Ghost tours, in my opinion, have to be taken with a grain of salt. The goal of said tours is to scare you, to construct a haunted history for the urban landscape that will give you the chills. The tour guides are a contemporary version of the ancient storyteller, spinning their yarns out of ready threads. In Savannah, there are many threads, sad and deplorable ones, to spin from.
There is something voyeuristic about paranormal tourism. As we walk along behind the guide, listening to the tales he or she weaves, we are titillated by these stories; the pleasure in the chills, the thrills, is deeply rooted in that thing called schadenfreude, that feeling that, thankfully, we modern-day American citizens are not situated in that barbarous past (ignoring the fact that the present is often nearly as barbarous). The stories spun for us on this particular February evening, a slight dampness and chill in the air, spoke of stupid duels, wronged lovers, Irish child-brides, vengeful slaves, "root" magic, unmarked graves.
|An appropriately full moon.|
|In Savannah, you can even partake in this paranormal party beer in hand, since there is no open container law. |
I can't say that I abstained;). Clearly.
|The Kehoe House.|