In the seventies, a certain completely
off-kilter segment of Northeast Memphis' adolescent male
population somehow felt that a trip to Shelby County's own
little piece of Haiti was an absolute rite of adult
passage. The city’s small slice of perceived Caribbean evil
was known as St Paul's Spiritual Temple by its members but
for most Memphians it was referred to simply as "Voodoo
Village". This story was written to provide information
about a little known religious shrine that has existed
largely unnoticed for years in impoverished southwest Shelby
County. It was also written to encourage today's adolescent
males to respect the privacy of these individuals and their
beliefs. According to the latest FBI Uniform Crime
Statistics, Memphis is one of the most violent metropolitan
areas in the United States and the temple is not located in
the most affluent of neighborhoods. This fact should weigh
heavy upon anyone not familiar with the metropolitan Memphis
area and its gun-crazed inhabitants.
For some totally insane reason that
currently escapes me, I was always fascinated by the stories
about the strange happenings that occurred at mystery-laden
Voodoo Village. For years, I had heard of strange cauldrons
boiling atop midnight bonfires, bizarre rituals performed by
voodoo-crazed parishioners and sacrificed dead animals
swinging morbidly from the limbs of trees. As an attempted
warning, I had been informed by a policeman at church of the
horrid tales of shotgun wielding fanatics, machete swinging
maniacs and a ghastly gang-rape that took place on the
street in the early seventies. Obviously, this was not a
place for the feint of heart or the weak of spirit.
As an indestructible 18 year-old that
ignored both law enforcement warnings and common sense, I
felt compelled to investigate Voodoo Village. One Sunday
night in September 1976, I decided to stage my own
expedition to find this local temple of purported evil
incarnate and witness its shrouded activities. Ironically,
this expedition started after my attendance at two hours of
Methodist Youth Fellowship and one hour of Sunday Night
Church. Long-time neighborhood friends Keith Plunk and
Keith Shook would accompany me on the adventure.
The three of us began our journey from
the St. Stephen United Methodist Church parking lot at about
8:00 pm. I drove my parents 1971 Buick Electra 225, which
weighed roughly 4,700 pounds and was equipped with a 455
cubic inch V-8 engine. We had a general idea about where
the compound was located but none of the stories about
Voodoo Village ever included the actual street name. It
seemed like every teenage male in our neighborhood had been
to Voodoo Village but none of them could actually tell us
where it was located.
We drove for hours in the quite dodgy,
poverty stricken Southwest Memphis area in a vain search for
the elusive occult compound. Somewhere around 2:00 am, I
finally asked a man walking down Highway 61, where the
alleged street of horror was located. He wasn’t familiar
with the name Voodoo Village but he said he knew of a place
that matched our description that was referred to as “Simba
Village”. The helpful citizen gave us directions and off we
headed to our destination.
Upon our arrival at the totally dark,
dead-end street harmlessly named Mary Angela Drive, we felt
like urban explorer versions of Christopher Columbus or Neil
Armstrong. Soon the three of us gazed in jaw-dropping awe
at the bizarre décor and strange appearance of the Voodoo
Village compound. Prominent was the fabled outhouse of
spikes along with a large windmill-type structure. There was
as an inordinate number of brightly-colored symbols mounted
on poles throughout the compound and a few objects that
could only be termed as yard-art curiosities. The most
numerous symbols that seemed to dominate the compound were
stars, sunbursts and half moons. A few of the objects were
definitely Masonic in origin but there was also a slight
design nod toward Mecca as well.
The only person we saw on our brief
excursion was a gentleman at the end of the street that was
wearing headgear that somewhat resembled an upside down pair
of pants. Whether this was a practitioner sporting a
spiritual headdress or simply an anxious man escaping from
an enraged husband was never established. There were very
few houses located along the desolate, dead-end street. The
majority of the houses looked to be vacant and abandoned.
The next day, we were treated as heroic
adventurers at school. Unfortunately, we had no tales of
horror or mayhem to provide our curious classmates. The
important thing for the three of us was that we had
completed our self-ascribed rite of passage. We were now
minor legends in Northeast Memphis teenage lore. Unlike the
vague, fabricated stories of others, we had actually driven
the cursed street and most importantly, survived our
journey.
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