Jeffery W. McKelroy

by Jeffery W. McKelroy

It has been said many times and in many different ways that New Orleans is a city like no other. Although physically situated in the American South it is not a southern city. It is most definitely a Caribbean city and it’s rich history is no different than any other city in the West Indies.

Between the years of 1791 to 1804 Haiti was embroiled in a bloody slave revolt. The slaves rose up and killed their masters while also burning the plantations. Thousands of people fled the island of Hispaniola for Cuba, Jamaica, and New Orleans. By 1809 the population of New Orleans had grown by 10,000 as a result of the revolution. Once prominent French and Creole, slave owning, families as well as freed slaves sought refuge in New Orleans. The rural, sparsely populated area that would eventually come to be known as the 9^th Ward would absorb much of this new population and much of the population in the 9^th Ward today is still made up of descendants of those refugees.

The Haitian culture woven into the fabric of the city is very visible if one knows what to look for. There are the large African American Catholic congregations and the many botanicas (voodoo shops) that cater to the spiritual needs of those not only descended from the refugees but also those who came later and were influenced by them. In certain neighborhoods the local slang harkens back to the patois of the Island where it originated. The creole food of New Orleans is unique unto itself, setting it apart from its neighbors just outside the city. The culture of the 9^th Ward is different from the other African American communities in other parts of the city. It is older. It is more rooted in tradition and in some ways frozen in time.

Once you are in the 9^th Ward, you know it. You can feel it. The air feels different. New Orleans is a strange place, but stranger things still seem to happen in the 9^th.

One story of the strange things that have happened in the 9^th Ward is the rise of the Temple of the Innocent Blood in the 1920’s. Deep in the “Wood” of the Lower 9^th, away from the riverside was the cult of Mother Cathrine Seals. Mother Catherine Seals was born Nanny Cowans in Kentucky in 1887, and she moved to New Orleans in her mid-teens, working as a laundress.  After being denied treatment by a white faith healer because she was Black, Mother Catherine vowed to start her own fellowship that would not discriminate based on race. She soon moved her church to the undeveloped ground near Bayou Bienvenu in the Lower Ninth Ward, encouraging her converts to buy lots around her. There, she conducted an active healing practice, while her church became a haven for unwed mothers, abused women, and orphans. These were the “innocent blood” for which she named her Temple.

First-hand accounts provide descriptions of the sprawling complex. Tall wooden fencing surrounded two main structures, the Church and the Manger, a pavilion for public gatherings. The compound had hundreds of oil lamps strewn across the grounds, large statues of Catholic saints, sculptures, and eclectic ornamentation. Like other spiritual churches of the era, the Temple of the Innocent Blood blended Catholic iconography, with elements of spiritualism and mediumship, Protestant revivalism, and African-derived religious practices. Her following was comprised of people from diverse communities that spanned racial, gender, and class lines. The Temple was a space that subverted oppressive social hierarchies and racial segregation.

Mother Catherine’s time at the Temple was brief. Two weeks before her death, she is said to have received a message from God informing her that she would soon pass away, and she ventured back to her birthplace in Kentucky, where she died on August 9, 1930. Her funeral was attended by thousands of followers and received nationwide newspaper coverage. The property rights of the Temple of Innocent Blood were up for grabs not long after Mother Catherine’s passing due to a mishap with her signature on her will; she had placed only an ‘X’ on the top of the document rather than signing her name. After a legal battle, the property rights were eventually handed to Mother Catherine’s successor, Mother Rita, who managed to keep the Temple operational until around 1940. By the time new residents moved to the surrounding blocks in the 1950s, the Temple was already almost forgotten.

Part of the reason for the decline in the Temple was most likely because the 9^th Ward itself was somewhat in decline. In the 1920’s the Corps of Engineers had begun to dredge the Industrial Canal which would separate the 9^th Ward into the Upper and Lower. By the 1940’s construction in that area was complete and many residents had moved on for higher paying jobs elsewhere. The Industrial Canal would play a large role in the destruction of the 9^th Ward during the events of Hurricane Katrina.

