The Haunted Sultan (Skeleton Key) (3 page)

“I don’t like his costume as much,” he grinned back.

“The General occupied the house for only a short time, but it is said his stay in the house had a lasting impression.” The tour guide wiggled his fingers and eyebrows to elaborate his remark.

“The house is haunted by the ghosts of a great battle which is said to replay within the area of the great room and the garden behind the house. The battle that haunted the General until the day he died. He was so wrought with guilt and suffering that it imprinted on the house and is relived over and over again.”

“I’m Owen,” Mr. Yummy said.

“Sierra,” she responded.

“Come here often?” Sierra barked out a laugh which had everyone turning and staring at her. She shook her head in exasperation at Owen. His smile said he had meant the cheesy line as a joke, at least she hoped that was what it meant.

“The house was also the scene of a grisly murder in 1909 after the General died. The Giacona family moved in and was known to throw lavish parties! During one of these parties, the authorities were called when gunshots were heard. Bam bam bam!” Sierra smiled as the tourist next to her jumped at the guide’s loud exclamation. The guide had his fingers fashioned in a gun and was looking at everyone with a grimace on his face and pointing his “gun” at them. Sierra had to admit he was a good storyteller, even though his choice of attire was questionable.

“When the police arrived they found three dead men. The victims were all Mafia. They had come to the house to extort money from the family and when the family refused they tried to murder them! But, the tables were turned and the Giacona family shot the Mafia men and showed them they wouldn’t be bullied by the crime syndicate! It is one of the more triumphant murder tales on this tour, if I do say so myself. If you listen, you might be able to hear cannon fire, or the sound of an old-fashioned gun being discharged. Shhhh, listen.” He dramatically cupped his hand over his ear and leaned toward the house.

A group to the front of the tour jokingly smashed a plastic cup on the ground and everyone jumped and gasped.

“My bad,” the young guy said and laughed while everyone glared at him.

“That was interesting,” Owen remarked.

“Yes, quite spooky.” Sierra rolled her eyes again and did a mental berating to stop doing that.

“Off to the next stop, my ghostly grasshoppers,” the tour guide called and he led them down the street.

Sierra moved forward with the group, but the uneven sidewalk was hell on her fancy sandals so she did a little skip, hop, almost fall that had her pitching forward. Owen swooped in and grabbed her, steadying her with his strong arms.

“Wow, thanks, I’m such a klutz.” She had to place a hand on his bicep to disentangle herself and had the urge to give it a squeeze. Somehow she restrained herself. He was very strong. She liked that in a man.

“My pleasure. It let me show off my manly reflexes and strong arms,” he joked.

“That it did and I have to say, they are quite good manly reflexes,” she flirted.

“What about the strong arms? I work-out occasionally. Do you find that impressive?”

“Are you trying to show off?”

“I’m gauging by your tone that showing off isn’t a good quality in your book.” He looked at her side-long, measuring her reaction.

“Not usually,” she laughed.

“Well, no more showing off. I guess you don’t want to hear about the car I drive, or my occupation,” he said.

“Is that how you impress people?”

“It seems like a prerequisite for some situations,” he said seriously.

“Then you are buzzing around the wrong situations,” she said in the same serious tone.

“Obviously,” he laughed. “I should do more haunted tours then. The situation is already much nicer than my usual.”

“Is that so?” she asked coyly.

“Very much so,” he grinned.

“Oh, I have to take more pictures, maybe I’ll catch a spirit light,” Cecilia interrupted Owen and Sierra’s conversation. At the same time one of Owen’s buddies began to chat him up, so the two drifted away. Sierra trudged along, taking in the sights and trying to stay focused on what the tour guy said.

It didn’t take long for her to become bored. She tried to stifle her yawn, but it was a battle she was going to lose. It was wonderful looking at the beautiful architecture of the French Quarter, but it was now full dark and she couldn’t make out a lot of the details on the houses. She would have liked to see the architecture better, see what the tour guide was talking about. But there wasn’t much to be seen, just one building after another, one wrought iron balcony here and one over there.

They stopped at two more places after the Keyes house and they barely registered on Sierra’s consciousness. One was a drab two story building with a big dump bin in front like it was under construction. The house wasn’t even haunted. It was the location of where they had filmed a famous vampire movie written by a New Orleans writer. No ghosts. Not even a ghoul.

