This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Formative” Down in the Dirt, v170 (the Apr. 2020 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Foundations the Down in the Dirt Feb.-April 2020 issues collection book		get the 322 page Feb.-April 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the 2021 flash fiction date book (the 2020 flash fiction and art weekly paperback book)		get the 146-page poetry & art weekly planner as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Savannah Ghosts

Mike Schneider

    The last thing I wanted to do back in August during that killer heatwave that settled over the nation and refused to budge, was leave our comfortable home in Green Bay and drive down to Savannah to search for ghosts. But Jan had just been diagnosed with an aggressive, incurable, soft tissue cancer; the doctors gave her three months.
    “If there is anything you want to do, you better do it the first month,” Dr. Fusilaro said.
     She had been enthralled by ghosts ever since reading “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” 20-odd years ago, watched all the movies and TV shows, read the books, probably had as much popular and technical knowledge as just about anyone but had never actually seen a ghost.
    “It’s the main item on my bucket list, Harry. We’re going!” she said.
    We arrived in Savannah three days later, signed up for two daytime ghost tours, three nighttime excursions. Ghosts were big there, I’ll say that. Seemed like the city had as many ghost tour companies, ghost shops, and ghost restaurants, as there are artists in Taos. Even though it was above 100 during the day and only down to the low 90s at night, Jan was in her element. That pleased me. After 42 years of marriage it was the last best thing I could do for her.
    “I’m going to see or feel a ghost,” she said. “I know I am.”
    And she did, on our very first night tour at the Sorrel-Weed House, an antebellum mansion built by Francis Sorrel, a rich, light complexioned mulatto from the Dominican Republic, who lived as a white man and owned slaves. One of his slaves, Molly, is said to haunt the grounds, along with his wife, Matilda. According to legend, when she discovered her husband was having an illicit sexual relationship with Molly, Matilda committed suicide by throwing herself through, or jumping from, an upper story window. Molly was later found murdered in the carriage house, possibly by Francis. We had toured the inside during the day, then at night as we approached the property Jan saw Molly’s ghostly aura float across the front porch. Or maybe it was Matilda.
    “I’m not sure which but I saw her,” she said.
    I didn’t see anything.
    The next afternoon we spent three hours exploring “the garden,” had a late dinner before assembling for a night tour to learn about the ghosts of Colonial Park Cemetery, a graveyard dating back to the 17^th century. When our tour guide was reciting one of his scariest stories a man next to Jan accidentally touched her. She jumped and screamed. Everyone laughed as she whispered to me, “I have to go back to the car, I peed my pants.”
    The tour didn’t last but another 10 minutes. When I got to the car Jan said she dropped her clutch when the man startled her. I went to retrieve it, found it right away. When I knelt to pick it up, freezing air, arctic air, suddenly engulfed me. I never felt anything that frigid in my life, like Death himself had wrapped me in his arms for a few seconds, then had second thoughts and moved on. When it was over I patted myself like people do after an automobile accident, not to see if I had any broken bones, but to determine if I was frozen or frost bitten. I ran full speed back to the car to tell Jan, yanked the door open, said, “You’ll never guess what—” before feeling the cold air and seeing my wife sitting there motionless, eyes wide open, and stone cold dead.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...