Haunted Savannah

Chapter Eleven: The Kerfuffle

Cory had been in the middle of embellishing one of the civil war-era ghosts said to haunt the former hospital, now returned to its original purpose as a hotel, when the blonde woman suddenly shouted. Savannah looked up from her phone, startled, and fixed her eyes on the supposed psychic just in time to see her go stiff as a board, mouth open as she gave a gurgling moan.

What happened next seemed, to Savannah, to be happening in slow motion.

The woman teetered back on her heels. One of her assistants rushed forward to catch her, but was far too thin to support the weight of her stout psychic on her own. The woman’s feet began sliding from under her, her sandals unable to grip the slick surface of the marble tiles. Cory lunged forward, trying to grab her, but was too late. 

Realizing that she was not going to swoon easily to the ground, as originally planned, the woman flailed wildly and slapped away Cory’s outstretched hands. She collapsed to the ground in a heap of black lace, clanging bangles, and blonde ambition. Her yelp as rump met the hard marble floor with a painful crack echoed through the wide lobby so that hotel guests and tourists alike couldn’t help but take notice.

Savannah grimaced as time returned to its normal flow, and several people rushed forward to check on the fallen psychic. With all the focus now on her, she could almost see the moment in the woman’s eyes when she decided to push past the pain and continue with her little show. She brought a hand to her forehead, eyes rolling back so that only the whites showed, as she yipped and moaned.

Her assistant, the one who had not tried to catch her, picked up on the change immediately. 

She knelt down beside the psychic, and said, “What is it Madame? What do you see?”

One of the tourists who was armed with a camera decided this to be a prime picture taking opportunity, and circled around the psychic and her cohorts, camera flashing away as Madame Moira raised a quavering hand and pointed vaguely upward.

“I can hear them, whispering…!” Madame said, her voice growing shrill before bottoming out into a deep, raspy alto. She tilted her face to and fro, ensuring that all the lookie loos could see the whites of them, before closing them. When she opened her eyes again, they were returned to their normal state - brown and blood shot.

“HE wants desperately to be freed from this place.” the psychic continued, putting an emphasis on the word ‘they’ like one who had experience pronouncing words in all caps. “Please, something must be done to help him move on!”

Savannah’s palm moved up to her face as her eyebrows knit together in exasperation. Cory, however, took a knee before taking one of the psychic’s hands in his.

“Madame Moira,” Cory said, his voice calm as the grave. “What do you suggest?”

Savannah’s hand dropped along with her jaw as she stared at Cory, though he was not paying her any mind. Was he humoring this woman? He definitely was. But, well, what else could he do?

“A smoke cleanse.” Madame replied, her voice returning to its usual high and frivolous tone. “I’m sure I have a smudge stick in my purse, here…”

Before the old fraud could withdraw the stick-shaped bundle of fragrant herbs from her purse, Cory nodded and said, “I’m sure that the hotel has their own supply, being such a hot spot for restless spirits. Why don’t you tell me where you sense the spirit’s presence, and I’ll let the manager know so that they can take care of it?”

Madame Moira’s lips pursed into the same sour expression she’d worn when Savannah had stymied her earlier. “Nevermind that. The ghost has gone now. We will have to attempt a cleansing when it re-emerges.”

“Well, we have a pretty tight schedule this evening, but if the spirit should reappear I’m sure we’re all for it now.” Cory said as he got to his feet and brushed himself off. 

He then offered a  hand to Madame Moira, who huffed a bit as she let him pull her up to her feet. For a brief moment, Cory met Savannah’s eyes and gave her a wink. Savannah snorted, and brought a hand up to muffle the laugh that threatened to spill out of her. 

“That was pretty exciting, wasn’t it folks?” Cory said to the group, who were moving in close now that the scene seemed to have played itself out.  “Thank you for joining us tonight, Madame Moira. It’s fascinating having a real psychic with us, and I’m sure your insights into any ghosts we encounter will prove invaluable. But, now I think we ought to move on to the most haunted room in the Marshall House Hotel...the surgery.”

The rest of the tour went smoothly, especially after they went to their next stop - a pub - and the tourist who fancied himself a photographer shared some of the shots he got of Madame Moira’s fainting spell with the group. They weren’t the most amazing photographs that Savannah had ever seen, but the man had an excellent camera and he managed to frame a few of the shots in interesting ways.

