More Haunting Tales of Old New Orleans from Alyne A. Pustanio

The Death Mask of the Zombi King

The Death Mask of the Zombi King

Original Article By Alyne A. Pustanio

Original Papier-mâché Zombie King Mask by artist Ricardo Pustanio Copyright © 2010

“Strange rumors were in circulation of this subject.  Sometimes it was a detachment of troops that had ventured to the haunt of this brigand, who disappeared without any trace ...  Sometimes it was the hunter whose ball was flattened against the breast of [the Zombi King] whose skin was rendered invulnerable by certain herbs with which he rubbed it.  The Negroes asserted that his look fascinated, and that he fed on human flesh.

He was finally captured and sentenced to be hung in the Square opposite the Spanish Cathedral … and the infecting odors exhaled by his corpse but two hours after his execution made them bury him, contrary to the law that condemned him to remain suspended to the gallows for two days.”

L. Moreau Gottschalk, Notes of a Pianist

As soon as they knew for certain that the body of Squire John had been buried, the two opportunistic hoodoo men had put their plan in motion, a plan with but one purpose – to retrieve the body of the great Zombi King.

After allowing a week to pass for the sensation of the event and the gossip about it to die down, the hoodoo men at last determined the perfect night for their nefarious deed and assembling the simple tools of the grave robber, they went out into the humid darkness in search of their prize.

The criminal’s burying ground was a dark and gloomy place; even at high noon on the brightest New Orleans day, a pall hung over the place, mixing with the miasma of swamp rot and decomposing bodies.  Its location, so near the promenade of the Esplanade, offended many people, but since the earliest days it had been there, a repository for criminals, miscreants, excommunicates, and the unsanctified dead.

The hoodoo men crept silently through the burying ground, moving like shadows in the deeper shade of the moss-hung oaks and cypress trees.  Near the street side, at the makeshift gate, the land was sound and firm; as they advanced into the graves, the earth became spongy and more pliable.  Soon the men found themselves on the edge of a mucky area where the shallow graves had caved in and what wooden markers there were leaned in, head to head, caught in the slow pull of the swallowing earth.

That’s when they saw it!  In the distance, under the shelter of a gnarled cypress tree, was a grave piled especially high with black, wet soil; and stuck into it was a rusty iron crucifix, one arm of which had been broken off – an object both religious and superstitious, meant to mark the grave as defiled, and also meant to keep its occupant inside.

“Dere ‘tis!” said one of the hoodoo men.

“I sees it!” said the other.  “And how’s we gwon git to it?”  He pointed at the muck of the ground at their feet.

“We’s gwon has to, dat’s all,” said the first man, and with a huge stride, holding his tools above his head, he stepped into the clinging, sucking mire that barred his path.

The second man had no choice but to follow his leader, and before long both were struggling with the gelatinous, gurgling reek of waterlogged mud and graveyard muck.  The smell was foul and rose up worse with every step, but the men were intent on the goal.  Indeed, now it seemed the broken cross and the black shape of the zombie man’s grave was drawing them by its own power, inexorably forward into the shadow of the cypress tree.

As they came beside the mound, the men found their footing no better, but here and there a cypress root knee jutting out provided something firm on which to brace their feet as they quickly went about their work.  They dug with the ferocity of pirates after gold, for fear of discovery was ever-present on their minds.  But there was something else now; having come to it, the grave of the infamous Zombi King, they both felt the compelling urge to get the task done and get away from there as quickly as possible.

But as they dug the job became more laborious.  The mud of the grave was oozing, water sloshing from it with every shovelful; and worse, the soil all around it was turning soupy with the influx of water.  Very soon, however, sooner than expected, their shovels struck the coffin of the Zombi King.  Shoved deep into the swampy mire, its wood had swollen; as they drew the soil away, it literally bobbed up, like a buoy, pushed by the flood of stinking water underneath it.

“Here ‘tis!” said the lead man, as his friend stopped to tie a ragged scarf about his face to try to fend off the fumes.  He shook his head.  “What now?” said the other man.