On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina made landfall just east of New Orleans; the fifth deadliest hurricane and the costliest natural disaster in the history of the United States. At approximately 10:00 am, the levee wall protecting the 9^th Ward broke in multiple sections and flooded the area. Multiple breaches in the levees of at least four canals resulted in catastrophic flooding. Nowhere in the city was the devastation greater than in the Lower 9th Ward.

Storm surge flood waters appear to have poured into the Lower Ninth Ward from at least three sources. To the east, water flowed in from Saint Bernard Parish, while to the west the Industrial Canal suffered two major breaches: one just south of Florida Avenue, the second between North Galvez and North Roman streets. The force of the water did not only flood homes but smashed or knocked many off their foundations. A large barge was swept by flood waters into the neighborhood through the breach near Claiborne Avenue, leveling homes beneath it. The storm surge was so great that even the highest portions of the Lower 9th were flooded. The Lower 9th Ward was flooded again by Hurricane Rita a month later in September.

In 2016 Jim McCurdy moved into a little red creole cottage style home on Alvar Steet in the Upper 9^th Ward. The home, like Jim was not original to the 9th Ward. It was manufactured to fit into the surrounding architecture. It was a simple 2-bedroom home and had been moved there in 2007. It rested on the foundation of a home that had been swept away in the storm, leaving a vacant lot. Jim was fresh out of a marriage and was not excited about the neighborhood or its crime but was on a budget.

Jim settled in rather quickly with as much second-hand furniture as he could find and figured he would piece the rest of it together in time. His priority in the meantime was to get out and mingle as a single man for the first time in 14 years. On his first night in the house, he had only stepped out for a few at a little dive bar on Port Steet. It was dead and he didn’t feel much like staying out. He didn’t quite feel single yet. After returning home early, he took a shower and got into bed. He reached over to the bedside table and turned on his 1930’s radio and grabbed his reading glasses and a book. It was at that moment that he heard a ferocious banging on the back door. It was a wild, desperate banging. He jumped up, drew his pistol from his sock drawer across the room. He went to the back door and shouted, “Who’s there?”. No reply. He then opened the door, pistol at the ready, and peered through the burglar bars. There was no one there. He looked out all the windows and saw nothing. He was angry. He felt like the neighbors must be having a good time with the new white guy.

Over the next few weeks Jim settled in and started to venture out more. He tried not to drink until noon but if he wanted a beer in the shower that was his business. He wasn’t married anymore, and he could do whatever he wanted. He rarely wore pants. One evening while sitting on the couch watching T.V. and drinking an Andygator, he heard a tapping on the front porch window. He walked over and looked through the blinds. Nothing. He opened the door. Nothing. There was no possible way that someone could have tapped on the window and gotten away that fast. Maybe they jumped over the rail. Who knows? He went back to his beer and then to bed with no more thought of it.

It was a Sunday morning and Jim thought maybe he should go to mass. Maybe he could meet a nice girl at mass. Although, he was now divorced and didn’t know how that would sit with a strict Catholic girl. Well, at his age, she would have to be divorced too so, it shouldn’t matter. It was too much to think about. Jim decided to get a beer from the fridge to take into the bathroom with him. He walked naked down the hall to the kitchen to fetch a beer. Upon turning the corner into the kitchen, he saw that every cabinet and every drawer was open. A chill ran down his spine, all the way into his legs. “Crack heads! Freaking crack heads!”, he exclaimed as he ran around the house checking every lock, every window. Locked. It’s all locked. Could he have been that drunk last night? How could he have been that drunk?

That night Jim decided to go out. He dressed up but not too “up”. He wanted to make it all look accidental. He put on his best stingy brim fedora and hailed a rideshare to Buffa’s on Esplanade. Once he was there, he really felt in his element. He was tossing them back and killing the ladies with the jokes. He was chatting it up with some blonde until about 2:30 in the A.M. when her angry boyfriend arrived on scene to drag her back to the dirty mattress on the floor where he keeps her. Jim didn’t care. You win some, you escape some. He made his way home in a rideshare. They arrived in front of the little red house. Jim, although drunk, scanned the area for crackheads. The coast was clear. He exited the vehicle and stumbled through the yard, weaving back and forth so as not to be hit by enemy fire. When he reached the front porch steps he grabbed ahold of the railing and steadied himself. There were only four steps down when he left but now there were eight steps up. As he was contemplating how best to negotiate the obstacle he heard a voice behind him, “Hey buddy, I can come in?”

