The Magnolia Blood Pact
Act I
Le Cœur Noir • Storyville, New Orleans
Part 1 — The Prelude: A Night of Glitz and Jazz at the Le Cœur Noir Cabaret
(October 12, 1928 — The Era of Mirrors and Self Discovery)
It was no ordinary Saturday night at Le Cœur Noir. The ivories whispered gently with tales of seduction and jazz; the saxophone moaned like a cat in heat, drenched in smoke, giggle water, and sin.
The demons around the Quarter were out for the night, looking for mischief just like the fairies in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Tonight they would play love games with mortals, then laugh from the high ceilings, despite the town believing that haint-blue paint would deter them from wreaking havoc.
Tonight was about fun, and it all began with a tale of a siren — a fake doll made out of glass.
Whispers inside Le Cœur Noir filled the smoke of cigarettes, creating an intoxicating atmosphere.
“Ophelia… Ophelia…” Her name bounced around the walls as the demons were playing with God, daring Him to silence them. But God tonight was only observing the Quarter, as He had given humans free will — just like the gods of Olympus once observed their venerated humans.
Ophelia stepped onto the stage, climbing up onto the black grand piano to lay herself down as if she were a Venetian Venus, wearing a red sequin dress; a black feather adorned her hair while a lace band held her tight curls in place. She was dressed as a vision of carnal passion to ignite the most obscure corners of a man’s imagination. Her lips rouged, and her eyes lined with black eyeliner to smouldering perfection.
For a moment the room turned its head; she smiled slow, deliberately, as if she were ready for her close-up.
Sliding closer to the pianist so her legs would be slightly open, creating a tantalizing window of desire between his hands playing the ivories, having her almost at eye-level with the slit of her sequin dress, the music began to flow.
The lights on the stage changed to give her a spotlight.
And so the canary began to sing.
You know… a simple gal dreams of bagging her a boss man,
A button man, a greaser, a big spender.
A man that ain’t afraid to splurge and treat me swell,
And best of all, to fill my neck with diamonds and sparkles.
Baby, I will be his safe house when he’s on the lam,
His champagne flute when he’s thirsty for lovin’.
So tell me, boys — who’s the lucky fella who wants to open me like a present on Christmas Day?
A guy who takes his time when he’s divin’ down low.
The music faded as the sound of the crowd laughing overtook it.
Ophelia tilted her head seductively; the chandeliers caught the sweat dripping down her collarbone, trying to make its way to her navel — the heavenly path that many fantasized of navigating that night.
The demons outside the Quarter were pleased with the fête du désir — a feast of sinful desire culminating in the distorted brass sounds of the quartet that was accompanied by the ivories on stage.
Ophelia began her monologue, ecstatic that the whole room saw her as someone to adore and lust after — the very seal of approval she was looking for.
“You know… my husband — Sirah?” she said as she slid down the piano onto the pianist’s lap, looking into his eyes as he became nervous, which pleased Ophelia.
“He ain’t no brave man… He just likes to collect things — beautiful things.
He ain’t got no cheese, and he ain’t no muscle…
I need me a real man, a man that has no problem enforcing a contract or slicin’ ’ em for me.
A man just like him…” Her eyes scanned the room, looking in the crowd for Frankie — the one with the broad shoulders and baby blues.”
She looked again for Frankie, but his usual booth was empty.
Her smile faltered, only for what felt like her heart to stop.
Then something inside of her shifted, as if she wanted to cry but she held her tears and lifted her chin.
The music faded along with her.
Suddenly every woman in the joint seemed to sneer, whispering and cackling like crows as if they were mocking Ophelia’s Napoleon complex.
Their faces blurred, multiplied, as if she were trapped inside a hall of mirrors — hundreds of Ophelias staring back at her, jealous and mocking her.
She fell to the floor screaming “STOP!” Then the lights cut to black.
Part 2 — Prelude: The Broken Bride
October 12–19, 1928 — The Eve of Discovery during the Blood Moon Rising
When the lights went out, leaving Ophelia in a pitch-black mantle that touched her skin as if a black cat were rubbing its fur on her. However, the laughter did not cease; it grew louder, piercing through the calm Quarter as if they were witches’ cackles.