“Dis ain’t good, boss,” came the muffled reply from under the scarf.

“Yo sho’ is stupid, yo knows dat?” the first hoodoo man laughed, shaking his head.  “Yo is plain stupid,” he went on.  “He dead, man!  Ain’t gwon do us nothin’!  Now help me gets dis box outta here!”

Together they pulled the coffin from the grave.  It was not an easy task.  The wood had absorbed so much water - and obviously had filled the coffin – that it had added tremendous weight to the coffin alone; this combined with the dead weight of the body inside made the coffin heavy and awkward.  Not only this, the slimy, wet mud at the bottom of the grave seemed not to want to give up its hold on the grisly box, and when at last the two men wrested it from the grave, there was an loud, gurgling, sucking sound followed by a sound distinctly like the popping of a cork from a bottle of champagne.

Hurriedly the men, with crowbar and shovels, pried at the lid of the coffin.  Water was slowly draining out at the seams along the ground, causing a horrible, filthy stench.  At last the porous wood of the lid gave way on one side.  The men stopped.  They stared down at the narrow gap of abysmal blackness they had just opened.

For the sake of not being caught, neither had brought a lantern, so there was no way to see into the coffin or ascertain the condition of the corpse inside, and so they simply went for it, chopping and prying off the remainder of the lid.

“Oh, lawd!” declared the man wearing the ragged scarf.

There lay the Zombi King, floating in several inches of water, swollen to a state that was beyond human recognition:  His once bronze flesh was now a pallid grey and had a squid-like quality about it that made it appear even more alien to the men; the eyeballs bulged out, big and round, pushed from the swollen face like huge, distended eggs; maggots and worms were already at work about the face and the head was bent at an odd angle, the hangman’s noose still twined about it, mixing with the sloughing, decomposing flesh of the neck; the torso was bloated and distended and looked as if it was about to burst at any moment; the arms were bloated and stiffened with hands three times the size, already pushing the fingernails away from the flesh.

“Tsk!” said the lead hoodoo man.  “T’aint no way we gwon be able take dis whole body!”  His companion shook his head in a frantic “no.”

“But we’s come all dis way and I ain’t leavin’ here empty-handed,” the first man went on.  He turned to his friend.  “Let’s take de head!!”

The eyes of the other man shone out white in his dark face, almost as big as the eyes of the Zombi King staring from the coffin.  “No!  Let’s jus’ git outta here!  We gwon be caught!” he added, looking around nervously.  “And I don’t wanna be draggin’ no HEAD aroun’ wit’ me anywhere!”

The other hoodoo man just smiled, and in a flash, he lifted the shovel with both hands and drove it down into the neck of the corpse.  The head did not sever right away, but two more blows did the trick, and soon the hoodoo man was reaching down to claim his prize.  He locked his hands in the dead man’s hair and lifted the head, but suddenly he let out a yelp and threw it down again.

It lay sideways, facing the crumbling coffin wall, and as the men watched transfixed, several small blue crabs came crawling out from under the head.  As these skittered away, a large claw became visible at the top of the head, and another at the severed neck; a huge crab crawled out and perched on top the head, by all appearances ready to fight for its food.  The man with the covered face laughed.

“Shee’,” said the lead man in a long hiss.  “Ain’t lettin’ no critter keep me from taking what I wants!  Git!” he hollered at the big crab, waving his shovel at it.  “Git off!” he persisted until finally the crab relented and disappeared into the watery darkness on the underside of the body.

The man reached once again for the head and, successful this time, with a broad smile, held the prize up before his masked companion.  For a moment they stood regarding the horrid countenance of the dead Zombi King.  But it was a brief moment.  Suddenly, and to their great horror and disgust, the jelly-like skin of the face fell away, sinking to the ground with a “plop” and laying there in an oozing pile.  For a moment, the bare skull of the Zombi King frowned at them until at last the flesh of the remainder of the head gave way and the skull fell out, rolling back into the darkness of the grave.  The hoodoo man stood there holding a clump of matted hair and rotting flesh.