“Boring,” Sierra muttered as the guide recounted the story of the fictitious vampire that everyone knew about.

The next stop on the tour was a house in which a man reportedly committed suicide. The tour guide went into great detail about how the man had pitched himself off the roof and splattered on the cement below. He also told the tour group that he could sometimes be seen on the roof, waiting to jump. Everyone peered up at the roof looking for the pitiful suicide victim. The only thing Sierra saw was a guy in his boxers sitting on the balcony. He waved down at them and then mooned the group. Nothing like swinging balls to ruin a spooky story.

“
T
his is getting ridiculous
,” Sierra half-whispered to Cecilia. She felt eyes on her and looked up to find Owen staring at her again. She wanted to move closer. He had certainly made the tour worthwhile when they had chatted earlier. She moved forward with the intention of striking up conversation again, but Cecilia held her back. She was suddenly willing to talk instead of listening to the tour guide go on a rant about the locals hating the tour groups. Apparently having strangers gawking at one’s house all hours of the day and night wasn’t a favorite for locals, especially for those who lived in the houses on the tour.

“We probably should have gone with the other tour company, the one with the YouTube videos,” Cecilia sighed. “I got this one on Groupon.”

“I thought this was the VIP one?” Sierra pursed her lips and glared at Cecilia who had raved about this tour’s accolades when she talked Sierra into joining her.

“I, uh, it was buy one, get one free,” she shrugged. All the money in the world couldn’t change Cecilia’s love of a good deal.

“Ridiculous is a good description of this tour.” Owen startled Sierra with his remark. He had moved closer to the girls, his deep voice cutting louder than it should. The tour guide frowned at them and continued on with his dramatics.

Owen smiled and Sierra realized his yummy factor went up exponentially when he smiled. Two dimples appeared and he went from hot, dangerous and chiseled, to cute boy next door. It was appealing and Sierra all but sighed, melting from his grin. It had been awhile.

“Me and my buddies were planning on ditching and heading to Lafitte’s Blacksmith, it’s a few blocks away. Wanna come with?” he asked. Sierra wanted to desperately, but she knew that Cecilia wouldn’t be budged, no matter how ridiculous the tour became. She would go down with the ship.

“We paid good money for these tickets. I want to get my money’s worth, it might get better,” Cecilia said. Sierra knew her friend was going to stick with the tour until the bitter end. She was an optimist and held strong in the hopes it would get better.

Owen slowed and walked next to Sierra, their strides falling into step with each other. She figured the offer of Lafitte’s was only a way to invite her to something outside of the tour and not an actual plan. He seemed to be intent on staying with the tour now. Sierra smiled knowingly when one of the guys from his group walked up to Cecilia and tried to engage her in conversation. The wingman.

“You a local?” Owen asked Sierra.

“Nope, Idaho,” she responded.

“I’m from California, here on business.” He smiled showing off his white teeth and dimples again.

“That explains the tan,” Sierra laughed, feeling like an idiot. The tan? Where did that come from? He looked at her funny and she could have hidden in the stinky trash they were passing she felt so embarrassed.

“I like it when you blush,” he said softly.

“Gah, it’s embarrassing.” Her blush deepened as her embarrassment grew.

“It’s endearing. How can a girl in an outfit like this,” he looked her over, “blush like a school girl?”

“I don’t normally dress like this, it’s Halloween.”

“Thank the gods for that,” he said with a nod.

“Gods?” she asked intrigued.

“Just an expression.”

“A California thing?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged.

“So where’s your costume?” Sierra asked.

“The expression is go big or go home, right? Well, I don’t want to go home, so I’m not going for it at all,” he laughed.

“I almost managed that, but my friend dragged me to this crazy little costume shop and the shopkeeper gave me this outfit.”

“Can I get the shopkeeper’s number so I can thank her personally?”

“Stop, you’re going to make me blush again,” Sierra smirked and pushed on his arm.

“No, really, it was like it was meant for you.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing, but I don’t normally dress like this. If you saw me in regular clothes, you might be disappointed.”

“I don’t think so. He looked her over and that blush crept over Sierra again. “No, I don’t think that will be the case at all.”

“This tour might be ridiculous, but I’m glad I’m on it,” she said.

“Ditto,” he nodded.

