We’re on the last stop of the tour—Sorrel Weed House, which at first I thought, as a native Californian, was going to be a lot more exciting than it was. But the only high you get here is a spiritual one, and the only out of body experience you encounter is the disembodied souls that trace the lining of your steps.
A man is standing out front, offering a last minute spot in their all night ghost hunt. And I’ve had a couple drinks and am sporting a very obliging buzz so I check into the Hotel California, wave goodbye to the tour, down the last of my beer and offer a quick prayer up to the heavens that whatever forces may be will permit me to check out come dawn.
“If I don’t make it out,” I say, “Just come visit me here. I’m sure I’ll be around in another ten years.” And they all chuckle and laugh but deep down I’m thinking about poltergeists and spirits wandering the earth and I make peace with myself and Grim, the guardian of the chambers, with his gauged ears and leather, studded jacket and hair as black as the pitch of night and snowy white cheeks gaunt and shallow in a strikingly handsome and alluring way, leads me through the rod iron gate that protests loudly on its rusting hinges.
His hearse is parked out front only the casket, with its soft, white satin pillows, streaked in little sunset hues of makeup from its last occupant, is missing.
“I use it as a coffee table,” he says. And it makes perfect sense.
We sit around a dimly lit fire that struggles to stay lit amongst the foggy haze that clings lowly to the surface of the earth. It’s a good night for spirits, or so I’m told, because when the air is thick it becomes easier to feel their energy and presence. We take the tour of the old, historic home. There are no lights and the cellars, heavy with moisture and thick with dust, smell wet and positively electric, the little magnetic charges tickling the hairs upon our skin that stand upright at attention like the oil painting of General Grand E. Lee rising proudly above our heads. The antique China sits laid out on the tables; one napkin missing from its ring, one plate set backwards in its gilded frame upon the shelf. We chuckle nervously as Gordon, our ghostly guide, turns the plate back around, it’s hand painted flowers glimmering in the dim lighting of a flashlight.
And myself, the last minute passenger of this journey into the underworld, climbs aboard, placing my hand into that of the ferryman, the boat rocking steadily to and fro beneath us as it journeys down the River Styx. And so we travel down the stairs into the basement, enter a small room, close the French Doors to dull the sounds of footsteps on the floors above us. And we sit upon an antique couch, plumes of dust rising up into the night. I am cautious and wary of the little girl who is known to sit in the corner, the one that reaches out from beneath the chaise to grab at your ankles like a playful cat. I listen for the man whose been known to whisper in your ear, to play with your hair, to growl viciously like the hell hounds on his heels.
And Gordon pulls out his camera, the heat sinking, infrared equipment that turns the cold darkness into shades of cotton candy clouds, pinks and purples and whites. We wait in silence, opening ourselves up to the energy and the presence of that we cannot see. And we hear the sound of footsteps, and the rest of the team descends the stairs and approaches the doors. Opens them wide and peers in, before stepping forth into the room. We watch them through the camera, the two bodies perfectly silhouetted in flaming heat signatures, as if they are being consumed by fire, the vivid yellows and oranges and reds that ignite their shapes. And as they move towards us, the two fiery figures are joined by a third, who rushes up behind. He aligns themselves with them, and Gordon opens his mouth.
“Hey guys, how many of you are in here?”
“It’s just the two of us,” they say.
And my hand reaches out in a furious display of awe and terror and settles on Gordon’s leg where it creates a vice like grip upon the stiff, denim lining of his pants. Because there, in the camera, were three bodies. The third, the stranger amongst us, presented in purples and pinks and whites the body of a man, the same shape and size as the two that stood beside him, only this one did not speak as it rushed forward to join the others, and this one did not present as something flaming and hot and living, but rather as something frozen and cold and dead.
I’m still not certain what I saw that night. Or, rather, I know what I saw but I’ll never be certain that I saw it. In the hazy fog of sleep deprivation, in that spiritually charged room, three stood where there were only two.
And I’ve always believed in ghosts; I’ve always known that spirits walked the earth I’ve always felt them I’ve always been aware. But I never thought the day would come in which I would see one, silhouetted against the darkness of the night, making its visceral presence known.
Welcome to Savannah, where cemeteries are gated and locked at night to keep out the oijui boards and black magic, the collecting of graveyard dirt and the exhuming of bones scattered close to the surface of the earth, loosely set in shallow soil. Where every building hosts an otherworldly presence, where the walls of underground tunnels are tastefully decorated in femurs and ribs that stick out like marbled pebbles, rough to the touch. The spirits are not happy here. Their deaths are told in legends that make you weep, that make you feel, that make you mourn. There is no rest in Savannah. You can tell that to my aching bones that haven’t seen a night’s slumber in a week. If the spirits can not sleep, than neither can we. Or so it would appear.