you to this imposing structure and tell you sordid tales of harems and ruthless brothers. They’ll lead you down a dark street, almost to the edge of the French Quarter, and you’ll stand underneath the three story building, head thrown back to try and see to the top. You might even catch a shadow that moves behind the intricate wrought iron balustrade. Was that the Turk? Maybe.