At the end of the night, the group came full circle, returning to the corner Abercorn and Jones where they’d started two hours earlier. They’d visited the Marshall House Hotel, a couple pubs, a church and even the city cemetery - which was especially creepy when fog started rolling in. The last of their little group departed, and the ghost guides were pleasantly surprised by the larger than usual tips they received - none of which came from Madame Moira.

“No, no...it’s all yours,” Savannah said, when Cory offered to split the tips with her. “I didn’t even do anything, you pretty much ran the show all on your own.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t have done it without your notes,” Cory replied, shrugging. “I’d ask if you want to go for drinks, but I’ve taken up a lot of your time today already.”

At the mention of drinks, Savannah perked up a bit. “Oh! Hey, that’s a thought… how do you feel about pubs and trivia?”

“I like both.” Cory replied easily, giving Savannah his usual lopsided smile. Savannah felt her heart skip a beat at this.

“Great! Meet me on Friday at the El Rocko Lounge at seven.” Savannah said, letting the thudding in her chest come out as excitement in her voice. “Our trivia team really needs a pop culture comic book-type nerd to bolster the ranks.”

Cory lifted an eyebrow at this, “You think I’m just a comic book nerd? I assure you, I am knowledgeable about a wide variety of topics in the realm of pop culture.”

“Then with your help the Memellennial Falcons shall vanquish the competition once again.” Savannah said, smiling wide, dreams of winning the whole shebang and gaining the grand prize of free beer for a year dancing through her head.

“Memellennial Falcons?” Cory said, barking a laugh. “Wow, that’s...that’s definitely a name.”

“What? You think you can do better?” Savannah snorted, taking on an expression of faux offense.

“No, no… it’s a great name, really.” Cory said, lifting up his hands to relent, though the glint in his eye and the slight smirk on his lips still hinted at further mockery lurking just under his breath.

Savannah’s expression softened at this show of surrender, replaced by a smile as she laughed lightly. “It is pretty bad, isn’t it? But, well, we’re stuck with it now. I guess you’d better get used to it if you want to play with us.”

“I think I can do that.” Cory said, rubbing the back of his head a bit. “Even though I now have to question your sense of humor. Were you really best friends with my brother? He would be horrified to know how much you like puns.”

Savannah looked down, her mouth going a little dry at the mention of Shane. “Yeah… he always said puns were the lowest form of humor.”

“Yeah…” Cory said as he realized that this comment, reference as it was to a comment Savannah herself had made to him, killed the mood. She shifted a bit from foot to foot, and he continued, “I should probably get going.”

“Me too. I’ll see you later, then.” Savannah said, swallowing a bit as she turned away, her stomach churning with an odd mix of tenderness and guilt. She wondered briefly how Shane would feel knowing that she was spending more time with his brother, but pushed that thought aside. Did it really matter how he would feel about it? Shouldn’t it matter more how she felt about it? 

How did she feel about it?

The streets of downtown Savannah revealed themselves to the red haired ghost guide as she slowly pedalled her pink mountain bike down the mostly empty streets, making her way carefully through the thick fog that swirled as she rolled past. The gas lamps did little to drive the fog away, instead causing the misty air to glow an uncanny yellow.

She skirted along the outer edge of the parks, not daring to cut through the inner paths even though that would cut a few minutes off of her trip. She wasn’t sure if it was the fog, or if the weather really was turning toward autumn, but a chill ran through her as she pulled on to Park Avenue.

She looked around as she crossed to the other side of the road, but could see no one nearby. That didn’t mean that there was no one there of course; the fog was so thick that she could hardly see six feet in front of her, and the lights actually made it harder to see rather than easier. 

Savannah had always felt the city took on a malignant air whenever the fog descended, but had so far encountered none of the threats her mind imagined it might contain. Even so, she pedalled faster, the wind pushing back against her as the bicycle whizzed forward. Soon, she pulled into the gravel lane where her apartment stood, and hiked the bike up the few steps to her door.

She fumbled in her purse, trying to find her keys, and flinched when she heard the sound of a loud crack - though it was several blocks over. It was probably a firework, though in the city it could just as easily have been a gunshot. Actually, it probably was a gunshot now that she thought about it; ‘Gunfire or Fireworks?’ was a game for New Years or July the 4th. It was only October.

Savannah slitted her key into the keyhole, turned the knob and hauled herself and her bike into the apartment, shutting the door as soon as they were both inside. She knew she was being paranoid, and took a few deep breaths as she flicked the lock on the door handle. As she secured the deadbolt, her doorbell gave a loud, discordant ring. 

When Savannah peered out through the slats of her blinds, just in case, there was nothing to see but shadows and subtly undulating mist.