About a year and a half ago, I fell in love with the city of Savannah, Georgia. Basically, Savannah is forged from the mind of someone who is seriously dark and demented, but also into super cute and pretty stuff, too.
If that doesn’t sound like me, I don’t know what does.
Everywhere you step in Savannah, someone is buried underneath your feet, got murdered by an axe, fell off a house into a spike, or totally haunts for shits and giggles. In contrast to all the weird stuff going on there, it’s an incredibly beautiful city full of parks, cool monuments, quaint coffee shops, and a ton of history.
I would like to take this moment to mention that over the course of two days, I think I also fell in love with my Airbnb hosts, Richmond and Robert,* one of which, may or may not have been a full-blown ghost.
A few weeks before the trip, I booked a room at this lovely mansion that was about a mile outside of all the hustle and bustle. From the pictures listed on Airbnb, the house was white and had different-sized windows trimmed in a robin’s egg blue color, while the door was painted bright orange. An abundance Spanish moss hung from a large tree that sat on the right hand corner of their lawn. From what I could see, the pictures showed an incredibly historically accurate restoration done on a 120-year-old house.
As a person who studied history for six years, I was super pumped.
LOL, just wait.
Upon arrival, I was greeted by Richmond, and later introduced to
a spirit of a once living being Robert. My initial impression determined that they were both nice people, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t feeling some serious animosity between the two.
From my best guess, Robert was probably in his late 900s, and operated off of a barely-beating heart. On the other hand, Richmond, possibly 61, clearly bought this mansion (with Robert’s money) as his “fixer-upper” and steady project, all in the effort to keep his mind off the fact that he married a the non-CGI version of the mummy from The Mummy.
Rather than saying much of a hello, Richmond pushed me through the door and towards the guest book located in their stunning living room that could’ve doubled as a museum.
“It’s a custom that all guests must sign the guest book upon arrival,” he informed me like a school mistress ready to slap my wrists with a ruler.
“Oh, okay,” I happily said, but thought: “Well, it’s clearly your world and I’m just living in it.”
The entrance of the house was spectacular, complete with a spiral staircase, a grand piano, and several paintings that looked like they cost more than my life would at auction.
“ROBERT!” Richmond blindly yelled, summoning his sugar daddy like a butler, although I was sure he was Richmond’s personal Go Fund Me account.
“CominGGG…” Robert said in a way that made me unsure if he had a pulse.
When Robert entered the living room from a cold dark spot in the back of the house, I was alarmed. Not only did his previous location make me feel like he was sleeping in his coffin out back, but his skin looked like it was hanging on to dear life, clinging to his face in the hopes of making it just one more day. Sun spots and sores the size of craters swelled across his face like a mold-infested piece of diseased bread.
Oh my God.
^My face after seeing Robert.
“FolloWW…mEE…uPP…thiSS…waYYY…tOO…youRR…rooMMM,” he spoke in a slurred chirp, similar to a dying bird.
He had a posh, rich American accent that stemmed back to the 1800s, which appeared to be the century that he was born in. The way he concentrated on saying sentences as slowly as possible was painful and often led Richmond to cut him off with crossed arms and an irritated eye roll after he got through about two words.
Robert was basically the epitome of someone you send to a nursing home.
Ah, the things you’ll put up with for money.
When we finally made it up the stairs, he led me through the hallway and into a decent-sized room. Being that I’m annoyingly observant, I noticed that this room had a very particular theme to it: Oriental.
There might as well been an enormous sign hovering over the bed that said, “Welcome to China. Have you been? No? We’ve definitely been and want you to live vicariously through us while you stay in this room.”
To say they were overdoing it was an understatement.
Robert left the room and I unpacked my things, got ready for dinner, bid them goodbye, and went out for the night. I was excited to explore the city and get a feel for Savannah. That night I had scheduled dinner, followed a ghost tour with some giant-haired woman named Alyssa. Her stories were about as compelling as a cassette tape describing the process of how she permed her hair for the past 20 years.
What I didn’t realize, due to not experiencing the full essence of Robert yet, was that I had already paid for a ghost tour by selecting his house as my Airbnb.
But before my disappointing stunt with Alyssa, the human Pomeranian, I did actually have a spooky experience at the restaurant I went to that night, The Olde Pink House.
I’m not one to sit there and read 7,000 Yelp reviews, so I missed out on the fact that this place is teaming with pissed off spirits.
When I got there, there was no room upstairs for those who hadn’t made a reservation. Peeking into the inside of the enormous block of a mansion, I could see that the dining areas were just large tables in different rooms of the house. The hostess asked if I minded sitting in the
dungeon basement, which naturally sounded like an incredible idea to my creepy ass, who’s mildly into the idea of hanging out with a ghost.
The basement of this old place was decked out in about 6,000 candles, which illuminated the otherwise pitch black dark room. I had to conceal the total lady boner I was getting for this beautiful southern gothic chapel of nightmares.
I was having a blast soaking up all this
demonic cool energy, but after a few drinks from a rather modern menu, I got a bit tipsy and needed to use the little squirrel’s room.
The bathroom, thank God, was not lit by a candle. There was one stall with a door on it and then an open area with a mirror and sink. When I got into the bathroom, I felt like someone was in there with me, but inside the stall. I didn’t see anyone’s feet, so I went to grab the door, tugged on it, but it was completely locked.
I waited patiently for about five minutes and then was like, “Okay, am I being crazy?” I peaked back under the stall to see what was going on, but I still didn’t see any sign of life in there. I decided to try the handle again. This time, the door to the stall flung straight open when I pulled on it.
Nevertheless, I had to pee. I think if I wouldn’t have been drunk, I probably would’ve been too spooked, but I didn’t think too much about it and just did what I had to do.
