“THERE
IS A HOUSE IN NEW ORLEANS, AND IT’S
CALLED THE…”
CASA
DO DIABO!!
THE TRUE TALE OF THE INFAMOUS
DEVIL’S HOUSE OF NEW ORLEANS WHERE
ONE OF THE OLDEST KNOWN LEGENDS OF LOUISIANA
VAMPIRES CAME HORRIBLY ALIVE!
Story by A. Pustanio,
Art by Ricardo Pustanio
It stands
to this day, a fading monolith, bereft
of all sense of time and mortality. A
victim of modernization and the telltale
passing of the years, what once was a
grand home is now merely a shell –
compartmentalized, austere.
In the grand old days of New Orleans the
home was a symbol of possibility, an emblem
of success worn proudly by the family
who built it: a family that had collectively
risen from poverty to become one of the
most powerful of the great mercantile
families of the old Port of New Orleans.
The irony of this tale is that it was
this very fact – the familiarity
with poverty, the grasp at philanthropy
– that very possibly simultaneously
brought about the downfall of a dynasty
and the creation of one of New Orleans’
most enduring and grisly creatures of
the night.
Alberto De Leonne came to America from
Santo Domingo in the 1830’s with
little more than the clothes on his back.
He had worked his way throughout the Caribbean
on tramp steamers and merchant vessels,
learning the sea trade first hand. When
he at last came to the burgeoning port
of New Orleans he set about making a name
and a fortune for himself.
De Leonne first acquired work as a clerk
among the merchants who jammed the docks
along the Mississippi River, his particular
trade being an interest in the export
of sugar and cotton, and the import of
Caribbean foodstuffs, most especially
the sugary sweet limes of the French and
Dutch Antilles.
Soon De Leonne found a suitable home,
near the Esplanade end of Decatur Street,
and not long afterward, a suitable wife
from among the beautiful Quadroons, so
prized by the Creoles and the white aristocrats
who hungered after them. For De Leonne,
this was an achievement in itself. The
beautiful Clothilde agreed to become his
bride; not only this, she came with a
dowry. But Clothilde brought an additional
burden in the form of her brother, Ramon,
a shady character that De Leonne did not
much care for. However, to appease his
lovely bride, De Leonne agreed to take
Ramon in, giving him charge of some minor
responsibilities in the household, and
together they all moved into De Leonne’s
fabulous new home on the Rue Bourbon.
It was a huge structure, three stories
high, built in the Spanish style with
long galleries opening on a lush and tranquil
central courtyard that was the pride of
the socially mobile De Leonnes. Designed
by the French landscape artist and ornamental
gardener Jacques-Felix Lelièvre,
the courtyard garden became a haven for
De Leonne and Clothilde who would wile
away long hours amid the tropic greenery,
listening to the birds that flocked there
in search of the many exotic fruits and
seeds scattered throughout the little
oasis. A beautiful conservatory stood
adjacent to the garden where De Leonne
enjoyed his most unique flora –
Belizian orchids, poinsettias from the
Honduran coast, and, most prized of all,
a seemingly-immense Spanish lime tree
whose verdant leaves shown saffron in
the sunlight that warmed it’s fruit
to ripeness. De Leonne had sent especially
for such a tree from the exotic island
of Cayo Dulzura off the Cuban coast. Sailors
had tended it on its sea voyage and had
gingerly carted it from the Decatur docks
upon its arrival at New Orleans. Now it
formed the centerpiece of De Leonne’s
beautiful garden, a symbol not only of
where he had come from, but how high he
had climbed to get where he now was.
So it was with some reluctance that De
Leonne gave in to Clothilde’s entreaties
that he place this beautiful landscape
in the hands of her brother, Ramon. De
Leonne had not much use for his new brother-in-law
and did not at all like his habits, least
of all his fondness for rum and for the
company of “undesirables”
such as the swarthy dock workers and the
superstitious immigrants who ran at the
mere mention of the voodoo of the slaves.
But eventually Clothilde won him over
and Ramon was given oversight of the beautiful
courtyard garden.
The arrival of children and the growth
of his business kept De Leonne preoccupied
and so it was that he perhaps did not
notice the slow slippage of his brother-in-law
into the unwholesome darkness of his negligent
lifestyle. Though he managed to maintain
the garden at the home on Rue Bourbon
with almost obsessive reliability, Ramon’s
bad habits only grew worse as time passed.
Always an abuser of drink, eventually
Ramon began to pay to many visits to the
“Green Fairy” and sadly became
addicted to both absinthe and laudanum,
as well.
According to the legend, it was in one
of his drunken, drugged fits that Ramon
had the misfortune of coming upon members
of a secret vodoun sosyete involved in
a black magic ritual in one of the many
festering alleys of the Old Quarter. Many
believe that this is when Ramon –
always weak and impressionable –
came to believe he had been cursed by
one of the vodusi men, whom, he later
said, looked up at him with opaque maroon
eyes and, holding up two fingers of his
left hand, spat a curse through nasty
yellow teeth. Ramon ran away in terror,
but, as was later proved, the damage was
already done.