“Oh, hell,” said the masked man, “now we done did it!  Now we done did it!  Dat’s it!  I is leavin’!”  And with that he ran off as fast as he could, gingerly picking his way through the swampy burying ground and bolting through the front gate.

This left the single bold hoodoo man standing at the open grave of the Zombi King.  “Well, hell,” he said aloud to the darkness.

He pitched the rotted scalp into the coffin and looked inside for the skull.  What a prize that would be!   But he quickly realized it was lost to him and, mindful that he had already been overlong in his night’s work, he decided it was best to cut his losses and run.

He reached into the low-hanging cypress tree and pulled off a sturdy branch.  This he took back to the jelly-like pile on the ground that was the face of the Zombi King.  Poking at it gently so as not to tear it, he managed to pick the whole mess up and placing it deftly into the folds his bandana, he stole out of the cemetery and melted like a shadow into the all-consuming darkness of the night.

According to all accounts, once the hoodoo man had returned to his shack near the swampy shores of Bayou St. John, he began to ponder what exactly to do with the face of the Zombi King.

He had taken it from the bag and laid it out on the table with the intention of drying it out, when suddenly he was seized by a thought, and putting to work the tanning skills he had learned on the plantation before he had run away, he was able to treat the Zombi’s skin until it looked like a piece of tanned animal hide.  Once this was accomplished, the urge of the artist apparently took over and the hoodoo man, recalling the powerful fetish masks made by his African ancestors, decided to make a mask from the face of the Zombi King.

The hoodoo man affixed the tanned face of the Zombi King to the husks he pulled from a pineapple palm tree, skillfully molding the leathered flesh over the husks to fill out the features.  Soon the stolen face began to take on its human shape again and once the form was set, the hoodoo man attached it to the cypress branch that he had taken from the burying ground with rope that penetrated the cheek of the Zombi King.

The hoodoo man was proud of his work and took his time adding to it with bits and pieces from his natural environment – a little moss and greenery, more sticks, even a portion of a possum’s jaw that he found laying about his shack.  And each night, when he had finished his work, he hung the mask in a special place on a wall in his hovel.

As time passed, the work on the mask began to consume all the time of the  hoodoo man.  Certainly he was no artist, but he was constantly amazed by what his hands were producing; he became enamored of his own creation.  Now as he worked, the urge to put on the mask began to grow in him; not just to put it on, but to put it on and go out, to walk about in it, as if it was his own face.  This he began to do a little at a time, at first only sitting on his stoop or pacing about outside his little shack.  Soon, however, as the mask became more intricate, the desire to wear it and roam further also grew in him, and eventually he gave into the urge.  Holding the mask over his face, he began to wander the Bayou Road and even went as far as the Rue des Ramparts, laughing to himself that the locals would surely think the Zombi King had returned from the grave.

One evening when he was at home preparing to take his nightly promenade, the hoodoo man reached for the mask and stopped cold.  It hung in its usual place on the wall but there, coiled atop it, was a snake, a poisonous cottonmouth.  It hissed as the hoodoo man had reached for it, but then it had coiled more tightly and become very still.  The hoodoo man stood staring at the snake for many long moments, and yet it did not move.  Finally, carefully, and with the slowest movement possible, the hoodoo man reached out and touched one of the glossy coils of the beautiful snake.  To his astonishment, it had become petrified!

Amazed and believing this to be a blessing on his work by one of the great voodoo spirits, the hoodoo man took down the mask and went for his usual promenade.

Later that night, he lay restless in his bed, still pondering how the snake had come to be perched upon the mask and what had petrified it.  He turned over in his cot and gazed across the room where the mask hung in its usual spot on the wall.  The flickering glow of a dying coal fire was all the light the one-room hovel had and this night the play of the embers made strange patterns on the walls.  And in that fading glow the mask looked, somehow, different.

The hoodoo man was suddenly aware of a clicking sound and it seemed to be coming from the mask.  He lay still, dismissing it as the sound from a night creature or a cockroach that had found its way inside.  But the sound persisted, now louder, then softer and more distant.  At last the hoodoo man realized – the noise was coming from under the mask.