Outside, it began to rain heavily as if the skies were weeping. The air felt dense, carrying a smell of sage, lavender, and rosemary from Bayou Saint John all the way to the Quarter. The Black Swans that had nested on the windows under Mylène’s bedroom chambers in the Olivier Hotel became uneasy.
Ophelia opened her eyes; the stage where she had been singing was gone. Instead, she found herself three miles away from the noise of the French Quarter, soaked to the bone and shivering as the satin of her dress clung to her skin like a leech.
Ophelia was a little disoriented, as she did not immediately recognize where she was until she noticed the magnolia petals littered on the cobblestone, crushed under her red high heels like kisses from old lovers.
The air around the Garden District was filled with the scent of magnolia and vanilla — sweet yet innocent, as if nothing ever occurred in this part of town.
Ahead of her loomed the LaLaurie Mansion, with its curtains drawn open as if casting judgment upon those who walked the streets. The iron balconies dripped with vines of blood-red bougainvilleas tucked neatly under the wooden shutters.
A sudden gust of golden and green dust blew rose and magnolia petals to Ophelia’s feet, brushing her legs gently; a voice could be heard in the wind whispering:
“DON’T STEP INTO HER MIRROR — BE WARNED, YOU WILL NOT LIKE WHAT YOU SEE.”
But it was too late, for the trail of rose and magnolia was leading her there.
ACT II — The Three Mirrors of Ophelia
The First Mirror of Ophelia’s Past
Buckner Mansion, 1410 Jackson Avenue — October 19, 1928
The trail of rose and magnolia took her to a white-columned façade, reminiscent of Greek and Roman architecture for its Parthenon-like structure. The ivory-white columns gave the Buckner Mansion its magical dualism between Greek mythology and Roman pride.
The iron gates at the entrance swung ajar, pushing Ophelia in as the front door yawned open. But Ophelia was unsettled because of the cemetery less than a mile away; she could smell rotten flowers, incense, and bad decisions.
Before she could take another step, she felt a hand guiding her to the front steps as if the house were eager for her to enter and explore it. She reached the top of the stairs; on her way to the door she noticed the roses on top were blooming while the roses next to the windows were dead.
“That’s odd,” she said to herself, “how can one side have dead roses and the other have roses in full bloom?”
She knocked on the door once, then twice; the door opened, creaking as if it were saying, “Come inside, child.”
The air smelled of wet grass, sage, and iris rot. The hand that was guiding her turned into young Ophelia.
“Don’t be afraid. I am you, and you are me. Follow me, and you shall see.”
Young Ophelia was vibrant, wearing a white lace gown with peach details. Her eyes were full of delicious innocence, her soul as pure as poetry.
She took Ophelia upstairs to the master bedchamber where a grand mirror loomed close to the fireplace, adorned with iron magnolia leaves and gold accents.
“I was you — eternally jovial, full of life and eager. He stole that from us and made us into a collectible,” the mirror began to speak to Ophelia. This startled her as her younger self vanished, as if an evil spirit had banished her.
The mirror rippled as it spoke: “Your love was forever pure; you thought love was promise.”
“I was a fool,” Ophelia wept.
“You were alive,” the mirror replied.
Then it took her back to the debutante balls in her mother’s country in Baton Rouge — the pastels and pearls she gave up for that man.
She saw herself laughing with her friends, plotting how to seduce the eligible bachelors that attended the balls. Just like them, she was looking for her Nick Carraway — the fantasy of every babe in town after Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby. The gals were convinced he was the epitome of masculinity, even if he dies in the end — he protected his Daisy.
Ophelia was a romantic who saw everything through rose-colored glasses; before Sirah she was happy, plotting how to get herself a husband.
She also saw herself asking for her mother’s attention and her mother lecturing her on what not to do, and how not to act like those sleazy women in the French Quarter, and to avoid fraternizing with the help as they were not the same as them.
Her mother was of French aristocratic descent from the Marie Antoinette era, so she took her royal blue blood very seriously.
This made Ophelia constantly fearful of how others viewed her, yet she was still a very happy gal.
Her father, on the other hand, was a rigid Creole aristocrat who worked as an overseer on several plantations around Louisiana. He loved his daughter but never demonstrated any affection, as he saw that as a weakness.
