Haunted Savannah

Chapter One: The Stalker

Savannah was a city haunted.

There were new haunts, where current students made their first forays into what they thought of as adulthood with people they barely knew, and some who they never really would know very well - their tenuous connection secured only by the need to talk while getting wasted.

There were old haunts, where former University students reunited with their few friends who they managed to keep in touch with, in order to recall the good times before graduation, when their greatest worry was whether or not they would finish their projects by their due date.

All haunts were at once both new and old in the long continuous loop of time; they felt old to the people who knew them well, and would become old haunts for the numerous young people who came through the city on their way to adulthood. Some would fade, becoming nothing more than a memory in the minds of people those who frequented them, tinged with a sweet nostalgia that only time could lend. When those people were gone there would be nothing left of them. But, others would remain, and in the fullness of time take on a legendary cast of their own.

Those were the truly old haunts. Or, perhaps, olde haunts. The kind that jauntily dressed tour guides expounded dramatically about - churches and graveyards, crumbling buildings left to the ravages of time and disuse, and the rumored catacombs that lurked beneath the otherwise charming city streets, over which massive live oaks arched, gray spanish moss swaying in the gentle breeze.

In a way, these haunts lended both vitality and gravitas to a city whose genteel modern perception belied a checkered history that all but the stuffiest of historians were loath to revisit. Whether it was by the spectre of slavery, piracy, poor life choices made by hipster artists, or some combination of al three, Savannah was a city haunted.

In the city of Savannah, there also lived a young woman named Savannah, and Savannah was a woman haunted - though she didn’t yet know it.

After all, she didn’t believe in ghosts.

One might think that believing in ghosts was a requirement for a ghost tour guide. But, in her humble opinion as a tenured ghost tour guide with Savannah Streets, having been in her position for three months, there were far more important requirements. 

For example, being able to hold your liquor seemed to be very important - at least to the patrons who were always trying to get her to drink with them during the ghostly pub crawls. It also seemed important to have a quick tongue and mind to match, as it would be difficult to ward off hecklers otherwise. Third, you always had to be aware of your surroundings.

It was this third one that always gave Savannah trouble. She would get so wrapped up in her story that she missed one important detail or another. As now, when she was walking backward, motioning to the  building they were coming up on - The Wench’s Den, a popular river side restaurant that was supposedly haunted.

It was early in the evening, and the sun had blessedly been covered by clouds most of the day, making for a less suffocating time on the tour. It was only vaguely sticky outside, but with a light breeze to help alleviate the high humidity. Many tourists from up north had never experienced low country weather, where even in September it could be blistering hot. Although they did have quite a few stops that took them into air conditioned spaces, like the one they were about to enter, she was always glad when the weather deigned to be somewhat cooperative.

Savannah was happily relating to her small group of tourists the tall tale of Madame Pomme, a mulatto daughter of a former slave who took up residence in Savannah after being swept away from her home in the north by a dashing pirate captain. When the captain died running blockades during the civil war, Madame Pomme was clever enough to protect herself by turning his home into a pleasure house for the gentry, who found it thrilling to mix with the notorious figures that came through as well as the lovely, but low class, ladies she employed.

She was dressed today in a ruffled white shirt with brown corduroy pants, green and white candy striped suspenders and a matching green bow tie that brought out the color in her hazel eyes. She had her long red hair up in two pigtails. She’d much rather be wearing jeans and a comfy t-shirt, but had at least worn some comfortable shoes - well kept black sneakers with good arch support. Good shoes were something that no self-respecting tour guide could do without, though several she’d known who had tried - and went home with bloody blisters. Not a pretty sight.

But, Savannah had also found that her tips were better when she looked a bit eccentric - though she never went all in on the gothic look that many of her fellow tour guides went for. It just wasn’t her. 

“Madame Pomme was most famous,” Savannah said, projecting her voice just enough that the stragglers in the back, who were snapping photos, could hear. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that most of their photos wouldn’t turn out well, due to the poor lighting. “For the tunnels she had dug under the den, which were later used for smuggling during the prohibition.”

Savannah then turned, intending to take her group inside. One of her friends was a waiter at The Wench’s Den, and they often arranged their shifts so that he could sneak her group into the tunnels under the building. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to do this, as the tunnels didn’t quite meet modern safety codes - but the current owner turned a blind eye as long as they got a kick back and never did more than peek inside.

Before the tour guide could take another step, she was stopped - caught at the shoulders by a tall, bespectacled young man with an unruly mop of black hair that contrasted starkly against the pale white of his skin. It didn’t help that he was also wearing all black, with numerous rings on his hands, and bore the chilly, annoyed expression of a hot topic kid who hadn’t quite grown up. 

“Hands off, Cory!” Savannah squeaked, glaring up at the young man. She wasn’t sure how he kept popping up everywhere she went, but here he was again. 

He hadn’t been following her, at least not that she could tell. But, he was in almost all of her classes, and somehow turned up wherever she went. It was easy enough to figure out where the ghost tours stopped, as almost all of them followed a variation of the same popular routes, but he even managed to show up to the gym at the same time as her, and bump into her at the grocery store checkout line.

Savannah was a small city, but was it really that small? Savannah was also a small woman, thin as a rail - though a little taller than average at five foot five and a half inches. The half inch was important to her, as it made her just a little bit taller than her sister. Cory’s fingers were pressing uncomfortably into her bony shoulders.

“You almost ran face first into me. You should really pay more attention.” Cory said cooly, letting go of her shoulders as she stepped back from him.

Ah, so that’s why he looked annoyed, Savannah thought. It was really more her fault than his; she should have been paying attention - but just how long had he been looming behind her? He probably could have just said something instead of letting her walk into him.

Even though she knew that Cory hadn’t been following her intentionally, in many ways it felt like he was. They’d grown up in the same middle suburban town, went to the school from elementary to high school, graduated and ended up at the same University - though he spent his first year at a community college before transferring. They’d also shared something else in common, or at least they used to. Something that made her guilty for finding his presence disconcerting. His twin brother, and her best friend, Shane.

Shane might have been Cory’s identical twin, but they polar opposite in every other way. Savannah always thought twins were supposed to be each other’s best friend, but the Hintner twins were the exception that proves the rule. Not that they hated each other; rather, they tolerated each other’s existence and tried to stay out of each other’s way. Which is what Savannah was trying to do now.

“Excuse me, folks, right this way…” Savannah said, skirting around Cory, and waved the tour guide to follow along behind her.

Savannah’s smile froze, rigid, on her face when Cory fell in behind the tour group. Not wanting to cause any further delays or drama in front of her charges, she turned, red pigtails whipping around. 

Her quick turn also hid the stricken expression that momentarily overwhelmed her as pain constricted her heart and threatened to rise up her throat and choke her. It had been months, but every time she clapped eyes on Cory, it felt as fresh as the moment she found out. Shane was gone.