the time I escaped a serial killer in New Orleans.

(Okay, I don't actually know if he was a serial killer, but he sure seemed like one. But I bet I got your attention with that title!)

It was early spring 2009. I was mere months away from graduating college with English and Art History degrees, but with no clear idea of where was life is headed. Grad school for art history? Ehhhh, maybe. As I half-heartedly explored graduate school programs I could never afford, I quickly realized I was missing an integral piece of my resume:

The internship.

I had no intention to go directly from undergrad to graduate school (one of the few sensible decisions I made in my early twenties), so I decided I'd get a few internships at different art museums under my belt while I decided what path to take.

Museumwise, I decided to go big or go home. The first internship I applied for was at the New Orleans Museum of Art (NOMA). Never mind that I had no job and no place to live. I loved New Orleans deeply, and I wanted nothing more than to go back.

Beautiful NOMA.

I told my parents what I was planning. My parents were never in the business of smashing dreams, but they did steer me towards a more reasonable path. What if I applied for a summer internship in Denver? I could live with my aunt and uncle, get a job, and save money so I could afford a place in New Orleans in the fall.

So that's exactly what I did. I accepted an internship at the Denver Art Museum, moved to Denver for the summer, and worked my butt off at a fireworks stand and American Eagle Outfitters so I could save money for somewhere to live in New Orleans.

Shortly after I settled in at the Denver Art Museum, I began searching in earnest for New Orleans housing. I needed something super cheap just for four months (as I had secured my third and final internship that coming January at the Minneapolis Institute of Art), so where did I search?

Craigslist, of course.

I scoured Craigslist for something to my specifications. I needed it to be fairly close to the museum, as I was very VERY poor and could not afford much gas. (Did I mention all these internships were unpaid?) I also needed a place to park the car and for me to be able to move in early September. Not too much to ask, right?

I was at a clear disadvantage as I was searching from Denver. I couldn't tour a place before I got there. I couldn't check out the neighborhood to see if it was ok before committing. I didn't know anyone in New Orleans who could do that for me. I was most definitely taking my chances, and I knew it.

After reading countless ads and sending innumerable emails to potential landlords, I found (what I thought was) exactly what I wanted. It was a room in an enormous house with two other twentysomething women. The house was stunning: it had a newly remodeled kitchen and a massive pool in the backyard. It was in a gorgeous old New Orleans neighborhood, just a ten minute drive to the museum. It was available on a month-to-month basis, starting in September, for $400 a month. It checked every box.

The landlord's name was Tom, and he responded quickly to my every question. Yes, the neighborhood was safe. Yes, there was a place for my car. No, he did not live in the rental house: he lived in the newly remodeled house next door. No, he did not need a security deposit.

I arrived in New Orleans on September 6: the Sunday of Labor Day weekend 2009. I was 22 years old, 110 pounds, and lacking real world experience.

My new landlord was waiting outside to greet me. He shook my hand and introduced himself. My initial impression was he seemed like an ok guy: mid-forties, douchy shirt, the jeans with sparkly pockets. His vibe was a tad creepy, but nothing to worry about. After all, I would likely have very little interaction with him, except handing over the monthly rent check.

Tom helped me unload my car, and we hauled my belongings up to my new room. My room (and the rooms of my yet-unseen roommates) was on the upper level of the house, along with a bathroom the three of us would share. My room was lovely - not very big, but it had a nice closet, a giant soft bed, and a view of the pool.

After my car was unloaded, Tom gave me the tour of the house. I saw the same lovely kitchen and pool that I had seen in the photos from Craigslist, which was reassuring. The last stop on the tour was a darkened room with no door - just a beaded curtain covering the doorway.

"And this is my room," Tom said.

My blood went cold.

"I thought you lived next door?" I said, clearly shaken.

"Oh, that's the plan. I live here while I'm working on the house."

The house next door was nothing but a shell. From the front, it looked like a livable house. As I soon would see, the sides were open with nothing but framing. Tom most definitely did not live next door.

But what was I to do? It was late, and I needed a place to stay - I could most definitely not afford a hotel room. I was tired, and maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought. He's probably a totally harmless and decent guy. I'm overreacting.

When Tom offered to take me out to supper to celebrate my first night in New Orleans, I said yes.

We climbed into his giant black pickup and headed to a dark hole-in-the-wall a few minutes from the house. Tom claimed this place had the best po boys (a traditional New Orleans sandwich full of meat on French bread) in the city. I ordered a shrimp po boy and declined a drink (being wise enough to keep all my wits about me... and also not being able to afford anything but water), and Tom asked me about my life. I don't remember what all we talked about, but I do remember him asking me fairly early on if I had a boyfriend. I emphasized that I did, and we'd been together for two years (which seemed like a long time back then).

