Haunted Savannah

Chapter Two: The Wench's Den

The interior of The Wench’s Den was a two story building, the lower half of which was faced with red brick while the upper half was clad in the original wide planking, which legend had came from the wreckage of the ships who Madame Pomme helped defeat. While the interior did retain some of its original coquina shell cement walls, it had been thoroughly renovated for modern day patrons of the non-piratical variety with blessed central air conditioning and moody electric lighting - pierced sconces and a grand, central chandelier fit with vintage-look Edison bulbs that intentionally flickered.

Savannah took a deep breath, glad for a respite from the heat, as she followed the tour group into the tavern. Her friend, Marina, was manning the hostess station, and waved cheerily at the sight of her. Marina was beautiful, buxom and blonde, with a generous southern twang that made her an instant hit with most patrons. 

Savannah wasn’t the jealous type, which is why they got along. When she saw the reaction some of the other female students had to Marina, Savannah had made a special point of getting to know her before passing judgement. That decision had paid off; Marina was not only a genuine friend, but far more talented an artist than anyone was willing to give her credit for. 

“I thought this landlubbin’ bunch must be some of yours!” the hostess said, smiling warmly at Savannah and her tour group. “Welcome, ghost hunters, to the Wench’s Den.”

“This way, everyone.” Savannah said, stepping to the head of the group. She led her group up a grand red-carpeted dark wood staircase with a carved post cap that featured a bare chested mermaid. Once on the second floor, which had been opened up so that it looked down on the main floor below, they had a sweeping view of the floor - which was elaborately tiled in a mosaic of ocean waves and various sea creatures, along with a magnificent black-sailed ship.

“The Wench’s Den was originally built in the mid 1750s, and was intended to form part of a nunnery. When a fire ravaged the city and burnt out most of the main floor, all that was left was the coquina cement walls, and the wood cladding that we saw on exterior of the second floor,” Savannah pronounced, running a hand over a section of the coquina cement wall behind them. “After that, the lot and the burnt out shell of the building was sold for a song to Madame Pomme, who rebuilt and established the first saloon in Georgia. Even though much of the building was destroyed in the fire, it is still considered one of the oldest standing structures in the state.”

“So is it the nuns who haunt the building then? There must have been some nuns who died in the fire,” one of the plump, blue-haired tourists. She seemed rather ecstatic at the thought of creepy ghost nuns who died in a terrible fire. Savannah wondered what the nuns must have done to her to make her react so gleefully to their untimely demise, but decided it would be best not to ask. Her tips depended on maintaining decorum.

“It is said that some of the nuns can be seen in the gardens, trying to continue where they left off. But, the ghosts of the nuns don’t appear as often as the ghosts of the many sailors who fell afoul of Madame Pomme and her girls.” the tour guide said, turning up the drama in her voice. “Madame Pomme was known for shanghai-ing men who failed to pay their debts to the Den, selling them to passing pirate ships to bolster their crews. It’s said that the ghosts of the men who died at sea after being kidnapped by Madame Pomme return to the Den and try to frighten away unwitting patrons.”

Savannah spent a little more time expounding on the various decorative details and renovations that had been made to the building, before taking the group back down the stairs where Marina was waiting for them.

“You guys are in for a real treat now, something that not every tour group gets the chance to get a gander at.” Savannah said, when Marina gave her the nod to let her know they’d be able to take a look at the tunnels today. “Marina here is going to let you guys take a quick peek into the secret tunnels beneath the restaurant - which were used for smuggling not only during the colonial period, but also during the civil war and again during the prohibition era.”

Marina beamed, and motioned for the group to follow her. “This way everyone.”

Savannah smiled as the group filed past her, but before he could scoot by, she reached out and yoinked Cory back by his shirt sleeve.

“Just a second, you.” she hissed, voice low and dangerous. Well, her best approximation of dangerous anyway; to everyone else she probably just sounded like she was pouting. It was one of the disadvantages of being small, cute, and having an naive demeanor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Savannah whispered, dragging him to a corner so that they weren’t blocking the staircase. When Cory looked down at her, his placid expression only made her more infuriated. “The people on this tour are paying customers. Don’t you know it’s wrong to tag along when you’re not?”

