THREE #2
Asher laughs. “Well, you can never be too young or old to be into ghosts.” He gives me a wink.
“But a little about me. I’m a recent graduate of the Savannah College of Art and Design, otherwise known as SCAD.
I’ve been into the paranormal for the majority of my life, and I started Orbs and More two years ago. ”
A woman on the tour snickers. “I didn’t know SCAD had ghost as a major.”
These adults are mad wack for trying to play Asher like he’s a clown. If I were him, I’d tell these cornballs to kick rocks.
But Asher seems to take it in stride.
“I left with a film degree. I’ve actually been working on a TV project that’s soon to be greenlit. I can’t talk about it yet, but it has everything to do with the paranormal, of course.”
“Is it a ghost hunters’ show?” another woman asks. “I love those!”
Asher waves a hand. “Those shows are all smoke and mirrors. I‘m into authenticity. You’ll see. Now,” he goes on, “before we start, I want to warn you about potential activity you may encounter as we walk past the city’s most haunted spots.”
“What kind of activity?” one of the adults asks.
“Strange noises, pushes. There have even been bites or marks on people’s skin because of attacks from ghosts.”
A wave of nervous energy fills my limbs. In all the tours I’ve taken, no one has ever given a warning like this before.
“Yeah, right,” another adult says, chuckling. “I got a bridge I can sell you too.”
Asher pulls out his phone and flips to a photo of a large red welt on the back of an arm, the flash bright, lighting up the whole picture. He flips to another photo, of three deep scratches on the back of a man’s neck, as if they were made with an animal claw.
“This happened to a guest on our tour two weeks ago,” Asher says, his tone low and serious. “Note the date.”
Murmurs take over the crowd. Robby peers at the photos, gripping my arm, then catches and rights himself, pretending to be cool.
“So, if you see or feel anything, let me know and we’ll move along right away.”
I shoulder my camera bag with a grin, feeling both queasy and excited. Asher must really be legit. This is going to be the best tour I’ve ever gone on!
“All right! Let’s make our way, shall we?”
Asher jumps off the bench and starts walking, the group following him down the shadowy streets. Soon we stop on the corner in front of a tall cement archway leading to a cemetery, the gate locked for the night.
“Welcome to Colonial Park, the oldest cemetery in Savannah,” Asher announces.
I feel a chill, remembering that on the news, they said Lena’s friend, Mr. Truman, was found not far from here.
A black iron fence surrounds the entire perimeter of the cemetery, which has gotta be two or three blocks long.
I can see the headstones inside and most of them look blank, as if worn down from time.
The tall live oak trees and dangling moss scattered around the ancient graves make everything look even spookier.
Asher points out a plaque inside that marks a mass grave where nearly seven hundred people were buried.
“It was a darkkkk and hectic time during the yellow fever epidemic of 1820,” Asher explains.
“Whole families were wiped out, hospitals overrun. Because so many people were dying, bodies were thrown in graves without full confirmation of their death. So, they started putting these bells aboveground, with a string attached to a person’s finger below, just in case. ”
“In case of what?” a woman asks, confused.
“Ah! Well, if the person was alive, they would wiggle their finger, the bell would ring, and they would be rescued.” Asher smirks. “It’s where the saying saved by the bell comes from.”
The crowd of adults chuckle and murmur.
Asher lowers his voice. “The problem was that a lot of bells were ringing during the night. But no one was ever found alive. Even now, there’ve been reports of people walking by here at one or two in the morning, hearing a bell ring.” Asher pauses. “And no one has been buried in here since 1853.”
I gulp and slowly take out my camera, snapping a few pictures. I glance at Robby to see if he’s scared, but he seems fine.
“There’ve been other reports of strange occurrences,” Asher goes on. “Men and women taking cabs from River Street, giving the address of this corner, and disappearing from the back seat once the cab pulled up.”
I shiver.
On the opposite side of the street is another tour group. A balding guy who looks more the ghost tour guide part is swinging his lantern with two dozen people following. Asher spots him and quickly leads us away.
“Why are there so many ghost tours in Savannah?” I ask as we walk off.
Asher stops on the next corner.
“Now that’s a good question. Savannah was crowned the most haunted city in the United States by the National Society of Paranormal Investigation and Research.”
