There was no prize on the line, only pride, but that was more than enough. René was given a GoPro camera, a mildly drunken sendoff and a strict ultimatum not to leave before sunup. The bet was simple: spend the night in the Fontenot house. He made the mistake of saying so to a group of friends one night, and was challenged to put his money where his mouth was. He had spent all of his seventeen years of life in New Orleans, and although he was not so bold as to disbelieve all of the stories of the city, he certainly felt that many of them were simple tales to lure tourists. Why else would there be stories about it if it wasn’t true? But they knew someone who knew someone who had, and anyway, there was no reason to believe that it wasn’t haunted. They hadn’t personally seen the flickering lights in the windows at night, or felt the unnatural warmth in the walls, or heard the sounds of a faraway gathering. As was so often the case, no one telling the story had actually seen any strange goings-ons at the house themselves. No one knew which Fontenots the house had belonged to. It was a small, unremarkable place, just one four-room shotgun shack among many. One of those ways was the Fontenot house. That sort of force can interact with the world in strange ways. There’s something about the city that gives everything an extra spark. Things have a way of coming back from beyond.
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