The Curse of a Single Red Rose (Haunted Hearts Series Book 7) by Denise Moncrief
Authors: Denise Moncrief
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as she verified her suspicion. Hurricane Betsy had roared through New Orleans one hundred years later on September 10, 1965.
She continued reading.
The residents of the French Quarter were shocked to learn that the body of a young woman had been discovered in the unused former servants’ quarters on the third floor of the establishment on the very day of its grand reopening. The owner of the hotel, Mr. Simon Wakefield, denied any knowledge of how the woman had gained entry into his hotel. The newspaper at that time reported that the body had not yet suffered significant decomposition, so it was concluded the woman had not been dead but a few hours when she was found. According to numerous anecdotal accounts of the story, a single red rose was clutched in her hand, and the curse of the red rose was born.
The narrative stopped there, as if any reader would already be aware of the curse.
So a dead woman had been found in the hotel one hundred years to the day before Delia DeCuir had died during Hurricane Betsy. Like she had told Collin, Elsa didn’t believe in coincidence.
She pushed the laptop off her chest and jumped from the bed. Her heart pounded as her eyes strayed to the single red rose in the vase on her nightstand. She snatched the flower from the glass and a thorn scratched her palm. The flower fell to the floor while she pressed her thumb on the fresh wound. How dare Les Wakefield attempt to play with her mind?
How long did she stand over the rose, staring down at it as if it were a venomous snake?
She plucked the flower from the floor, careful to avoid the prick of the thorns, rushed to the kitchen, and ground the rose in her garbage disposal. The water glugged down the drain until the pipes burped pieces of red petals back up before churning them back down again.
Fury surged through her, followed quickly by panic. Elsa leaned on the counter, sucking in huge gasps of breath. It was just a flower. Why was it freaking her out so badly? Maybe the fact that she’d just read about the curse imbued the flower with a sinister aura. Finding a reference in such an old volume added to the creepiness. The story had not only stayed alive through the years, but it had grown and thrived.
She’d scoffed when she’d first heard of the legend, choosing to ignore it as the ghost story of a creepy old woman, but the gifter in the restaurant had forced her to recall the incident.
The scene revived fresh in her memory. She’d been closing up the hotel when the old woman had appeared as if out of the shadows of the building next door. The woman’s first words had sent a shimmer of dread through her.
“If you stay here, the curse is gonna get you.” The old woman’s eyes glowed with mischief in the dark night.
Elsa jumped back and slapped her hand on her chest. “Oh. You startled me.”
She squinted at the woman in the moonlight. She seemed harmless enough, so Elsa attempted to move past her, but the old woman shot a thin-skinned, blue-veined hand out and grabbed her wrist.
“You should pay attention when you’re warned.”
Elsa tried to shake her hand off, but the woman’s grip grew strangely stronger the longer she held on.
The urge to get away shot through her nervous system with a jolt of adrenaline, yet curiosity glued her to the cement in front of the hotel.
She tried to shake off the fear. How dangerous could an old woman be? Maybe the woman just needed directions. Maybe she was senile and didn’t know where she was. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”
The woman cackled, and the sound of her derisive laughter chilled Elsa to the bone.
“You know I ain’t lost. Why are you pretending to be so dumb? You understand me. I’m telling you… You’re the one who’s lost.”
Elsa allowed a soft giggle to escape her. “I’m not lost, lady. I know right where I am.” She pointed toward the building. “I’ve been here all day.” She had spent the whole day in the hotel absorbing the atmosphere and
She continued reading.
The residents of the French Quarter were shocked to learn that the body of a young woman had been discovered in the unused former servants’ quarters on the third floor of the establishment on the very day of its grand reopening. The owner of the hotel, Mr. Simon Wakefield, denied any knowledge of how the woman had gained entry into his hotel. The newspaper at that time reported that the body had not yet suffered significant decomposition, so it was concluded the woman had not been dead but a few hours when she was found. According to numerous anecdotal accounts of the story, a single red rose was clutched in her hand, and the curse of the red rose was born.
The narrative stopped there, as if any reader would already be aware of the curse.
So a dead woman had been found in the hotel one hundred years to the day before Delia DeCuir had died during Hurricane Betsy. Like she had told Collin, Elsa didn’t believe in coincidence.
She pushed the laptop off her chest and jumped from the bed. Her heart pounded as her eyes strayed to the single red rose in the vase on her nightstand. She snatched the flower from the glass and a thorn scratched her palm. The flower fell to the floor while she pressed her thumb on the fresh wound. How dare Les Wakefield attempt to play with her mind?
How long did she stand over the rose, staring down at it as if it were a venomous snake?
She plucked the flower from the floor, careful to avoid the prick of the thorns, rushed to the kitchen, and ground the rose in her garbage disposal. The water glugged down the drain until the pipes burped pieces of red petals back up before churning them back down again.
Fury surged through her, followed quickly by panic. Elsa leaned on the counter, sucking in huge gasps of breath. It was just a flower. Why was it freaking her out so badly? Maybe the fact that she’d just read about the curse imbued the flower with a sinister aura. Finding a reference in such an old volume added to the creepiness. The story had not only stayed alive through the years, but it had grown and thrived.
She’d scoffed when she’d first heard of the legend, choosing to ignore it as the ghost story of a creepy old woman, but the gifter in the restaurant had forced her to recall the incident.
The scene revived fresh in her memory. She’d been closing up the hotel when the old woman had appeared as if out of the shadows of the building next door. The woman’s first words had sent a shimmer of dread through her.
“If you stay here, the curse is gonna get you.” The old woman’s eyes glowed with mischief in the dark night.
Elsa jumped back and slapped her hand on her chest. “Oh. You startled me.”
She squinted at the woman in the moonlight. She seemed harmless enough, so Elsa attempted to move past her, but the old woman shot a thin-skinned, blue-veined hand out and grabbed her wrist.
“You should pay attention when you’re warned.”
Elsa tried to shake her hand off, but the woman’s grip grew strangely stronger the longer she held on.
The urge to get away shot through her nervous system with a jolt of adrenaline, yet curiosity glued her to the cement in front of the hotel.
She tried to shake off the fear. How dangerous could an old woman be? Maybe the woman just needed directions. Maybe she was senile and didn’t know where she was. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”
The woman cackled, and the sound of her derisive laughter chilled Elsa to the bone.
“You know I ain’t lost. Why are you pretending to be so dumb? You understand me. I’m telling you… You’re the one who’s lost.”
Elsa allowed a soft giggle to escape her. “I’m not lost, lady. I know right where I am.” She pointed toward the building. “I’ve been here all day.” She had spent the whole day in the hotel absorbing the atmosphere and
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