Ramon began to neglect his regular duties.
Semi-nocturnal, he now began to sleep
through the day, waking at sunset to take
his only meal of the day. As the night
hours wore on, De Leonne and dear Clothilde
could hear Ramon working away in the garden
and the conservatory – one responsibility
he never let lapse. When his work was
done, Ramon would leave the De Leonne
house and prowl the streets of the Old
Quarter only to come home at dawn, full
of absinthe and running in terror from
what most believed to be “imagined”
terrors.
This life, of course, could not persist
for long and sadly there came an evening
when no sounds could be heard from the
darkening shadows of the De Leonne garden.
It was the master of the house himself
who found Ramon, dead among the roots
of the Spanish lime tree that he had tended
with such care. Touched with pity, not
least for his grieving wife, De Leonne
ordered that all respect be given the
body of his brother-in-law and that, because
he had never neglected his duties, that
he should sleep contentedly under the
roots of the lime tree where he had been
found.
Imagine, then, the shock and horror of
the servants who had been charged with
digging Ramon’s grave when, among
the twisted roots and vines of the verdant
tropical flora, they began to uncover
the decomposing remains of human beings!
Arms, legs, torsos, all came forth in
tangled masses of moldering flesh and
bones as the servants dug deeper; there
seemed to be no spot in the garden where
there was not the evidence and stench
of decomposing bodies.
De Leonne was appalled and it was quickly
obvious why Ramon had worked so diligently
and so responsibly at his garden duties.
Even more disturbing was the gruesome
discovery by police and mortuary workers
that each of the dead bodies had, apparently,
been completely drained of blood before
being buried amid the tropic flora and
under the Cayo Dulzura lime tree. With
his household in an uproar and his servants
and slaves ready to riot in fear of what
they were calling “the devil”
and “the bloodsucker,” De
Leonne ordered that Ramon be placed in
the family burial plot in St. Louis No.
1, at least until the furor had died down
and the proper authorities had made sense
of the mess. One thing he did not need,
after all, was yet another decomposing
body in his beloved garden!
In the weeks following Ramon’s death,
after the last of the mortuary wagons
had hauled away the pitiful remnants of
the dead from the once-pristine home,
a semblance of peace came over the De
Leonne house. Though Clothilde continued
to grieve, the reality of her brother’s
crimes, made somewhat easier to bear when
his addiction was taken into account,
grew less of a burden for the De Leonne
family. For the servants, however, it
was another story.
Amid furtive talk and whisperings, the
servants and the slaves seemed uneasy
and went about their chores with an abundance
of caution and fear. Something had caused
many of them to fall ill recently and
two had passed away in a short time. This
fear was perhaps most obvious in the servant
whom De Leonne had charged with Ramon’s
old duties in caring for the magnificent
garden: he worked quickly, if at all,
and only in the light of the sun. He and
other servants would absolutely refuse
to go into the garden at night, and slaves
would have to be beat into going.
When at last this obstinacy became too
much to bear, Alberto De Leonne decided
it was time that he investigate just what
was at the root of his servants’
fears. He took them each aside and inquired
about the source of their fear and loathing:
each of them told the same tale, that
they feared Ramon was not really dead
and that he had, in fact, returned to
his old home to prey upon – and
even kill – everyone who had survived
him. To De Leonne this was, of course,
impossible, the absurd ramblings of the
foolish and uneducated. But he decided,
after the manner of men of science of
his time, to conduct an experiment and
put the foolish theory to the test: he
himself would spend the night, alone,
in his garden, to see whether there was
any truth to the silly tales.
So it was that the master of the house
on Rue Bourbon set up a small encampment
in the doorway of the conservatory with
some items for his comfort, several books
and a good lantern to last through the
night hours. Neither Clothilde nor the
entreaties of his eldest son and daughters
could dissuade the man from his intended
vigil and so he was left to it.
The night was cool, one of those Indian
Summer evenings so prevalent in New Orleans
during the heady days of September and
October, and De Leonne wrapped himself
against the chill as the night hours passed.
It was nearly midnight when, according
to legend, De Leonne first became aware
that he might no longer be alone. Peering
out past the lamp’s feeble glow,
he was certain that he could discern a
shadow moving among the banana trees and
the twining jasmine that choked the brick
walls all around him. Soon, the sound
of snuffling and scraping could be heard
coming from the darkness of the conservatory
behind him. Brazenly, he took the lantern
and stepped into the humid darkness of
the conservatory greenhouse, straining
to see through the orchids and bromeliads,
the date palms and thick aloe and, ultimately,
into the impenetrable darkness under the
spreading limbs of the prized Spanish
lime tree.
There, it seemed, something was not right
and as he approached, De Leonne became
aware that the ground among the sinewy
grey roots was not still. In fact, it
was roiling, moving slowly in tiny heaps:
something was crawling in the rich, dark
soil!