He rose from his bed and approached cautiously.  In the deep darkness of the empty eyes he thought he saw a hint of something moving, something shiny.  By now he was close enough to be definitely sure the clicking sound was emanating from the mask, but this new oddity had him puzzled.

“Mus’ be a roach …” he mumbled aloud to the darkness. 

Yet he continued to stare and, almost imperceptibly, he was moving closer and closer with each passing moment until his face was almost touching the face of the mask.  He jumped back with a scream as a pair of black claws popped through the empty socket of one eye.  In an instant the entire body of a large, black scorpion had completely emerged.

The hoodoo man watched enthralled as the scorpion crawled about the face of the mask.  He was even more intrigued when, as the insect passed over the body of the coiled snake, the snake came to life and began to hiss and coil.  This duet between the snake and the scorpion frightened the hoodoo man and, without looking away from the mask for a moment, he reached about for a jug he kept handy for moments just like this.  He popped the cork, put the jug to his lips, threw back his head and drank deeply of the stinging liquor inside.  He closed his eyes and shook his head.

When he looked again, the grim ballet being played out on the mask of the Zombi King had ended.  The snake, reticent, frozen exactly as it had been, was joined now by the fixed and inanimate form of the scorpion, frozen on the left cheek, pinchers raised in a threatening but harmless pose.  He took this as another sign that the spirits were pleased with his work.

Now, the hoodoo man was no stranger to magic, nor was he averse to riling up the superstitious now and then, as it pleased him.  He knew that he had something very valuable in his hands and he also knew that somewhere out there someone would pay dearly not only for the mask, but for his own magical abilities which were obviously astonishing – astonishing enough to draw power from the spirit world.  So the hoodoo man determined it was time to part with his masterpiece. Yes, it was time to sell the mask of the Zombi King.

In those days the kind of buying and selling the hoodoo man wanted to do took place in only one location, the Congo Fields.  Here on Saturdays and Sundays, all the free people of color and the most trusted slaves of the old New Orleans families gathered for entertainment and recreation, to indulge in their “bamboulas” which the white folk thought were only dances but which the Negroes knew were really rituals, and to buy and sell all manner of products – good, bad, harmless, or harmful.  It was rumored in the earliest times that the Devil himself did trade at Congo Fields, so the hoodoo man thought himself in good company the Saturday night he approached bearing the mask of the Zombi King in hand.

Activities were brisk in the Fields this night and already the “bamboula” was underway, but the hoodoo man found a place just outside the rim of the firelight cast by the bamboula fire.  Here he set a barrel on its end and, laying the mask down, began to hawk its sale to anyone willing.  Before long he had drawn a small crowd of the simple, the curious, and the amused.  Among them he was surprised to see his partner in crime, the man who had helped him violate the grave of the Zombi King, but who had fled in righteous terror.

“Say, where yo been?” the friend said to the hoodoo man.

“I been busy,” said the hoodoo man with a sly smile, and he held up the mask.

His superstitious friend stood staring in disbelief and all the color drained from his face.  “Do that be what I think ‘tis?” he said, swallowing hard.

“Yo like it?” said the hoodoo man, but a sudden look of terror came over the other man’s face and he ran away, disappearing into the crowd. 

Now the hoodoo man observed the group that surrounded him drawing back with strange and frightened looks on their faces.  He looked at the mask.  Nothing was amiss.  It looked perfect; in fact, it looked better than ever in the flickering light of the bamboula fire.  He was puzzled and not the least bit angry that his friend’s reaction might cause him to lose a sale so he called out loudly:

“Looky here!  Dis’ be the face of old Squire John come back!  Dis’ be some powerful strong hoodoo here!  Dis’ be the one and only Zombi King and yo’s can has it fo’ yo’ own!  Yas! Yas!” he went on like a preacher, still puzzled as to why the crowd was drawing away.  “Yo’ can has it fo’ yo’ own!  Whas’a matter?  Ain’t nobody out dere got no courage?  Well, yo’ don’t need no courage!  All yo needs is CASH!”

