The day I moved into the genteel house in the French Quarter a housekeeper and a gardener offered to unpack my car. That same night I was informed, “You’re not in Key West anymore,” my friend laughed, “It’s dangerous here. I carefully laid my possessions across the white marble hall table and the cherry red satin covered chairs. Later that night, while I was in the kitchen where ghosts never stopped cavorting, I heard a thunderous crash. Plaster dribbled like light rain and entering and exiting by the front door was now Russian roulette.

Source: Huffington Post October 29, 2017 12:22 UTC