Oct

Rosegate, 1239 First Street, Garden District

By Tess

EDIT: This remains one of the most popular posts we have, and I thought readers might be interested in the Rice family tomb as well. Click here to see the beautiful stained glass tribute to the family.

I figured we’d start close to home today- this one is only a few blocks away from me (although I live on the wrong side of Magazine Street)- 1239 First Street, Rosegate, also known as the Anne Rice / Mayfair Witches house.

Plus, it can all be yours for a mere 4.5 mil.

Built in 1857 for wealthy merchant Albert Brevard, it cost $12,000- so it’s appreciated just a little bit since then. But he lived there only two years before shooting himself in front of the door when the tax assessment came in.

Since no one would buy it with such a history, the value dropped allowing his daughter to keep the house until 1869 when Reverend Clapp purchased it.

Clapp was friends with both Walt Whitman and Jefferson Davis who often came by to visit the Reverend’s extensive library and smoke their pipes in the best manly fashion.

Then came Pamela Starr, of which not much is known. She seems to have lived in the house for many years, ultimately dying in a fall down the stairs in 1929.

The house passed through several different owners, and was purchased in 1989 by Anne Rice and her husband Stan. She set her Mayfair witches books in the house, describing the halls, gardens and pool in great detail. She published its address and never made any attempt to hide where she lived and worked; as a result, it’s become one of the main attractions of Garden District tours.

Her husband Stan died of cancer in late 2002, and the writer moved out in 2004, first trying to live in the ‘burbs of Metairie before heading back out to San Francisco.

The house continues to have visitations from both Brevard and Starr. Evening photos taken in front of the house can have all sorts of strange effects, and the unfortunate Ms. Starr is seen wandering different parts of the house. Additionally, the smell of pipe smoke can sometimes be found wafting from the library, despite the fact that no one has been allowed to smoke in the house in years.

Incidentally, I had my own little experience at the house. Years ago, before we lived here, I had brought my sister to visit New Orleans, and we came out to the Garden District. Passing by 1239 First St, a little dog came up to the fence, wagging and generally trying to get some attention. Ann (my sister), a sucker for a fuzzy face, bent down to give a scritch.

Two seconds later the 10 foot high front door opened a crack and about half way down a tiny face poked out, hissing something. Anne’s (the writer) personal assistant quickly tossed his ciggie away guiltily, and lunged to snatch the dog away while the massive door slammed shut.

My sister fumed- “What the hell did she think I was going to do? Poison it? Hold it for ransom? Get over yourself, lady!”

I’d gotten a pic of her and the dog, though it’s indistinct since I was across the street. I only wish I could’ve caught one of the teeny tiny head in the great big door.