“Not New Orleans?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. They’re a close second.
When the society conducted their survey, they considered the amount of activity reported here as well as the city’s age and dark history, from slavery to bloody battles to multiple plagues—more than any other city.
But the biggest reason why they declared this the most haunted city is because of what we’re standing on. ”
I look down at the redbrick sidewalk. Each brick has two black spiral swirls, carved next to each other.
“When the Civil War hit, there was far too much going on to bother with individual graves and headstones. So, the city came up with a system. Notice those swirl symbols? Each swirl represents a body buried beneath it.”
My stomach drops to my feet. “But these bricks are all over the place!”
“Correct. Most of this city was built over mass graves.”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. We’ve literally been strolling over a graveyard this entire time? Robby’s face is unreadable, but the way he grips his little backpack straps is telling.
We continue on with the tour, and, at every stop, Asher grows more dramatic. I sometimes have to hold in a giggle. He’s wild animated. The way he tells the stories, you’d think he was a Broadway actor. I expect him to break out in song and dance at some spots.
As we walk farther from the downtown area, the streets are empty and quiet in an eerie way.
It feels as if someone is watching, peering out from one of the old windows.
The big trees cast long shadows, blocking streetlights, and we’re just about walking through pitch blackness.
I rub my arms, even though it’s still warm out.
The adults ask their silly questions, cracking jokes and rolling their eyes at Asher’s stories, which is mad annoying. If they didn’t believe in ghosts, why come on this tour?
I guess I could ask myself the same question.
“AH!” a woman screams, and everyone whips in her direction.
Behind us, a blonde-haired young woman is on her knees, hands out as if she just caught herself before face-planting onto the ground.
“Are you okay?” Asher asks, rushing over to help her to her feet.
“Someone just pushed me!” the woman cries, her cheeks red and blotchy.
A silence comes over the crowd. The woman was in the back of the group. No one was behind her. The entire street is empty. Not a car or a person in sight. I hold my breath until my lungs burn.
Asher looks around the street, his mouth in a hard line, suddenly seeming anxious.
“Um, okay … everyone. Let’s keep moving. Quickly please.”
The woman still seems shaken, smoothing back her long hair as the color drains from her face.
Robby throws me a skeptical look. “She probably tripped over a crack in the sidewalk,” he whispers. “You see how old these streets are.”
“Yeah,” I agree absentmindedly. But the way Asher keeps glancing over his shoulder makes me think otherwise.
Our next stop is Calhoun Square. A redbrick walkway cuts through the lawn, and backless wooden benches are scattered around. Spanish moss dangling off branches makes the whole spot seem darker somehow, like the trees are leaning in, trying to hear better.
Asher stops in the middle of the square and faces us.
“Friends,” he says in a dramatic whisper. “You are standing on what was once a burial ground. But it’s located outside the original city limits. Now, who do you suppose they’d want to bury on the outskirts of town? Who wouldn’t they want to mingle with their kind?”
An uneasy silence comes over the crowd.
Robby timidly raises his hand. “Uh … Black people?”
The group’s eyes shift to us, then away. The guilty look all people have when they don’t want to talk about slavery. As if the evidence isn’t right in our face all day long?
“Correct. Savannah was a major central port in the transatlantic slave trade. Thousands of Africans were brought here and sold into labor, and this spot was a mass African burial ground. No headstones or formalities.”
I think of all the images I’ve seen of the slave trade, the way people were kept on ships, in chains, and families torn apart …
I shudder, my feet unable to stay still as I pace in place. No wonder it feels so heavy here. That type of pain never leaves the air.
“Even to this day,” Asher says, waving at the ground, “you don’t have to dig far before you come across a bone or a skull.
The people buried here were abused in death as they were in life, and they are not at peace.
They suffered a grave injustice and are angry about their mistreatment.
That type of anger evolved and turned them into what the Gullah people call hags or haints.
Malevolent spirits that cause ill or misfortune to the living.
There is not one house in this square that hasn’t experienced some type of haunting, strange accident, or misfortune. ”
He turns in a slow circle, pointing to all the homes around us. My heart starts racing. We’re surrounded by ghosts!