Still the crowd drew back in fear.  At last, desperate, the hoodoo man decided to give it one more try.

“Looky here!  Ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of!” he cried.  “It jus’ a mask, dat’s all, jus’ a mask,” and with that he put the mask of the Zombi King up to his face.

With the engulfing suction of the cemetery muck it was drawn from, the mask of the Zombi King fixed itself to the face of the hoodoo man.  He screamed in fright and pulled at it, desperately trying to peel it away, but it would not budge.

“He’p me, yo fools!” he cried, but the crowd stood paralyzed with fear, some grimacing, others gasping, others hiding their eyes in terror. 

“Come on!  He’p me!”  cried the hoodoo man as he frantically pulled at the mask that had now become a second skin upon his face.  Suddenly he stopped, aware of movement on his head, yet no one was near, no one had come to his aid.

Somewhere in the depths of his dark mind he remembered the view of the mask from the other side, the form he had admired so arrogantly and so long.  He felt the snake uncoil upon his head and slither about.  Locked behind the mask he could not perceive its actual movements, but a sudden terror gripped him as he felt the snake’s tail fall heavy on his shoulder and begin to twine about his neck.  A clicking sound now filled him with greater fear:  the scorpion!  It, too, had come to life!  He could hear it skittering about on the face of the mask.  Now in utter terror, he pulled at the mask with the desperation of one who knows death is suddenly upon him and there is no escape.

“HE’P ME!”  he screamed, tears flowing freely now.  “HE’P ME, SOMEBODY PLEASE!!!”

But suddenly he could speak no more.  The snake that coiled about his face had hovered just at eye level for a fraction of a moment and then, in a flash, had plunged its head into the screaming mouth of the hoodoo man.  It pushed and slithered and coiled until at last nearly its whole body was inside, choking the life of the hoodoo man from the inside out. 

The last sight the hoodoo man saw, before he died, or before the spirit of the Zombi King claimed him, were the pinchers of the scorpion, poised before his eyes.  The hoodoo man let out a horrible, yelping scream as the scorpion dug away at his eyes with those huge black pinchers, eating into his skull.

A silence fell over the Congo Fields.  The crowd that had gathered around the hoodoo man stood in awe and others had drifted over from the fireside, leaving off their dancing and drumming.

In his death throes the hoodoo man had knocked over the barrel and spilled its contents, common ale, all over the ground and it had formed a spongy, swampy mire about the body of the hoodoo man.  The mask had fallen away as death, or something worse, came for the tormented spirit, and the scorpion and snake were nowhere to be seen.  The skin of the hoodoo man’s face looked like jelly.

A murmur arose from the crowd and the people parted, allowing a beautiful woman known to everyone as the priestess of the bamboula to pass; with her was a tall white man, dressed completely in black and wearing a top hat.  When she reached the body of the hoodoo man, the priestess reached into a cloth bag tied around her waist and drew forth a white powder; this she threw on the body, muttering a spell in Kreyol under her breath.  As she worked, the crowd was horrified to see the snake’s head appear at the man’s mouth, while at the same time the scorpion worked itself free from one of the empty eyes.  Both creatures slinked away into the darkness and disappeared.

The tall man stooped down and picked up the mask.  The crowd gasped in terror but he held up a hand to quiet them.  He studied the mask then said aside to the priestess, “He almost got it right, but he missed the important part – the crab’s claws.”

The priestess looked down at the mask in disgust, “And the scorpion’s stinger,” she said.

Excerpted from an original story by Alyne A. Pustanio

Copyright © 2010 by Alyne A. Pustanio

No portion of this story or any other website content is to be used without the express written consent of the author and owner.  Reproduction of this material in any form is a violation of all applicable copyright laws.

Real Zombies, the Living Dead, and Creatures of the Apocalypse by Brad Steiger

Buy It Here Now!