Antoine Delacroix was a man of action, not words. His displays of affection consisted of giving Ophelia everything she wanted and asked for, except for his time and love. If Ophelia wanted a pony, he bought it; if Ophelia wanted an entourage of dumb Southern belles to attend her balls every weekend, Papa got her.
But he never gave her what most girls want from their daddy — love. For Ophelia, it was enough to get an “I love ya, kid” from her old man. But for Antoine Delacroix, that was not real love; to him, words were cheap.
Love to him was not growing hungry, cold, or homeless — he was a provider.
“You see, you were always wanting to be loved,” said Young Ophelia. The first mirror cracked, returning Ophelia to the Buckner Mansion.
1410 Jackson Avenue would never be the same after that day.
The Second Mirror — The Present
The Faubourg Livaudais Plantation — October 19, 1928
Wandering around in the rain as a ghost in penance, startled by her previous nostalgic experience about the innocence and youth lost, Ophelia continued to walk the cobblestone streets in the Garden District until she found herself on the outskirts of the Faubourg Livaudais.
The southern charm of old, decaying plantation homes leaning into the swamp as if they were drunks seeking their next sip. The smell of chicory coffee and freshly baked beignets with a hint of cinnamon and sugar filled the air.
Ophelia was drawn to one of the oldest plantation homes in the Faubourg Livaudais — the Foucher Plantation, nestled along the skirts of the Mississippi, acquired in 1793 by Pierre Foucher. The once-majestic plantation was left in ruins after the Confederate troops occupied it during the Civil War.
“What a pity… this is how I feel right now — it’s ruined like the pyramids.”
Ophelia closed her eyes for a second; when she opened them, there was a black swan in front of her wearing a golden tiara with encrusted emeralds.
“Do not fear me, Ophelia — I am here to guide you into your next mirror that will seal your fate. Choose wisely, my child.”
As Ophelia was trying not to feel terrified at the presence of another omen, the swan spread its wings and began to fan them gently — a windmill of gold dust and fairy powder lifted Ophelia’s feet.
“Hop on, gal — hold on tight to my neck.”
The swan flew her back to the Quarter, taking her to her bedroom in the Maison de Mémoires.
“What am I doing here?”
“You will see; have a little faith, child.”
The swan flapped its wings again, and a gilded mirror with red metal apples appeared in the middle of the room.
The mirror began to ripple, and with it the swan left. A voice from the mirror began to speak. Suddenly, a woman in a bloody wet corset appeared, her lipstick smeared, her mascara and eyeliner streaking down her cheeks from the incessant river of tears.
The mirror’s image changed to Mylène’s deep dark eyes, staring at Ophelia from the glass.
“You have lost your way, child… Your story has been hijacked.”
Ophelia’s hand reached out for the mirror, pressing her palm onto the glass; it gleamed red as if it were bleeding.
“I want him to want me, to feel what I feel! Why doesn’t he want me?” she hissed at the mirror in anger.
“I am beautiful! I am swell — a dame to kill for!”
The mirror rippled once more.
“Your final mirror will come soon — under the merciful eyes of God, the hand of the sanctimonious. Soon, child, you’ll be in Saint Mary’s.”
The Third Mirror — The Future
Saint Mary’s Chapel, 1516 Jackson Avenue — October 19, 1928
Ophelia’s denial about the meaning of the mirror reflections she was forced to face culminated in her curiosity getting the best of her. She knew the old Saint Mary’s was a baroque antique that many saw as the epitome of piety and holiness, as if God himself had come down and blessed the land where it stood.
Ophelia was not very keen on religion or religious folks; she despised them as much as she despised her mother for forcing her into Southern belle etiquette norms. Curiosity made her climb the humble steps to enter the chapel.
The pews were empty, as no patrons were dressed up to visit the house of God, yet the candle wax was still warm, while the wax puddles created the sight of tears that were weeping for the departure of Ophelia’s soul into the infernal abyss.
Making her way to the modest wooden altar, the figure on the cross hanging from the wall seemed to turn its face to look at her with sweet, merciful eyes. This startled Ophelia, causing emotional confusion as she did not know what to feel — anger, sadness, sorrow — she was going through the motions of a mental breakdown.