Jim whipped around but saw nothing. There was nothing. He turned to look at the door. He heard a twig snap behind him. He turned around again. Nothing. No one was there. Jim laughed, “Oh sure pal! Come the fuck on in. The more the merrier.” It was at that moment that Jim stopped making memories.

Jim woke up in the late afternoon. He was wearing his clothes from the night before and had made no attempt at actually getting into the bed. Just face down and done.

Over the next few weeks it was the same routine of drinking and passing out. Occasionally he might meet someone and talk for a while but mostly he just wanted to drink and be left alone, until he met Lisa. Lisa was different. She quite literally chased him down the street. They met at a place on Frenchman Street, and he had tried to get away. She was a beautiful girl. She had caramel color skin and amber eyes. Her St. Louis accent was killing him. She made him promise to call her and she wrote her number in magic marker on his arm so he couldn’t forget. He called her.

On their third date Lisa got to see the little red house on Alvar Street. He let her pick the music while he cooked. He missed cooking. He had forgotten how much he really enjoyed it. She stayed the night. Late in the evening they were sitting in bed talking when there were suddenly 3 loud knocks on the interior wall next to the bed. Lisa looked at Jim, “Yup, you’ve got something in here. I felt it.”

“What are you talking about?”, the hair on the back of Jim’s neck was standing up, “Probably an opossum in the attic.”

“That was the wall knucklehead.”, Lisa said with wide eyes.

“Ok. Opossum in the wall.” Jim said.

Lisa came back a few days later. As they were getting into bed together there were 3 loud knocks on the headboard. It was unmistakable and unexplainable. Lisa jumped back, “It is not happy. He is not happy. He does not like this. He does not like seeing me and you together.”

Jim looked confused, “It? He? What gives? I admit, I’ve had some strange things happening but it’s New Orleans. The whole town is haunted. What can you do?”

Lisa looked serious now, “Did you invite this thing in?”

“Maybe.”, Jim said sheepishly.

The conversation continued and Jim told Lisa the entire story, cover to cover. It all somehow made sense to her. She felt that this “thing” was attached to the land and not the house. She also felt that the longer it is dead, the less it remembers being human. It is just transforming into all the emotions that it felt about its life and passing. The jealousy, the rage, the anger were all becoming tangible and Jim was now it’s focus. Jim admitted that his drinking was ticking up, his feelings of loss and loneliness getting worse. In some weird way, it all made sense to him as well.

The next morning Lisa woke up with a mission. She was determined to get rid of this thing. She stood at the bathroom vanity putting on her make up while Jim finished his shower. As he came out of the shower there were 3 loud knocks on the mirror that Lisa was looking into. They both backed away and looked at each other for a moment. Then, they continued.

They left the house in a hurry. The first stop was Botanica Macumbo on St. Claude. They picked up Florida water and incense (frankincense and myrrh). They then went to the Shrine of St. Jude to pray for protection and to pick up holy water, St. Michael medals, and holy oil. After they had all the supplies, they would need they returned back to the little red house.

As they pulled into the driveway the feeling reminded Jim of the time when he was meeting the schoolyard bully after hours at the playground to finally hash things out. It was the same kind of sweat. Lisa told him to calm down.  

Once in the home they employed the ritual using all the tools at hand and repeating Psalm 91 along with prayers to St. Michael. It all seemed to work. The air in the little red house felt different and it seemed much brighter. Jim felt better as well. It seemed to have worked.

Over the next few weeks there was no more activity and Jim could actually sleep at night. Though, the home still felt as though it had been violated. He just couldn’t get over that feeling. He got a new job and was finally making some real money. Jim decided to leave. He could still feel something lingering on the property even though the house itself was calm. He didn’t feel that the attachment could ever be gotten rid of. After Jim settled into his new home across town in the Broadmoor neighborhood, he decided to do a little digging. Through an old newspaper article, he discovered that in 2009 a young man of 21 years was shot multiple times on the front porch of the little red house. He ran inside in an effort to escape but died from his wounds on the floor in the master bedroom. Was this his ghost? Was this the “thing”? Maybe.

The Little Red House on Alvar St.