“Sorry. I thought you wouldn’t mind.” Cory replied, rubbing the back of his head. He looked vaguely apologetic as he ruffled up his thick, wavy hair. Savannah probably would have been mollified by this reaction, had he not continued, “I was just checking out the route, since I’m starting tomorrow, and when you showed up I thought it would be good to see how you do things...”

“The ...what?” Savannah said, her mouth opening and closing a few times, like a fish. Finally, she sputtered, rather more loudly than intended, “You have got to be kidding me. Did you really get a job with Savannah Streets?!”

She couldn’t believe it. It was hard enough seeing him in passing, did she have to work with him too? 

Cory looked down, frowning a bit. He looked sad; guilty even as he removed his glasses and wiped them off on the bottom of his shirt. “Sorry. I can quit if you want.”

She took a deep breath, holding it a moment before releasing it. Tours were usually solitary, so this wasn’t that big of a deal, and it’s not like it was his fault that he looked like his brother.

“No...don’t do that. I’m being unfair.” Savannah said, her voice a little stilted. “Er, I need to catch up to the others.”

Savannah walked quickly away, refusing to embarrass herself further by literally running away from the morose hipster, and quickly caught up to the tour group, who were just finishing up their round of photos of the creepy, dank subterranean passages.

Trying to maintain her professionalism, Savannah plastered a smile on her face for the remainder of the tour, which eventually eased into a genuine one as their journey progressed through the city. This was helped along by Cory’s wise decision to fade into the background and keep his mouth shut. It was something that came natural to him, and by the time they got to their last stop - Spoon River Sweets, an alcoholic ice cream shop - she’d nearly forgotten that he was there at all.

She rarely drank with the tourists, but as this was their last stop, and she was technically off the clock, she decided to let them buy her a few rounds. She sat at a small outdoor patio table with the blue haired old lady, Betty, who hated nuns. Betty had attended the tour on her own, and was glad for a bit of company. This worked for Savannah, as she enjoyed getting to play the part of an attentive audience rather than that of storyteller. She let the sweet little old lady regale her with horror stories of life in a Catholic boarding school, and was three boozy floats and one drunken sundae in before she realized the old lady had gotten her well and truly trashed.

Savannah was sure that Betty had just as much as she did, but the old lady seemed completely unaffected, and stood easily after checking her watch and realizing the time.

“Well, now, I think it’s past my bedtime young lady. But, thank you for humoring me. You can get home safely, right?” Betty asked, giving Savannah a sharp look, her glasses flashing a bit as she peered down her nose at the tour guide.

“Ah, yeah…” Savannah said, shaking her head a bit to clear it. “I can call for a ride. Don’t worry about me, Ms. Betty.” 

She waved at Ms. Betty, who skittered away faster than she thought an old lady ought to be able to move, and leaned back in her chair a bit as the world swirled around her unnervingly. Savannah swallowed a bit, and closed her eyes, and opened them again when she heard a glass thunk onto the table in front of her.

“I thought you might need this,” a familiar deep, but fashionably unconcerned voice said.

It was Cory, of course. The glass he’d set in front of her was full of clear liquid, which turned out to be water, but she picked it up and sniffed it cautiously before she drank anyways. If he was offended at her suspicion, he didn’t show it. 

“If you’re done now, I’ll give you a ride home. If you know where home is, anyway.” he said in a monotone, flat way. Savannah eyed him a bit, lifting a single eyebrow at him. She thought she detected a joke and a frisson of concern under his visage of nonchalance; but maybe he wasn’t trying to be nonchalant. Maybe he really was just this bad at expressing himself.

“I’m not that drunk. I just drank a bit too musch on an empty stomach.” Savannah said slowly so that she didn’t slur too obviously.

“So, you don’t want a ride then?” Cory asked, eyeing her and lifting his own eyebrow in response.

Savannah paused a moment, setting her now empty water glass down. She stood - or tried to - and stumbled a bit over her own long, spindly legs. Cory grabbed her at the elbows to steady her, and let go for a moment before taking her elbow again when she wobbled unsteadily. 

“I think a ride would be good. Thanksh.” Savannah said, having enough sense to know she wasn’t going to get very far on her own.