“Some people swore that the house was haunted. But not anymore. Now it’s just

another law office.“ The guide chuckles and rattles on, taking the occasional sip from his

“This tour is not worth the $30,” Sid complains to his girlfriend. Sid and Sophie

continue to wander the historic streets of Savannah on the last leg of their combined

pub-crawl and ghost tour, the Georgia air clinging to them like the hanging moss on the

southern oaks lining the streets.

“Ah… this is mah favorite part,” explains the tour guide with enough accent to be

endearing but not annoying. Does he practice that? Sid wonders. The guide waves his

hands in a giant circle.

“What don’t you see? Any of that hanging moss.” The guide is right. Around the

square, there are the usual benches, brick paths, city vagrants, but not a trace of moss.

Sid forces himself to hear bits and pieces of the guide’s story about William Wise, a

slave owner from the 18th century. Wise beat his slaves, raped them, made them bathe

him every day. One day, the slaves had enough. They saw Wise smirking in his slave-
drawn bath water and snapped. Husband and wife slaves held Wise’s smug face under

the water for as long as it took. They fled town only to be dragged back. The husband

was executed, but Alice the wife pleaded for her life. She was pregnant. With Wise’s

baby. She waited out the pregnancy, and then was hanged in this same square over

three days. Her baby died weeks later.

“And so,” the guide finished, “there’s no moss cuz it don’t grow where the blood

of innocent lies. Look here-- this part is new.” He points to a wooden mausoleum-looking

shack on the edge of the square. “Go in this box, even the unbelievers swear they

hear Alice’s voice wailing and searching for her baby. Your turn.” The guide leads the

skeptical Sid to the door. Sid can’t embarrass himself by asking for company and takes

a step inside.

The heat envelops him before he even closes the door. His collar feels tight.

Man, it’s a sauna. He takes a long draw on his beer and feels it goes down like sand.

Then he hears the scratching. “Sophie?” he pants. The poor construction of the hut is

more like a sauna than Sid realizes. “…Alice?” he calls, not believing his own ears when

he calls the name. Another scratch, followed by the sound of tattered rope dragging

in the dirt. The last thing Sid remembers is a pair of eyes staring at him from a moss-
draped figure holding an empty shawl where a baby should have been.

But it’s the ambulance sirens that Sophie remembers. She remembers the

guide morphing from endearing host into frantic accuser. “It’s too hot this time!” He’s

screaming in his phone. “I know you said it’s fine, but we may lose this one.”

“This one?” Sophie wonders. The aimless happy hour conversation of the tour’s

other members is long silent.

The guide continues yelling over the deafening sirens. “Of course heat stroke

makes you have hallucinations… Yeah that’s our product, we sell an experience. But

damn man, forcing heat stroke for a little added experience was bound to go too far. A

cup of water and a free t-shirt ain’t gonna solve this mess.”

The moss-less trees block out the streetlights, with the departing sirens casting

swirling shadows over abandoned cups. The guide stares on in disbelief, thinking that

Alice is the least of his worries.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.