Around La Ville, New Orleans, the land is so low and wet that the dead have to be buried above ground in a vault. Folks don’t bury their dead in a grave in the ground. If the river were to overflow the levee, or a hurricane to flood the land, your loved one might just float back up from the grave and pay you a return visit!
Down the river a little ways from La Ville, there once lived an old man with his only child, a jolie fille called Therese. Her maman had died and Therese was left in the care of her papa, a greedy, miserly man who worked his girl like a mule and dressed her in rags. Though she was of a marrying age, he would not allow any young man to court her. She saw no one except her mean ol’ papa.
All he ever cared for were the gold coins that he kept hidden under a loose board in the floor beneath his bed. Every night he’d lock the door, and by the light of a flickering candle, he’d count his golden coins. He loved the way they clinked and glowed and weighed so heavy in his hands. But poor Therese, she was so lonesome. Every night she’d come knocking on his door, knock, knock. Her papa would yell out, “Who’s there?”
“Papa, c’ est moi,” she’d say. “It’s me, Therese. Papa, let me in, talk with me. I am so lonely.”
But her papa would only holler back at her, “Girl, get on outta here and get back to work. You only wanta get your hands on my gold, and thatta be over my dead body!”
And so it went until one night, knock, knock. “Who’s there?”
“Papa, it’s me, Therese. Me, I’m sick-sick,” she moans. “Papa, let me in!”
But he just yells back, “You lazy good-for-nothin’! Get outta here. You’re not sick. You just wanta get your hands on my money, and thatta be over my dead body!”
Again and again Therese returned to her father’s door, knock, knock. “Who’s there?”
“Papa, c’ est moi. Papa, let me in. I’m bad sick. I need the healer. Please, Papa, send for the traiteur!”
Knock, knock. “Who’s there?”
“Papa, please help me. The pain is worse. Oh, Papa, open the door!”
But her papa’s heart was as cold as his golden coins. At last the girl’s cries faded to silence, and she knocked no more. The old man was full of curiosity, and so he opened the door. There, lying lifeless on the porch floor, was jolie Therese. The old man was too stingy to buy a vault for his daughter. Instead, he laid Therese in a crude wooden coffin and buried her in a shallow, swampy grave down by the cypress tree.
The neighbors all shook their heads. They warned there would be trouble. How could poor Therese rest in peace in such a grave?
Three weeks went by and a storm began to coil up out over the gulf. The winds churned and rain fell like needles as the hurricane passed over the land. Night found the old man sitting in his room counting his gold coins by flickering candlelight. Outside, the wind howled and blew sheets of rain against the house. The old man did not know that the river had already spilled over the levee and sent its dark water across the land. He sat in his rocking chair, his lap full of gold, rocking and counting, “Un, deux, trois …”
Something thumped against his porch with a hollow, wooden clatter. Knock, knock, knock sounded at his door. “Who’s there?” he hollers.
Only a great sigh like the wind answered. “Just a loose shutter bangin’,” he thinks, and went on counting his shining gold. “Un, deux, trois …”
Knock, knock, knock pounded at his door, stronger this time. “Who’s there?”
Only a whining wind answered him. “Just that good- for-nothin’ hound dog tryin’ to get in,” he thinks. Again he returned to his golden coins. “Un, deux, trois …”
Knock, knock, knock! Three great booming knocks hammered at his door. “Who’s there?”
Only a low, sad moaning. A cold shiver ran down the old man’s back. “Storm’s gotcha all jumpy,” he says to himself. “It’s just the wind blowin’ that ol’ live oak tree, scrapin’ its branches against the house.”
But the moaning rose and rose above the wailing wind until it became a horrifying scream. “Papa, c’est moi, Therese! Let me in! It’s me, Therese!” Knock, knock, knock! “Papa, let me in!” Knock, knock, knock! “Papa, let me innnnnn!”
As the eye of the storm passed over the house, a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the deadly calm. Three days passed and the waters receded. Neighbors came by to look in on the old man. They rode onto his land, and as they passed by the cypress tree they saw that the flood had washed all the dirt away from Therese’s grave and it was empty. They knocked at the back door but no voice answered. Fearing some harm had befallen the old man, they went inside.
They found him sitting like stone in his rocking chair, cold as marble, his hair gone snow white. A silent scream was frozen on his face, and his eyes bulged in glassy terror.
Across the room, the door hung limp from one hinge, as though some monstrous fist had pounded it down. Before it lay a battered, splintered coffin and, inside, the gruesome corpse of Therese. Her withered hands clutched her papa’s golden coins, and a ghastly smile lay fixed upon her decaying lips.
With the money, the neighbors bought Therese a whitewashed vault and gave her a proper above ground burial. There was not enough money to buy the old man a vault, so they buried him in a pine coffin down by the cypress tree.
Since that time, whenever the river threatens to flood the land, the old man’s troubled spirit rises to warn all that danger is at hand. Folks know he’s payed them a visit when they hear someone knock, knock, knocking at their door but nobody is ever there!