Upon arriving back at the house that night, Tom asked me if I wanted to watch a movie with him. I declined, citing my long drive and desire to unpack. I quickly hopped into my room, locking the door. I talked to both James and my parents, telling them the place seemed nice and all was well. No need to worry them right away.

The next day, I arose early to spend the day exploring New Orleans. As I crept downstairs to the kitchen, I found Tom sprawled out on the living room couch. "Oh good!" he said. "I was waiting for you." Tom wanted to know if he could take me around the French Quarter that day. I had not yet come to terms with the fact that it was ok to say no - I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I said yes.

Back in the truck we went. We headed to the French Quarter, which was the epicenter for Southern Decadence - New Orleans' Pride. Despite my misgivings about spending a day with Tom, I couldn't control the smile that spread across my face. This was so New Orleans: beautiful costumes, people of all walks of life celebrating, and pure joy radiating through the thick late summer air.

This is one of the few photos I took that day.

I was home.

Tom made some off-color comments about the parade participants, which I chose to ignore. He did suggest heading to one of the bars in the Quarter to meet one of my roommates, who worked as a bartender. I quickly agreed, hoping to make some kind of alliance with the other women who lived in this house.

French Quarter bars are known for their outrageous deals on drinks, and I think the special that day was something like 3-for-1 drinks. Tom ordered three beers, of which I partook none. He introduced me to my roommate, who was up to her elbows in drink orders and gave no shits about who I was. 

The next day was September 8, 2009. That was the day I began my internship at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Whenever I came home, Tom was waiting for me. Did I want to watch a movie? Should we grab lunch? How about taking a dip in the pool? He'll take me anywhere, so let's explore more of New Orleans. He would tap at my door late at night.

I started doing my absolute best to avoid Tom. I had to come in the front door, yes, but I learned to unlock the door almost silently. I even took off my shoes outside so I wouldn't make any footstep noises as I came in. I began buying nonperishable food I could eat in my room or buying something cheap I could eat in my car before I got back to the house. This was only three or four days after I had moved in.

By this time, I had filled my parents and James in about the weird goings-on.  I asked James (who is also using the same email address today as he was 11 years ago) to dig through his old emails from that time, and he had one dated September 9 that read this: "I hope I get to talk to you before I get back to my house tonight; I've got a couple of creepy landlord stories to tell you! You'll like them! Actually, you'll probably just be creeped out, but that's really what I meant."
  
James and my parents were all anxious for me to find a new place to live, but I couldn't afford to move. "I'll be fine," I told them. My sister was scheduled to graduate from basic training for the Air Force on September 11 in San Antonio. I planned to make the drive from New Orleans and meet my whole family there. If I could just talk to them in person, they would see I could make it through.

I almost never saw my roommates, who were both bartenders and worked nights and weekends. However, the night before I was supposed to make the drive to San Antonio, I found a note slipped under my door.

"Get out while you can," it read. "Tom is a creep who only rents to young girls. We are moving out too."

I went to bed that night petrified. "Get out while you can" was the scariest thing you could say to me at the time. I locked my door and left my lights on. I left for San Antonio early the next morning, before anyone in the house stirred. Tom soon noticed I was gone and began texting me, asking why I had left so early and when would I be back?

Arriving in San Antonio, I immediately spilled my guts to my parents. We were there for a long weekend, and when it was time for me to go back to New Orleans, my parents begged me not to go back to that house. I should stay in a hotel until I can find a new place. Don't go back there.

I didn't need to stay in a hotel room, I told them. I was already looking for places to live, and I would be fine until then.

(Looking back, I cannot imagine what Mom and Dad were thinking. Imagine if your 22-year-old daughter said those things to you. My parents probably thought they'd never see me again.)

Back in New Orleans, I resumed my housing search with a vengeance. I asked my new American Eagle coworkers and my new fellow interns if they had any leads on places to live, and BLESS THEIR HEARTS, many of them offered me rooms in their own homes. I dug through my old emails (yes, I am using the same email address now as I was eleven years ago) to see if I could find any semblance of a paper trail from this time in my life. I did find many desperate emailed answers to Craiglist postings from the first few weeks I lived in Tom's house, all reading something like this:

"Hi! My name is Calla, and I'm a 22 year old intern at the New Orleans Museum of Art, and I also work part-time at American Eagle Outfitters. I moved to New Orleans from South Dakota right after Labor Day, but my current living situation isn't working out like I had hoped. Your place sounds great - however, I will only be living in the area until the end of December; would that be a problem? If you have any questions, feel free to email me (which is the best way to reach me) or call me at (cell phone number). Thanks!"