Undeterred, De Leonne leaned even closer
and held up the lantern for a better look.
Immediately he recoiled in terror, realizing,
too late, just what he was seeing. There,
in the darkness, was none other than his
late brother-in-law, Ramon, writhing like
a red-eyed snake in the black, grainy
soil amid the fallen leaves and shriveled
fruit of the lime tree. But before he
had the thought to run, Ramon was free
of his loamy bed and was upon him, with
claws slashing and gnashing teeth sinking
deep into the terrified man’s throat.
As his life’s blood drained from
his body, De Leonne was able to pull from
his vest a revolver that he had placed
there as an amused afterthought. Now,
it might save his very soul. He fired
once and the sound startled the ghoul
from him, but only momentarily. When it
became clear that the gun posed no danger
to him, the red-eyed fiend, swollen like
a huge, brown bladder, fixed itself yet
again to its prey. It was only at the
sound of running feet and the approach
of other members of the household that
the awful creature relinquished his hold
on poor De Leonne, retreating instead
to the putrid darkness under the lime
tree branches.
It was De Leonne’s oldest son, Charles,
who first came upon his father that night,
finding his lifeless body near the conservatory
door. As he gingerly entered the engulfing
darkness of the greenhouse, followed closely
by only the bravest of the male servants,
Charles became aware that he was being
watched: a pair of evil red eyes regarded
him from the darkness of the lush tropical
plants and the spreading limbs of the
Spanish lime tree.
“There he is!” said Charles,
and at that moment one brave black man,
larger than the others, and known only
by the name Sadugh, leapt forward and
took hold of the writhing ghoul.
Sadugh held fast to the vampire Ramon
as the others threw ropes and bound him
fast. While they held him down, Sadugh
went in search of a sharp object and came
running back with a sharp piece of iron,
more like a huge iron nail, that he had
found in the farrier’s shop nearby.
He spoke in a heavy African dialect while
one of the other servants translated.
“He say turn him over!” came
the order, but the vampire was fighting
fiercely. The servants held on bravely,
despite the oozing of the blood from the
swollen thing, once a man, now in their
grasp. Red eyes blazed and teeth clacked
together in furtive attempts to catch
a stray hand or arm. But Sadugh was too
powerful. He stood over the beast Ramon
and, using all his might, turned the horrid
thing over, face down against the earth.
Again he said something indecipherable
to the others. “He say, dig! Cover
him up while he holds him!” And
with that, they all began to dig feverishly
with their hands, even the thin, patrician
Charles fell to his knees and dug like
a dog.
When the hole was deep enough around the
writhing vampire, Sadugh took the iron
nail and plunged it into the heart of
the creature, pinning him to the ground.
There came a terrible wailing and a horrible,
uncanny “gobbling” sound as
the vampire literally deflated in under
the pressure of the stake. Soon, however,
dead Ramon’s movements became less
violent, and eventually there was no movement
at all. While the servants worked to cover
the horrible, bag-like being, Sadugh went
in search of a maul with which to hammer
the stake home. This accomplished, they
gathered the body of Alberto De Leonne
and took him into the house with all honor
and respect to prepare for yet another
funeral.
And thus the sad and miserable Ramon,
who became a vampire when he fell under
the Evil Eye of a black bokor vodusi,
and who plagued his family first, like
the vampires of old, at last came to rest
under the spreading limbs of the tree
with the fruit from the Island of Sweetness.
Or, is he at rest?
Many New Orleanians familiar with this
tale will tell you in all earnestness
that the vampire Ramon, the first known
vampire in Old New Orleans, never really
went to his repose, and that in the courtyard
of the old house, now broken into anonymous
apartments and businesses, there is yet
a rusty old blacksmith’s stake in
a remote and overgrown portion of an old
garden. There are those who have stood
close by when, on a dark night, or when
the drums of new age Voodoo rituals waft
over Bourbon Street, the furtive whisper
of a voice can be heard, filtering up
through the rich soil. “I am the
Devil!” it says and entreats those
nearby, “Let me out!” Visitors
to the courtyard are warned against disturbing
the old stake in any way.
There are those who insist that the spirit
of the Vampire Ramon has never remained
trapped with his body and that on some
nights when the mist comes in heavy off
the river, the vampire rises in a misty
form and moves among the living in the
Quarter: kept from their blood, he preys
upon their life’s energy and the
magnetic attraction of their very souls.
And a grey stump that once was a beautiful
Spanish lime tree is all that remains
of the garden once so prized by Alberto
De Leonne. After the encounter with the
vampire under it’s dark limbs, Charles
De Leonne ordered it to be cut down and
burned. But in remembrance of his father,
he personally placed a sinewy, jade-leafed
branch into Alberto’s coffin before
it was closed for the last time and placed
in a cool and moldy vault in the St. Louis
No. 1. And there it, and what is left
of the De Leonne legacy, remains.
|