I came back to the table, and decided to check out the dessert menu, but then got distracted about a little vignette on the house’s history.
“Oh, are you reading about how this house is haunted?” the waitress noticed.
“No… wait, what are you talking about?” I looked at her.
“Well, I saw you going into the bathroom and I wondered. There’s a ghost that is seen in there quite often. She’s called the “Master’s wife.” Basically, it’s legend that her husband did have intimate relationships with some the enslaved women here. There’s bad energy and sightings, particularly in this part of the house, since her cupboard was located down here. They say she tortured some of the women in there.”
“Intimate relationships or rape? And Master’s wife? WTF went on in this house?” I thought, and immediately insisted arguing with.
“My guess is the later, but it is said that the Master’s wife still haunts that particular area. She’s been especially known for messing with the locks on the doors, often locking women in the bathroom with her.”
“UHHHHH, that literally just happened to me!” I told the waitress.
“I’m not surprised. We’ve changed the locks more times than we can count, but there’s still issues and sightings every day,” she continued, scaring the shit out of me.
I should’ve known something like this would happen to me. I mean, after all, Savannah is known as the most haunted city in America.
Yet, one question burned in my mind that night:
Did I just sit down and pee on a ghost’s lap? Specifically, a ghost named “Master’s wife?”
If so, that is wrong on about 92 1/2 levels.
When I got back to the Airbnb, all of the lights were turned off.
Perfect, more fuel to fire my nightmares.
Upon entering the foyer, I noticed that one light was on in the hallway. This room was the study, which I had seen on the listing. I was curious about what kind of books Richmond and Robert had in their library, so I decided to see what I could find out about them from their belongings.
Boy, was I in for a shock.
Apparently, Richmond and Robert had a bit of an unhealthy obsession.
If I sat there and counted all of the fox trinkets, pictures, memorabilia, stuffed animals, furs, decorations, and books, I would’ve been in there until 7:00 a.m., begging for a coffee, which would undoubtably turn my skin into a galaxy of hives, since I’m allergic to it.
I imagine fox-counting in that room as a form of punishment in North Korea. It’s like one of those hidden object computer games, but in real life, which makes it so much worse when you can’t find that damn fox hiding on top of a rusty old wheel.
“Sir, I’ve counted 402 foxes. Please, it’s been 11 days without food or water.”
“Find the 405th fox and it’ll all be over.”
“God have mercy on my soul…”
I was so distracted by the foxes that I literally jumped a mile when I heard:
“Some saYYY…that your waiteRRR…or waitresSSS…is just an apparitioNNN…in the nighTTT. Who knowSSS…maybe I’MMMM…even a ghosTTT!”
It was the deteriorating 700-year-old voice of Robert, replicating the same scare tactics that a summer camp counselor would use to tell tales by the fire.
At first, I was only scared by the commissioned oil painting of Robert and his gold-digging husband, which sat on the window sill, guiding all the guests upstairs to their rooms, but now I was starting to rethink things a little.
Before I could turn around and hand out a fake laugh, like it was some kind of participation trophy, Robert had disappeared.
But seriously where did he go?
I lost focus on the foxes, and now concentrated on why Robert had said such a weird thing and then vanished in the span of .06 seconds. Did that old dude just escape through some creepy trap door or something? Was I unknowingly on an episode of Scooby Doo? There were like four flights of steps that he had to climb to get to his bedroom. There is no way that he was able to scale that with his brittle-ass bones.
^Hey Fred, BAD IDEA.
Plus, how was Robert automatically vibing on the fact that I “felt” a presence when I was at dinner?
Thankfully, the next day, I was heading off to Charleston, which was 10/10 not as fun as Savannah, FYI.
On my way back from Charleston, I decided to stop in Savannah again. I checked Airbnb and saw that I could have, quite literally, a bit more R&R.
We went through the same drill of signing the guest book, Richmond yelling at Robert, and Robert leading me to the room.
They had this routine down like clockwork.
But this time when Robert opened the door to the room, I nearly fell to the ground, seriously almost peeing in my pants. It was like a moment on Wheel of Fortune when they pull away the curtain to reveal what enormous prize you’ve won.
In this case, I won a bed that nearly touched the ceiling, and a room oddly decorated in children’s coloring books.
On either side of the bed, there was a wooden stool, meant for quite literally climbing into this night time version of Mt. Everest. It looked like it had been made for a person that was not an inch below eight feet tall.
“Robert, has anyone ever fell off this bed?” I attempted to say without laughing uncontrollably.
“WelLLL… yeSS, buTTT… it was heRRR… owNNN… damNNN… faulTTTT,” he responded in an angry tone.
I couldn’t contain myself. I had to look at the floor and stifle my laughs into my shirt. I was nearly crying. I imagined whoever suffered that, left their house with an actual concussion, because it was a solid six foot drop down to the bottom.
^person who fell off the bed.
I really wanted answers concerning the decor of this room, but I felt it was probably best to just leave some things unknown.
The next morning, I was getting ready to enjoy a day out in the city. I was putting my makeup on in the bathroom when all of the sudden Robert scared the living daylights out of me, quite literally vanishing IN thin air.
“WoulDDD… yoUU… just looKKK… therEEE? See thatTTT…. little reDDD… birdDD?” he whistled through his ancient mouth.
I turned to look at out onto their front lawn to what he was pointing at. When I turned back around, Robert was gone.
Oh, for the love of God.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
That confirmed it. Robert was a ghost.
So, there you go. If you ever stay in Savannah, don’t waste your money on an actual ghost tour. Just stay at this particular Airbnb, which I’d be happy to give you the contact information to. You’re bound to have a few frights all to yourself.
I just don’t recommend sleeping on a bed that’s 15 feet in the air.
It was her own damn fault, though.