I sent the first email on September 9: three days after I had arrived in New Orleans. The last Craigslist email was dated September 16. James found an email from me dated September 17 that said "I have a landlord story for you! I still have to go over there again sometime soon - I got all my clothes (and grandma cookies!), but I still have food in the refrigerator and freezer that I need to get. Other than that, I'm freeeeee!!!!!"

Alas, I was too poor to just leave the food there. 

So all in all, it took me approximately a week to start and finish my search for a new place to live.








Of course, lots happened in that week's time.

When I returned from San Antonio, I could have SWORN my underwear had been pawed through. Obviously, I made myself even more scarce at Tom's house than I had before. Tom was on a constant lookout for me - I would dart up the stairs as I would see his head peek out of the beaded curtains. He knew something was up, because suddenly, he asked me for a security deposit. When I asked him why he suddenly needed one now when he had not in our initial agreement, he said it was "just to be sure." I put him off, saying I hadn't gotten paid from my work at American Eagle yet, so just hang on.

The truth was, I DID have enough money. And I had it from nothing short of a miracle. In my first days in New Orleans, I was panicking because I knew I couldn't afford to move out of Tom's house. I would have to come up with rent for somewhere else plus a security deposit, which was not at all likely. I considered just buying pepper spray and riding it out... until my dad called. My brother had been in a fender bender with my car. 

A little background: the car I had in New Orleans was a sturdy Mercury Sable my parents had purchased for my sister. Since I needed a reliable car for the 1300 mile drive to New Orleans, I took the Sable. My sister was in basic training with no need for a car, after all. The car I left behind was my beloved little blue coupe, a Ford ZX2 five-speed manual. My brother Mitch had been in that car, sitting at a stop sign in Brookings when a distracted middle-aged woman backed into him. The insurance money had come, and it was $800. Did I want Dad to put that money in my checking account, or did I want to fix the dent in my car?

Obviously, I chose the cash. That $800 was my ticket out of Tom's house.

I had already begun to sneakily load things in my car so I could be ready to leave as soon as possible. I emailed James about it on September 15: "So I got some stuff put in my car today before I went to the museum - my landlord was around all morning (I was upstairs, but I heard him banging around downstairs), and then he came upstairs looking for Liz (the other roommate), and then I heard him leave! Yay! But he left maybe 10 minutes before I had to leave, so I didn't get everything put in the car, but I got some of it put in the car! That way, if he goes into my room, he won't see a pile of boxes sitting in the corner. When I get back tonight, I'm going to see about loading up some more stuff in the car... I'm going to stick as much stuff as I can in the trunk so that if he looks in my car window, there's not this whole big giant pile of stuff in there and he gets suspicious. This is all so complicated, James!"

After many frantic emails to Craigslist landlords and many dead-end tours, I found my match. This place was in Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans. My landlady was a single woman in her 40s who wasn't about to let a young thing like me remain in a decidedly dangerous situation. I visited her rental (which was literally a pool shed in her backyard... but that's a whole other blog story) and gave her the pro-rated rent for September and a security deposit. 

She said I could move in that night.

I left to pack the rest of my things, but not before she asked me if I wanted her to come with me. "I have a conceal and carry permit," she said, obviously not kidding.

I declined her offer and spent the next hour or so tiptoeing from my room to my car with my meager belongings in hand. I intended to only take the essentials and come back for the rest the following day. 

Tom caught me.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he followed me to my car, a tote full of clothes in my arms. 

"Oh, a new friend of mine from the museum offered to let me stay with her for a few days," I lied.

Tom persisted, but not before asking me the address of my friend's place. I told him I didn't know the address: I was meeting her at the museum and she would lead me there.

Finally, Tom acquiesced. As he went back inside, I got in the car and sped away. The rest of my things could wait.

The next day, I came back during the bright daylight hours to get the rest of my belongings. Tom (who claimed to be a contractor but NEVER worked) was there. He handed me a poorly-written letter, telling me he had "hoped for a friendship" but could see I was "not willing to make it work" and therefore me living there was no longer an option. 

So technically, I got evicted.

(To this day, Dad thinks I should have given my house key to an unruly homeless person. Honestly? I probably should have. Maybe Tom would have learned his lesson.)

I could not find any of the emails Tom and I exchanged while I was still living in Denver. If I could, you bet your ass I would have shared his full name and the address of that house. I have no idea what happened to him, but I never heard from him again. I hope he's not still out there, preying on helpless young twentysomethings who choose to believe in the good in people and take a stranger at face value.

That young twentysomething is now a not-quite-so-young thirtysomething who still loves New Orleans dearly and still believes in the good in people... but no longer has that kind of blind trust. And that may be just as well.