Featuring 30 chilling stories of real-life zombie encounters, this comprehensive and unsettling study draws upon traditions found throughout the world to dispel common depictions of zombies as lurching, flesh-eating automatons made popular by countless movies and books. This fascinating collection includes the stories of the Devil Baby of Bourbon Street, a monstrous creature complete with horns and tail that still lurks in the shadows of the Big Easy; Black Mama Courteaux and the great zombie war, involving hundreds of zombie soldiers battling for the supremacy of their queen; and the swamp child of Mama Cree, who still roams the bayous of Louisiana. In addition to the stories, a variety of zombie-related facts are explored, including ceremonies and initiations, zombies throughout history, sacred zombie and voodoo-related sites, and zombies and monsters of the Bible.

MORE ORIGINAL ARTICLES BY ALYNE A. PUSTANIO

ORIGINAL ARTICLES BY ALYNE PUSTANIO St. Louis Cathedral Hauntings, And A Touch Of Ghostly History WHEN FURNITURE ATTACKS!! TRUE STORIES OF GHOSTLY ENCOUNTERS WITH POSSESSED POSSESSIONS! THE JOHNNY THUNDERS DEATH ROOM UPDATE THE REVEAL: LOVE SURVIVES JOHNNY AND SABEL SAY “HELLO” FROM THE OTHER SIDE The Haunted Boy THE SECRET DIARY OF “THE EXORCIST” DVD REVIEWED BY ALYNE PUSTANIO NEW ORLEANS ZOMBIE BABY PAYS A VISIT TO PENSACOLA PARACON A REAL NEW ORLEANS ZOMBIE BABY VISITS DRAGON CON A ZOMBIE TALE OF OLD NEW ORLEANS, VIOLETTE: WITH EYES TO DIE FOR ... THE DEVIL BABY IN CANDYLAND NEW ORLEANS FRENCH OPERA HOUSE GHOST ANBA D’LO 2010: APOLOGY TO THE WATERS Day Of The Dead R.S.V.P. THE SAD, LONELY DEATH OF ROCKER JOHNNY THUNDERS AND A LOVE THAT ENDURES … FOREVER? NEW ORLEANS DAY OF THE DEAD 2010 IN SEARCH OF AN ENDURING VOODOO MYSTERY: THE GATES OF GUINEE HALLOWEEN 2010 in NEW ORLEANS ~ ALYNE PUSTANIO’S GUIDE TO A THRILLING HALLOWEEN WEEKEND IN THE MOST HAUNTED CITY IN THE WORLD! Devil Baby of Bourbon Street Ghost Of Bayou St. John “THERE IS A HOUSE IN NEW ORLEANS, AND IT’S CALLED THE…” CASA DO DIABO!! LE MARAIS TREMBLEMENT:TERRORS OF THE TREMBLING MARSHES ZOMBIE BABIES: DARK DENIZENS FROM THE SHADOWY CRADLE OF NEW ORLEANS FOLKLORE PLEAS FROM THE EYE OF A STORM:  MANBO SALLIE ANN GLASSMAN’S HURRICANE PROTECTION RITUAL 2010 THE HAUNTING TRAGEDY OF THE UPSTAIRS LOUNGE THE HAUNTING TRAGEDY OF THE UPSTAIRS LOUNGE PART TWO:  THE INVESTIGATION THE HAUNTING TRAGEDY OF THE UPSTAIRS LOUNGE PART THREE: THE REVEAL THE RESTLESS DEAD ARE STILL UPSTAIRS VOODOO MIDSUMMER RITUAL IN HONOR OF MARIE LAVEAU 2010 A ZOMBIE TALE OF OLD NEW ORLEANS, VIOLETTE: WITH EYES TO DIE FOR ... PAZUZU, “THE BAD WIND BY ITSELF” LEVIATHAN, “DRAGON OF THE WATERY ABYSS” YALTABAOTH, “CELESTIAL ADVERSARY” NEW TALES OF THE REAL GHOSTS THAT HAUNT THE LALAURIE HOUSE “Demon du Jour”   “Demon du Jour” DEAUX   "Demon du Jour" TROIS   CHILDREN OF THE GRAVE REVIEWED   THE BEST HAUNTED GHOST TOURS, CEMETERY TOURS, VOODOO TOURS, HISTORIC AND HISTORY TOURS, CEMTERY