Warning: the following post contains photos of a murder scene and descriptions of violence/sexual assault. The story is graphic and may be disturbing. Carry on at your own risk. 

When I cemented my plans to go to New Orleans, I could not stop thinking about a true crime story that I once read, one that was nearly 20 years old. The case of Zack Bowen and Addie Hall. Lovers who rode hurricane Katrina out together that ended in unspeakable tragedy. Zack, a Kosovo and Iraqi war veteran, was thought (but it was never diagnosed) to have PTSD that played a role in what he would inevitably do to Addie: he strangled her in their North Rampart street apartment, sexually violated her dead body, and then methodically dismembered her. Her remains sat in the Rampart street apartment for nearly 2 weeks – her head in a pot, her feet and hands in a pot, all having been boiled, her legs cooking in the oven, and her torso in the fridge. During this time, Zack would then spend that nearly 2 weeks on mega benders, at strip clubs, and doing drugs before he inevitably took his own life by jumping onto the parking garage of the Omni because of what he had done to Addie – a life for the one he took, he wrote in his suicide note – leaving behind two young children and questions that will never be answered. 

Heavy, right? Here’s a look at the two in their glory days, right after Katrina hit and they lived in the shangri la of no responsibilities.

So when I found out that you could tour the actual apartment where the carnage happened, well, of course I decided that I had to go. I love true crime, it seemed like the ultimate excursion. And looking back, no, I do not regret that I went. But I want to share my experience for anyone who may venture to make the same decision that I did and visit.

I have never seen a ghost or even felt a presence at any time in my life – I didn’t even know if i was a believer in that type of thing. But when I climbed the 200 year old staircase to the upstairs apartment on North Rampart – completely alone – where the terror began and ended, I was so overcome that I could not breathe. The closer I approached, the sicker and more emotionally burdened I felt. 

Tyler chose not to enter the apartment (a common choice, the museum guide told us at the end) and instead waited for me on the first landing of the stairs. I kept looking back to him and whimpering with each forward progression on the stairs. When I opened the door, it was small, dark. A mannequin stood in the open room that provided a jump scare that really wasn’t necessary in my state. With hand outstretched I entered what I immediately saw was the kitchen. The oppressive feeling that I felt in that small space felt like someone had me by the shoulders as tightly as they possibly could, pushing me into the earth, while simultaneously restricting my breathing to the point where I found myself panting, even gagging at one point. I immediately made an offering to the couple, leaving some money on the eye of the stove where a majority of Addie’s body parts cooked and sat for nearly two weeks. I am told these are the same appliances that Zack utilized, and they radiate hell, plain and simple. I slipped my way through the rest of the small kitchen and made my way into the bathroom, staring into the bathtub where Addie was dismembered. I stayed in the apartment for as long as I physically could handle the emotions, which was less than 10 minutes. In the bedroom area of the apartment, a haunted doll nursery greets you. Not one to be afraid of creepy dolls, I felt tears pressing behind my eyes, and I immediately began to pray that whatever presence, if any, would please let me exit safely. 

Here are some photos from my experience, including some proof of existence selfies. Please do not mistake those for poor taste; I simply wanted to photograph myself where I was to properly document my experience. 

When I left the apartment and began to make my descent back down to where Tyler was waiting, I was visibly shaken, according to him. He had to talk me down the stairs one foot at a time because I felt lightheaded and was clammy and dizzy. We stepped into the adjacent séance room downstairs, where I took a seat in front of the crystal ball and tried to catch my breath and regain some strength. My hands were shaking so badly that it felt painful. We toured the rest of the museum but I felt nearly blind to it, still rattled from the remnants of the massacre that took place just up the stairs. We spent some time in the truly lovely courtyard before I was able to calm down enough to leave the property.

Do I think that the spirits of Zack Bowen and Addie Hall were in that apartment? Yes, in someway I do. Again, I have never been a firm believer: but something happened to me up there, someone wanted me to know. There is a malevolence there, an anger that I have never experienced in my life. I feel like I could’ve easily gone crazy if I had stayed much longer. I think that a visit up those stairs requires careful thought and utmost respect, because I believe that someone, be it Addie, Zack, or the both of them, is watching and is very protective of this space. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel anything like that again, and to be quite honest, I’m not sure if I want to. 

Over on Gov. Nicholls, I found the house that the two actually rode out the storm in. This is where all of the famous photos of the two then lovers were taken and published, making them the face of those who stayed put. Contrary to popular belief, many people think they rode out the storm on Rampart, but they were only in that attic apartment for around 5 days. Gov. Nicholls was where the majority of their love story had taken place. 

I briefly sat where Zack sat on the front stoop and touched a hand to where Addie had been, whispering prayers of peace. I felt chilled and uneasy, but nothing like what I felt in the attic apartment. Just sorrow, and bewilderment. 

Lastly, on our way out of town, we pulled over so I could pray at the house and ask the two to please not follow me home and prayed for both my own peace and the peace of Zack and Addie. This is a picture of the house, and me with the house. We drove away and didn’t look back. 

Zack and Addie did follow me home, though. And a part of them will always be here with me. A story so terrible and violent is something you don’t forget, and I know I certainly won’t. I will never forget what happened to my body and mind in that apartment. In the meantime, I have plans to visit Addie’s grave in North Carolina in July, and will update about that experience after it happens. 

I’ve wondered many times why this case in particular has struck such a chord with me, but I can’t say. Perhaps it’s the notion that disaster followed disaster? That none of us really know each other? The tenuousness of a breaking point? I don’t know. Maybe everything is just a little spookier in New Orleans.