There are whispers in New Orleans that never die—stories carried on the warm, sticky air, spoken in hushed tones over gumbo pots and in the shadowed corners of jazz clubs. Everyone knows the French Quarter hides secrets. Some are romantic, some are tragic. And some are so soaked in blood and dread that even the drunkest souls won't dare utter their names.
Eli Simmons didn't believe in any of that. A skeptic, born and raised in Baton Rouge, he thought ghost tours and voodoo dolls were tourist traps—cheap thrills to milk cash from wide-eyed visitors. So when his old college roommate invited him to spend the summer in New Orleans, offering a place to stay in a charming Creole townhouse his aunt had left him, Eli accepted without hesitation.
He arrived in the middle of June, sweating through his shirt before his first beignet. The townhouse stood tall on Burgundy Street, wrapped in iron balconies and cloaked in vines. It was beautiful, if a little weathered. "Classic old NOLA charm," his roommate Paul had said. But what Paul failed to mention was that the property came with more than just creaky floors and antique furniture.
There was a courtyard in the back—walled in by stone, tangled with ivy and overgrown azaleas. And in the center stood a statue. A tall, slender woman in a flowing gown, her hands folded politely in front of her. Her face was smooth marble, but her eyes... her eyes always seemed to be watching.
"Who's she supposed to be?" Eli had asked when Paul gave him the tour.
"No one knows," Paul said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aunt Delphine called her La Dame du Silence. The Lady of Silence. She said she came with the house."
Eli chuckled. "Spooky. Does she come to life at midnight and ask for tea?"
Paul didn't laugh.
That night, Eli settled into the guest room, cracked a beer, and scrolled on his phone until sleep tugged at his mind. Just as he drifted off, a creak stirred him. Then another. Footsteps.
He sat up, heart quickening. "Paul?" he called into the darkness.
No answer.
He climbed out of bed, the hardwood cool against his bare feet. He opened his door, peered into the hallway—empty. Still.
Then he heard it. A soft, barely-there whisper. A woman's voice, humming something low and mournful.
It came from the courtyard.
Against every better instinct, Eli moved toward it, footsteps slow and cautious. He opened the back door, peeking outside.
Moonlight bathed the courtyard in silver. The statue stood in the center, unmoving.
But the humming continued.
And the statue's head—he swore it had turned slightly.
The next morning, Paul dismissed it.
"You probably just dreamed it, man. Happens to a lot of people their first night here. This city's got... vibes."
"Vibes don't hum old French lullabies," Eli muttered.
Paul went stiff. "You heard *that*?"
Eli blinked. "You know the song?"
"My aunt used to hum it when she was stressed. Said she heard it from the courtyard, too. Thought it was a memory or a ghost or something harmless."
"Did it feel harmless to *you*?"
Paul didn't answer.
Over the next few days, Eli couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The statue unnerved him. Every time he glanced at it from the window, it looked... different. A slight tilt of the head. Fingers positioned just so. Once, he could've sworn she had taken a step forward. Just one.
On the fourth night, it escalated.
Eli awoke with a gasp, sweat coating his body despite the fan whirring above. The room was ice cold. Freezing. And standing at the foot of his bed was the Lady.
Not a statue. Not marble. Flesh. Gown flowing, hair black as pitch, face pale and too smooth—almost perfect.
Her mouth was shut tight, sealed like it was never meant to open.
Eli couldn't move. Couldn't scream. She leaned closer, tilting her head like a curious child, and gently placed one finger against his lips.
Silence.
Then, she was gone.
Morning light poured in, and Eli finally managed to sit up, gasping. The blankets were soaked, the window open. Paul found him trembling in the kitchen, clutching a bottle of whiskey with bloodshot eyes.
"I saw her. She moved. She was here."
Paul said nothing.
"You knew, didn't you? You knew something was wrong with this place."
"I thought... maybe it was just my aunt. Grief makes people imagine things."
"It's not your aunt. It's that thing in the courtyard. She came into my room. She touched me."
Paul's eyes widened, pale with fear. "You're not supposed to talk to her. Aunt Delphine said that. If you speak her name—"
"I didn't."
"—or acknowledge her presence, she *notices* you."
Eli went silent.
It was too late.
That night, Paul left to stay with his girlfriend uptown. Eli stayed behind, determined to leave in the morning. He packed his bags and locked himself in the room.
But just after midnight, the humming returned. This time, louder. Closer.
He tried to ignore it.
Tried to sleep.
But then... silence.
Complete and crushing silence.
He opened his eyes.
She was in the room.
Her gown trailed across the floor like mist, her face still sealed. She hovered above him, eyes glowing faintly, hands outstretched.
He screamed.
But no sound came out.
She reached into his mouth, her fingers impossibly long, pulling something out—his voice. Not just metaphorically. She extracted it. His scream became mist in her palm, and she inhaled it like perfume.
Then, she tore into him.
When Paul returned the next day, the house was quiet.
No sign of Eli.
Just the suitcase, packed neatly by the bed. The fan still whirring above.
And in the courtyard, the Lady's statue had changed.
Her face now bore a smile.
And in her folded hands?
A strip of fabric from Eli's shirt.
People say if you pass by Burgundy Street now, and the night is still, you might hear faint humming from behind the walls. A soft lullaby. French. Sweet. And somewhere beneath it...
A scream that never ends.