There is a house on Dauphine Street One of many hauntings in New Orleans A Greek revival manor washed in pink That has quite an unnerving history
It is said that in the nineteenth century A man of means by the name of Jean Baptiste Bought the lot in the corner of the street To make a summer destination for a foreign family
In they came, in a three mast ship from Turkey Being not quite what the neighborhood expected From port to place they made their way In carriages drawn by black horses. A sultan's brother, wives and children, And many men to do his bid and order.
The pink façade soon met the dark of iron, Wrought and in vines of black it covered Balconies and entrances, inner yards and Common places, so much the people started Wondering if it was so much to preserve the Property, or if to keep someone...something, Held within.
But summer came and soon all questions Disappeared, at the sound of music and grand revelries. It looked as if the young man that came from distant shores Caught quite well with the spirit of the city.
No longer LaPrette's house, it was now the Sultan's Palace Where lavish parties rung from dusk 'til dawn And incense burned to mask the soft tendrils Of smoke of opium dens and other untold secrets.
By autumn, when the music quieted down, The house, and all its glory seemed withdrawn, It doors closed to the world, and all who dwelled Within those rose walls looked as if sorry, Their dark eyes haunting, tear stricken, foreboding.
"There is a presence in that house" people would say.
"Something not quite satisfied with their display Perhaps a spirit brought from distant lands, That confused, cannot bear the place in which it stands."
And so it happened, one morning in December, That a man walking down the street Saw something that made his heart skip a beat The pink walls bled red into the corner of Dauphine The house had seen the death of all that lied within
Hacked and dismembered, women, men and children Met the fury of a silver blade The house was sealed with heavy locks of iron And not a footprint was found there to disturb Their quiet passing into an early grave.
There was but just a place where earth was turned The inner-court yard, now soaked in blood and gore Disgorged a man that was buried while still breathing, The so called sultan, covered in dirt and filth, With pleading lips and hands extended Drowned in the blood of those he once defended.
Many questions were left and through the years The place has kept its story of horror, blood and tears Some say it was an assassin swift, Others say it is the spirit of a house that can't abide its Tenants and after being offered a chalice forged of Thirty-seven souls, now sleeps.
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