The house crouched there on the corner of Abercorn and Wayne like something alive but dormant, a hibernating beast. Brad Storm, standing across the street in Crenshaw Square, imagined describing it in one of his horror stories.

Despite the tour guide’s eerie tales of its macabre history, Brad saw only a gorgeous Greek Revival mansion. Neglected, yes, but its bones were sturdy. He could see beyond the busted windows and moldering brick, envisioning its past glory.

“The house was built in 1868?” the guide chirped, her voice turning every statement into a question. She spun a tale of General Wilson’s daughter, tied to a chair for playing with Black children, dying of heatstroke, her spirit forever trapped.

Brad chuckled softly. With the right words, even an innocuous window could sound malevolent. He dismissed the grainy photo passed around—an indistinct white blur, easily a reflection. “The human brain,” he mused, “rearranges senseless shapes into something familiar.”

“Some theorize the paranormal activity is strong because of its location?” the guide continued, her voice lowering. “This square was once a slave cemetery. They simply built right on top of the graves?” The ground beneath them seemed to tremble, not with an earthquake, but as if hundreds of bodies were clawing their way back up.

Brad remained unmoved. “Savannah is a city that walks over its dead,” he’d heard. He longed for the house, wished he could buy and restore it. But it was just a dream for a vacationing writer, soon to return to his cramped studio apartment.