This is the city’s most famous private residence, and was constructed before 1831 by Louis Barthelmy de McCarthy. One of his five children, Delphine LaLaurie, acquired the house from her father in August 1831, and it quickly became the scene of brilliant social events. But there was a persistent buzz of gossip about the LaLaurie’s servants. Why did they seem so broken in spirit? So afraid? So – well, emaciated? In 1833, a neighbor told the police she had seen glamorous Delphine LaLaurie mercilessly lashing a small Negro slave girl, who shortly thereafter fell from the rooftop to the courtyard below. The police took Madame LaLaurie into court – but she was merely fined. Then, on the night of April 10, 1834, a fire broke out in the big LaLaurie residence. Neighbors crashed through a locked door into a smoke choked room – and found seven wretched, starving creatures chained leg and neck in the most painful positions, unable to move. A newspaper the next day suggested that Madame LaLaurie herself set the fire. Citizens began to mass outside the house. Suddenly, a carriage burst out of the gate and raced away, with the LaLauries in the back. The mob howled, then proceeded to tear down the house. The wrecked house was later restored, but the LaLauries never returned. Delphine died in Europe years afterward. Her body was brought to the city in great secrecy and buried. Ever since, some say, the house has been haunted by groans, screams, and the savage hissing of whips. Perhaps you would like to linger outside this place tonight to hear for yourself…at
midnight, maybe…, maybe not…