A sudden earthquake shook the small chapel, but nothing fell from the altar; there was no visible damage.
“I must be going crazy — I could swear the earth just trembled beneath me!”
The closer she moved toward the altar, looking for the basket to drop a few coins, the more nervous she became.
When she rose up from dropping her spare change into the basket, another mirror appeared in front of her — but this one, unlike the others, was very detailed in its design: an old, antique gilded Venetian baroque mirror laced with green leaves and gold wings.
The mirror began to pulsate, its frame turning from beautiful gilded gold to black, cracked, and full of spiderwebs.
Inside of it, she saw herself — hair tangled as if a crow had nested in it, mouth sewn shut, bouquet of black flowers under a lace black veil — older, devoid of life, emptier, and miserable.
The organ on the upstairs deck began to moan as if it were played by a ghost, sending a chill down Ophelia’s spine.
“Is this what is to become of me, or is this who I have become?
To be adored and idolized — does it come with this price?”
The mirror flickered, speaking back to her:
“Choose wisely, child. You are running out of time.”
Another earthquake was felt inside the chapel, this one stronger than the first, shattering the glass in the mirror.
“Well, well, my child… you have come this far looking for a deal? Shall we begin?”
The shattered mirror vibrated and bled, turning into the silhouette of Delphine LaLaurie.
ACT III — Part 3: The Warning of the 12
October 31, 1928 — All Hallow’s Eve
“Well, well, my child… you have come this far looking for a deal? Shall we begin?”
The shattered mirror vibrated and bled, turning into the silhouette of Delphine LaLaurie.
The shards from the broken glass began to form a white star on the floor, as the mirror pulsated purple, letting out smoke that smelled like lilac and incense, as if Ophelia were near the Lafayette Cemetery. The stench was enough to kill the moths and fireflies that were hiding from the night.
From the white star on the floor, a woman emerged with skin so white that it resembled a glass of milk, eyes as black as two pieces of coal. Delphine LaLaurie looked at her with a devilish grin, just like the Shadowed Man looked at his victims when he was about to trick them over a deal.
“Well, my child… I know what you want, and I can deliver him on a silver platter. Shall we commence the rites?”
Ophelia was hesitant to make a deal with a woman who was revered as the most despicable one around the Quarter. She had heard the legends and was sure that this character before her was none other than Madam LaLaurie, the evil woman who tortured slaves. Despite being dubious about her intentions in offering what she wanted, she was still tempted to comply.
Before she could open her mouth to respond, the air shifted, sending a sharp tingle up Ophelia’s thighs.
“Child… I know what you desire. He is not for you, but I can make him grovel at your feet—venerate you the way he idolizes her.”
The air shifted once more, making the candles inside Saint Mary’s Chapel dance, turning the color of the flames to a deep purple, as if Louisiana irises were being crushed.
One by one twelve faint figures came out of the flames, each wearing a veil of a different color, adorned with gold and silver stars on their dresses, as well as a third eye jeweled on their foreheads, each colored bindi signifying a warning.
The twelve karmic princesses did not walk; they glided to cover the white star around Ophelia, the mirror, and Madam LaLaurie.
“Turn back, child, while you still can.”
“The wheel turns, and a new cycle is coming.”
“What you seek is a wound wearing the wrong crown.”
“Choose your fate wisely.”
Ophelia’s knees weakened, collapsing her to the floor. While on her knees, she placed her hands on her face; when she removed them, there were the three mirrors from before staring back at her. Younger Ophelia’s face was softer, innocent, untainted by jealousy and vengeance. She covered her eyes, but the princesses kept speaking.
“Child, if you do this, you cannot return. Your fate will be sealed.
You’ll vanish into nothingness.
You will be forgotten by time.
Your name will not be spoken.”
An earthquake shook the Chapel’s altar again. The crucifix that hung high above no longer gave her merciful eyes; instead, it cast a judgmental stare. The statues next to the basket of offerings began to cry wax tears, while the statue of Mary was bleeding, leaving trails of red oil as if it were real blood.
Madam LaLaurie stood serene amidst the commotion happening around her. Lifting her head, she moved her hand toward her chest to touch the very expensive brooch she always wore.
“They’re afraid of how powerful you will become,” she commented with maternal amusement.
