07/11/2025
Spirits of New Orleans: My Four Unexpected Encounters
New Orleans is rich with history — and not just in books or buildings. The city’s energy pulses with the presence of those who came before, and during my recent visit, I was met by four distinct spirits. That’s not to say they were the only ones. The energy in New Orleans is thick with the echoes of the past, but these four made themselves known to me.
The first was a woman who passed in 1852. She appeared to me inside the Voodoo Lounge on N Rampart Street, standing near a large circular painting marked with what looked like hash-like symbols. She was furious about its presence, repeating firmly that “it shouldn’t be there.” Her energy was sharp, intrusive, and persistent — not one to be ignored.
The second and third were two little boys sitting casually on the front porch of the Andrew Jackson Hotel on Royal Street. At first glance, they seemed innocent, telling me they were “looking for a mom,” someone pretty, wearing a hat and a dress. But their energy was mischievous — playful, but not entirely pure. When I shared this with our tour guide, he nodded knowingly. The hotel, he explained, used to be a boys' home, and several spirits — especially four boys — are known to linger there. It felt so validating to be around people who didn't question my gifts or my experiences. Sharing what I was receiving felt natural and welcomed.
Our next stop was Jackson Square. I didn’t speak directly with any spirit there, but the moment I approached the threshold, I felt an overwhelming wave of fear — chest tight, breath shallow. It wasn’t mine. It belonged to the lingering energy of trauma and unrest held just outside the gates. The moment I stepped into the square, it lifted, like passing through a veil. It was a powerful reminder of just how alive energy truly is — how thresholds hold memory.
My fourth encounter was by far the most charming: a man who introduced himself as Slim Harpo. He beamed with pride over his 45 “Sittin' Here Wonderin',” but was frustrated that his “best stuff” wasn’t more widely acknowledged. “They got the wrong tracks in that museum,” he told me, “but it’s still good to see folks remembered.” His spirit was warm and vibrant, deeply proud, yet craving deeper recognition. I found myself wanting to talk to him more — to hear the rest of his story.
I know spirit never truly dies — it lingers in the places it loved, the moments it left unfinished, and the stories still waiting to be told. In New Orleans, those stories whisper from the shadows, ride the wind through the alleyways, and echo in the music drifting through the Quarter.
I feel honored to have been a witness, a listener, and in some small way, a voice for the unseen. These spirits weren’t just apparitions — they were people with lives, memories, and emotions that still pulse beneath the surface of this vibrant city.
As I left New Orleans, I carried more than just memories — I carried conversations that transcended time, and a deeper reverence for the way energy weaves through past and present. I can still feel them with me — especially Harpo. Maybe our conversation isn’t over yet.