They both looked away from each other and realized that the group had stopped. They had stopped in front of a run-down building. It was light pink and four stories high. An ornate wrought-iron balcony traversed two sides of the building on every floor. From the sporadic potted plants and a group of mailboxes near the front door, it was obvious the big place had been converted to a series of low rent apartments.

“My fellow supernatural travelers,” the tour guide called in his strange deep voice that was all for show. “Welcome to the Sultan’s Palace. It might not look like much, but this house is the scene of one of the most brutal mass murders in New Orleans’ history. The home was nicknamed the Sultan’s Palace because in the late 1800’s a mysterious man who claimed to be a Turkish sultan rented the house from the owner Jean Baptist Le Pretre.” The tour guide had Sierra’s attention, finally an interesting story.

“The Turk was very wealthy and had trunks of gold which he used to convert the house into what was described as a ‘pleasure palace.’” The guide paused dramatically and Sierra took the time to observe the house. There weren’t any lights on in any of the windows. It looked abandoned. Dying plants lay scattered on the balcony and one of the windows looked smashed.

“Rumors surrounded the man who rented the house, how he was fleeing his family, or that he had fetishes that weren’t tolerated in his home country.”

“Finally, this one sounds interesting, fetishes and family drama,” Owen whispered.

“Right?” Sierra responded, waiting to hear what the tour guide said next. She happened to glance up at the house and noticed someone standing on the third floor balcony.

Was he there before? She hadn’t noticed him when they had walked up. But, she was caught up flirting with Owen when they arrived. She looked at the man and touched Cecilia’s shoulder and pointed up to the balcony. Cecilia looked where she was pointing and shrugged.

It must have been one of the renters. But he looked odd. He stood in the shadows, but it didn’t look right, like it was darker where he stood. He was shirtless, or he wore a tight fitting shirt that was close to his skin color. He also wore loose fitting pants that hung around his legs like a skirt. Then there was the fact that he wasn’t moving. He stood as still as a statue looking down at the tour group, it didn't feel right to Sierra.

Sierra wondered if there would be a repeat of the suicide house. Nothing like a belligerent resident. Or a random mooning.

“The Turk was very secretive. He barred the doors and the windows and had armed guards posted at all the entrances and exits. It was said they were scary looking men with scimitars and turbans. In that day, such differences in culture were looked upon with curiosity, but also fear. The Turk was even reported to have his own harem of both men and women and every night it was another celebration, another pursuit of pleasure. The incense burned, the sounds of pleasure drifted out on the night…until one night screams were heard instead of the sounds of Oriental music.”

The air was suddenly filled with the smell of jasmine and the heady fragrance of incense. It tickled the inside of the Sierra’s nose and filled her stomach with desire. A wind brushed across her back and the touch was sensual, as if a hand had touched her. It sent shivers down her body. Her skin broke out in goose bumps. She inched closer to Owen and he looked down at her, his nostril’s flaring as if the same sensations were affecting him.

“Did you feel that?” he asked. His eyes were wide in surprise. Sierra nodded quickly, fear trickling into her stomach.

A scream cut through the night. It ended in a strangled gasp and everyone in the tour froze. A small yelp came from someone in the group.

Was it a party goer, or did it come from the house? The question was whispered over and over again within the tour group. They all waited for something else to happen. Was it real? Was someone screwing around again?

The block had gone deathly quiet. Nothing could be heard. They were close to a major street, Rampart, which was always teaming with cars. Not even the sound of traffic could be heard, or the drum of music from a neighborhood bar. Nothing.

As the quiet permeated the group, unease was evident on everyone’s face. This was unnatural. They should be able to hear something. Anything. Something clattered, shattering the silence as the wind picked up and swirled down the street. It brought with it the smell of jasmine and incense again. It had to be burning somewhere, maybe in the cemetery that lined the other side of Rampart? The air was choked with the smell.

“Uh…” The tour guy wasn’t looking confident anymore. He took his top hat off and ran his fingers through his long hair.

The smell of the incense was having a strange effect on Sierra. Her fear was melting away, replaced with desire. The fragrance was addictive and something she had never experienced before. She enjoyed the smell of burning incense, but this was such a different scent from anything she could get at her local head shop. The smell was overpowering, it smelled like sex, silk sheets and sweat.