TOURS IN NEW ORLEANS   Paranormal Studies Resource Books   The 50 Best Selling Brad Steiger Books to Read   REAL HALLOWEEN HAUNTED SPOOK HOUSES IN THE NEW ORLEANS AREA ~ Learn more here now.   alynepustanio.com ~ Exploring real "New Orleans folklore" All Original Articles, Photos, Artwork and Content of this web site are the sole property of Alyne A. Pustanio and cannot be used without expressed written permission this site protected ©2004-2010 alynepustanio.com - All rights reserved Alyne Pustanio's Upcoming Special Events And Personal Appearances, Lecture schedule, latest book news, and other information.   ALYNE PUSTANIO IS ALSO FEATURED IN THE MOST PERFECT ULTIMATE MONSTER COMPANION OF ALL TIMES! Real Monsters, Gruesome Critters, and Beasts from the Darkside by Brad Steiger         "The Legends of Nethiah" www.legendsofnethiah.com/   Where fantasy meets reality...   A young boy whose parents are going through a bitter divorce, is given hope and courage through the powerful stories embellished by his grandfather. The stories give the boy the inner strength and resolve to confront the inevitable challenges which lie ahead.   Starring Robert Picardo, Jared Young, Jeremiah Sayys, John Heard, Theresa Russell, Julie Michaels, Laura Covelli, Jilon Ghai. Produced by Howard Nash. A Russ Emanuel film, Starrunner, LLC & WorldsLastHero Productions, Inc. USA, 2010, HD Digital / 35MM, Color, 91 minutes.     Directed by Russ Emanuel, produced by Howard Nash, and starring Robert Picardo (Wonder Years, Star Trek: Voyager, P.J., Chasing the Green), John Heard (Home Alone, P.J.), Theresa Russell (Spiderman 3), and introducing Jeremiah Sayys, Jared Young, Julie Michaels, Laura Covelli, and Jilon Ghai. Watch the trailer in 5 different resolutions including 1080p HD!     Come and explore The Real Hauntings Of New Orleans Today with one of the best most haunted ghost tour in America! FRENCH QUARTER PHANTOMS THE NUMBER 1# BEST MOST HAUNTED GHOST TOUR IN NEW ORLEANS... AND VOTED AS ONE OF THE BEST GHOST TOURS IN AMERICA FOR 2010- 2011 by the many millions of visitors to HAUNTED AMERICA TOURS hauntedamericatours.com   HAUNTED AMERICA TOURS INVESTIGATE ALL THAT IS HAUNTED Top Ten Haunted List THE BEST GHOST PHOTOS OF THE YEAR TOP TEN GHOST HUNTERS PARANORMAL INVESTIGATORS IN AMERICA TOP TEN MOST HAUNTED AUTHORS TOP TEN HAUNTED GHOST TOURS IN AMERICA TOP TEN HAUNTED WEB SITES ON THE INTERNET The Top Ten Best Paranormal Investigation Groups in the United States TOP TEN HAUNTED CITIES IN AMERICA THE TOP TEN PARANORMAL DOCUMENTRY DVD'S TOP TEN HAUNTED HOTELS THE TOP TEN BEST MOST HAUNTED PARANORMAL RADIO SHOWS TOP TEN HAUNTED CEMETERIES TOP TEN HAUNTED HOUSES TOP TEN HAUNTED BATTLEFIELDS THE TOP TEN PARANORMAL DOCUMENTRY DVD'S The Most Haunted Paranormal Couple Of The Year THE TOP TEN BEST GHOST HUNTING MOVIES TOP TEN MOST HAUNTED CEMETERIES TOP TEN HAUNTED ITEMS AND POSSESSED POSSESIONS IN THE WORLD † THE TOP TEN BEST VAMPIRE MOVIES