“Oh, how easily they forget that saints were just sinners with better bedtime stories.”
Ophelia raised her head; her eyes were red with rage. She saw herself as diminutive; even if her voice crackled, she managed to answer with venomous taint.
“As if returning were a choice. I want him to feel what I feel, and that witch to burn. He is MINE, and so is my HUSBAND. Let the sins, spirits, or demons take me. Just once, let this be my prerogative — a gal’s right to choose.”
The chapel went dead with an eerie silence — the kind that shakes the ground and demands prayers for redemption.
One by one, the twelve Princesses began to leave, leaving a trail of laurel leaves, rose, and magnolia petals.
“As you wish — just remember, choices have consequences. What you reap is what you sow,” said Nina Mae McKinney, who was the karmic princess for the Great Law of Cause and Effect.
As the second princess was about to leave, she lifted her veil to look at Ophelia.
“Then, my child, you are no longer one of us, and we cannot protect or save you.”
Ophelia laughed hysterically as she stood up, placing her hands on her hips; she hissed, “I DON’T NEED YOU. I am my own savior.”
With devious intent, Delphine laughed, then offered her hand to seal the deal.
“Welcome home, Mireille.”
And the two walked hand in hand toward the Chapel steps.
Part 4 — The Magnolia Blood Pact: “Return to the Le Cœur Noir”
“Welcome home, Mirelle,” were Delphine’s last words to Ophelia before taking her to 1140 Royal Street, to her mansion where atrocities behind closed doors happened every night.
Ophelia could feel the tension, as she knew this was the house of hundreds of slaves dying, being tortured in the most atrocious ways. And this woman before her was a ghost, or some kind of paranormal entity, as she had heard from good sources that Delphine had died in Paris at the age of 62 on December 7, 1849, when Ophelia wasn’t even a thought in her mother’s womb.
After all, she was only a babe of 25.
Delphine led her up the stairs to the iron-gated balcony.
“We need the night as witness and the coos of the ravens to perform the ritual.
Step in, child, remove your mask, the façade is over; come onto the stage, you’ll be immortalized.”
A pentagram circle with candles, dead branches, salt, and other items appeared on the deck floor.
Ophelia stepped inside the circle completely barefoot. The floor hummed back her name:
“Ophelia… Ophelia, tonight you trade sorrow for adoration, humiliation for riches, and your face for hers.”
Delphine handed her a golden blade.
“Your offering — one drop is all I need.”
Without hesitation, Ophelia sliced her palm, squeezing the blood onto the circle; she began to chant.
“Tonight I trade my face for hers, my sorrow for adoration, and my humiliation for riches. Tonight I am a nymph, not a witch. Tonight I seduce, and I take what’s hers, as she has taken what is mine.”
The circle flared; the dead branches bloomed back to life, the dead petals changed color to vibrant red, the air changed its smell to hot chicory coffee and vanilla beignets.
When the ritual was completed, a black magnolia fully bloomed and appeared in her hands.
Delphine smiled.
“You wanted vengeance, my child? I will give you Shakespearean Theater, Thespian drama, all wrapped in Greek tragedy.”
She pressed her palm over Ophelia’s wound after slicing her own hand.
“Repeat after me.”
“Ophelia was a mortal fool.
Mirelle is eternal.
The Thespian Queen lives.”
The Smokey Le Cœur Noir
The ivories were smoking, accompanied by the forceful moan of the sax and the brass harmonies that woke up the nightly demons. Papa Legba had gotten himself a table, ’cause word around the vine was that tonight’s black magnolias were givin’ a show. And thus began the Lacanian dream of Ophelia’s madness.
Ophelia’s Lacan
In a smoky jazz hotel
Ophelia descends further
Into the illusion of idolatry
Ah, what a fool she’s been
Tricked by her alter ego Mirelle
Ophelia’s trapped by an eau de toilette
A borrowed scent
A coup d’état
Ahh, poor Ophelia
She weeps
As Delphine’s promise is fulfilled
LaLaurie gave her the world
And Mirelle took it
🕯️ Felt the pull? Let her haunt someone new.
If this chapter moved you, pass it on.
One soul. One shadow. One whisper.
Mylène remembers the ones who speak her name.
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