Page 120 of Best In Class
We stop by a playground and Mr. Jones puts the flashlight right under his chin so it casts his face in dramatic shadows like he’s auditioning for a ghost-hunting show.
“Behind that playground”—he gestures toward a wrought-iron fence—“is the site of the old orphanage. Underneath the swing sets and monkey bars are…sixty-plusgraves of children who died during the yellow fever outbreak of 1820. Buried fast. Shallow. No markers. People say theswings still move on windless nights. Kids claim they hear laughter…andcrying.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead inch a little closer to Dom. “Are you okay?”
He wraps an arm around me. “I think you should hold me tight because I’m getting a little spooked.”
I smack him playfully on his chest.
The hearse slowly drives down a moss-draped lane toward a crumbling townhouse.
“Here,” Mr. Jones continues, pointing to the aging brick, “is where Eleanor Carmichael, widowed at twenty-seven, threw herself off the second-floor balcony.” He makes sure we all know which balcony he’s talking about, ‘cause there are two of them. “Her husband died in the war. They say she’s still waiting for him to return. You can see her on moonlit nights, white dress fluttering, hair blowing in a wind that doesn’t exist.”
I frown and whisper, “What is she waiting for? Shouldn’t she go on up and join him?”
Dom leans down and murmurs, “Maybe she’s haunting us ‘cause their marriage sucked and she doesn’t want to goup.”
I elbow him, snickering.
We wander through the streets of Savannah and hear stories about ghosts, haunted homes, lost children, soldiers, and every other possible spooky-story cliché.
We stop outside a narrow, three-story boutique hotel with shutters like eyelids, half-closed against the dark.
“Room 306,” Mr. Jones lowers his voice, “is neveroccupied for more than a night. Guests complain of hearing voices—whispers, crying, someone saying their name from behind the closet door. The hotel swears it’s just the plumbing. But the guests? They don’t come back.”
“Plumbing,” Dom says, amused. “Always the villain.”
I smirk, placing my lips close to his ear. “If we hear anything whispering at home tonight, it’s not the pipes...probably me saying dirty things to you.”
He turns and kisses my nose. “Behave.”
Mr. Jones raises his voice, noticing we’ve started to zone him out, just in time for his dramatic crescendo.
“One guest was so distressed,” he announces, “she died in her bed. They said she had a heart attack, probably because she saw a ghost.”
The older woman gasps. I fight the urge to ask if she’s okay—or if she’s just having an overreaction to bad storytelling.
We pass Colonial Park Cemetery, where the guide shines his flashlight through the iron bars and tells us about where two duelists buried, with bullets still lodged in their ribs.
When a branch rustles against the hearse roof, Dom makes a face.
“Bet you’re wishing you’d planned this one now,” I tease.
“I’m plotting revenge,” he replies. “I’m just not sure if it’s going to be sexy or terrifying.”
“Maybe terrifyingly sexy?” I suggest.
We pull up next to the Sorrel-Weed House, supposedly the most haunted building in Savannah.
Mr. Jones tells us about the mistress who hanged herselfin the carriage house—and whose sobs can still be heard on humid nights like this.
“Any volunteers to go inside?” the guide asks, theatrically.
I nudge Dom.
He lifts his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “Not going into a haunted house, Moonbeam. I’m man enough to admit that’s a hard pass.”
I grin. “You’re an architect. I’m sure the ghosts will respect you.”