She looked down to find her hand had slipped into the hand of the man next to her. Owen. Mr. Yummy. Their fingers were entwined. Had she grabbed his hand, or had he grabbed hers? She didn't know, but she wasn't complaining.

The heat of his palm traveled up her arm and she shivered. She wanted him to slip his arm around her. She wanted to feel that heat all over her body. Her thoughts surprised her. She wasn’t one for casual sex or throwing herself at strangers. She didn’t even know this man’s last name and she wanted to pull him into a dark alley and molest him.

The smell faded as fast as it came and the sound of the street returned. Everyone in the group shifted uncomfortably and looked around. They looked up at the scary house in front of them and whispered amongst themselves.

The tour guide put his hat back on his head and seemed to regain his composure.

“On the following morning,” the guide said, jolting everyone with his loud stage voice as he continued the story as if nothing had happened. “After the screams were heard, neighbors walking past the house noticed the guards were gone, the door was open…and blood could be seen seeping onto the street.”

Another scream ripped through the night.

It wasn’t coming from someone in the tour group. It wasn’t coming from some passerby being a douche. It was coming from across the street. It was coming from the house across the street. The Sultan’s Palace.

And it was obvious it was a female’s scream. A female’s scream of pain.

“Shit,” Owen cursed. His face had gone white.

Sierra’s head shot up and she stared at the house again, sensing movement. She gasped when she saw him. It was the man again. But he wasn’t on the third floor anymore. He was now on the second floor balcony. How had it he made it to the second floor so fast?

“Holy shit,” she whispered and pointed at the man. Sierra realized this strange man on the balcony couldn’t be a tenant. He couldn’t even be a man. He was translucent. She could see the pattern of the brick behind him.

This was a ghost. This was the Sultan.

The people in the group around Sierra glanced at where she was pointing and they turned questioning gazes at her.

“Do you see him? Do you see the man?” Her voice quavered. They were looking at her funny. Her hand was still in Owen’s grip and he squeezed gently, making her look at him.

“Do you see him?” she whispered and he nodded jerkily. He looked fearful and nervous. He knew it wasn’t a man too. They couldn’t deny what they were seeing was supernatural. It was a ghost. The ghost of the Sultan.

The man on the second floor balcony wasn’t a being from present day. She could see him more clearly now that he was closer. He was a handsome man, in a stern and foreign way. Sierra could tell he was of Middle Eastern descent, his skin was dark and golden, his hair long, black, and lush over his shoulders in a vintage style. His pants were strange; they puffed out at the thighs and tapered at the ankles. The wind blew, yet his pants didn’t flap in the wind.

It had to be a joke. Some Halloween prank by the people that lived in the Sultan’s Palace. Scare the tourists. Play the Sultan. Because this couldn't be the Sultan. Even the translucent look had to be a prank. Maybe done with lighting or make-up. It had to be fake. It had to be a prank. This couldn’t be the real Sultan. It had to be a joke. Denial repeated in Sierra's head.

This was a Trick or Treat and the tour group was getting the trick.

“What are you pointing at?” Cecilia hissed. She was uncomfortable as more and more people turned and looked at them, whispering.

“The man on the balcony. The one right there.” Sierra pointed, gesturing erratically. “It’s gotta be some crazy joke. He must be getting a kick out of dressing like the Turk. It’s gotta be one of the people that live in the apartments. Whoever is doing this must be getting his rocks off dressing like the Turk to scare the tourists,” Sierra laughed nervously, not quite believing her own excuse.

“I don’t see a man, Si,” Cecilia said softly, looking at Sierra strangely.

“The man, right there? You don’t see that man? He’s right there, Cecilia.” Again Sierra pointed at the Sultan impersonator.

“No, there is no one up there.” Cecilia’s eyes widened when she realized Sierra wasn’t messing with her. “You see someone? You see the Sultan? Like for real, for real?”

“No, it’s gotta be a joke,” Sierra said.

“There’s no one up there,” a woman to Sierra’s left said. “Do you see something?” She brought her camera up and snapped a few pictures of where Sierra had pointed.

“I see him,” Owen said. “Long black hair, weird pants, no shirt?”

“Yeah, I see that,” Sierra said, relieved that someone else could see the man. That meant she wasn’t crazy, right? She couldn’t be nuts if someone else was sharing in her insanity.