CHAPTER TWO
The Runaway Nectarines
As Brad made his way back across Crenshaw Square, he silently berated himself for not taking his car. He hadn’t thought he’d need it since everything in the Historic District—scratch that, downtown—was within easy walking distance, but what seemed like a few short blocks when you were unburdened suddenly felt a lot longer when you hauled six plastic bags full of household supplies.
Weary as he was, he still paused across the street and surveyed his new home. He remembered standing in this exact spot ten years ago, fantasizing about owning the house. At the time, it had seemed nothing more than an impossible dream, but here he was, literally living the dream.
The house was no longer the dilapidated beauty it had been before. No more mold creeping down the masonry like a rash, no more broken glass, brand new shutters and roof. The restoration hadn’t been cheap, but 324 Abercorn was once again the grand manor Brad had known all those years ago. He considered the renovation worth every cent.
The soreness in his arms prompted him across the street and up the steps. At the top, he fished for his keys in his front pocket without putting down any of the bags, which proved to be a mistake. One of the bags slipped from his fingers and crashed to the stoop. A dozen nectarines spilled out around his feet, two of them bouncing down the steps like rubber balls and rolling into the street.
“Fuck!” Brad hissed, stuck in a state of neutral, unsure what he should do. Put all the bags down on the stoop and gather up the nectarines? Get himself inside the house first and then come back for the fruit? In any case, the two nectarines that had gotten away were lost because Brad wasn’t going to go chasing after them like a dog off its leash.
He watched the nectarines’ progress as they both rolled in parallel lines, one slightly behind the other, toward Gordon Street. It seemed almost as if the two pieces of fruit were in a race. The slightly smaller one was in the lead, but then a young African American woman in a peach dress, wearing a light blue cardigan over it, stepped into the street, bent down and deftly scooped up both nectarines, one in each hand.
“Lose something?” she called toward the house.
“Guess they kind of escaped from me.”
“Well, free range fruit always tastes better.”
“I think I read that somewhere.”
The woman walked over to the house and stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Do you need some help?”
Brad started to say “no”—he had been raised to be self-sufficient and never asked for help if he could avoid it—but then he thought, Who the hell am I kidding?
“Please.”
She climbed the steps, and then knelt down on the stoop, retrieving the plastic bag and depositing the nectarines into it. Her dark skin was flawless, her hair close-cropped to the scalp. She looked lovely.
“I really appreciate this,” Brad said, feeling silly standing there weighed down with the remaining five bags while the woman knelt before him, gathering up his wayward produce.
“No problem. Consider it my way of welcoming you to the neighborhood.”
“I’m Brad Storm, by the way.”
“Neisha Parker,” she said, tossing the last nectarine into the bag then rising to her feet. She was almost as tall as Brad himself, and he was six-foot-two.
Brad tried again to snag his keys from his pocket, and without a word Neisha reached out and took two more of the bags, freeing up his right hand. Smiling gratefully, he pulled out the ridiculously overburdened keychain, which housed keys to his new abode, his car, his safety deposit, the old house in South Carolina, even a few he’d been carrying for years and could no longer remember what they opened. His keychain was proof of him being a packrat by nature. He unlocked the double doors and turned to Neisha, glancing at the bags in her hands, the bags in his own.
“I hate to inconvenience you further, but could you possibly help me get all this stuff inside?”
Neisha cut her eyes toward the doorway, her expression uncertain.
“I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything,” Brad said, and then winced at how ridiculous he sounded. “Although, I guess if I were, I probably wouldn’t admit to it.”
Neisha laughed. “No, but you do write about serial killers on occasion.”
“Wow, I’m getting recognized left and right today.”
“This house has been empty longer than I’ve been alive. When I found out someone was moving in, I made a point of finding out who was the brave soul.”
“Just little old me; the guy who can’t even keep his nectarines in check.”
She laughed again, the sound soft and delicate like a wind chime, then she stared back at the doors and shuffled her feet.
“Are you scared?” Brad asked, hoping he didn’t sound like he was making fun of her.
“No, it’s just . . . well, I never thought I’d step foot in this house. It’s kind of surreal.”
“Trust me, I know what you mean.”
Brad turned the knob and pushed open the door on the right side. He immediately heard a fast-paced, high-pitched beeping, so he quickly stepped inside. Neisha followed along behind him as he reached out with his free hand to the keyboard on the wall. He punched in the code to deactivate the alarm system.
They stood in the foyer with the white and black checkerboard tiles and the crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Straight ahead, on the left, the carpeted staircase rose to the upper floor, and to the right, an archway led into the den.
“This way,” he said, walking past the arch and into the hallway stretching the length of the house. It also had the same checkerboard tile. The dining room stood through the next door to the right, and he turned in. He just pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Shit, I was in such a hurry to get in and turn off the alarm, I think I left my keys in the door,” he said.
“I’ll go grab them,” Neisha said, handing over the bags she’d carried in.
Brad went into the kitchen as she headed back into the hall. He used his foot to kick down the doorstop to prop the door open, and placed all six bags on the counter to his left, heaving a great sigh as the muscles in his arms trembled with relief. The refrigerator was to his right, and then more countertop, the sink, and then the stove. The kitchen was long but narrow.
While he was placing the nectarines in a large wooden bowl, Neisha returned, holding out the keys.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.”
Brad chuckled as he placed the bowl of fruit on top of the refrigerator. “Ever notice how ‘no problem’ has become the new ‘you’re welcome’?”
“Never really thought about it,” Neisha said with a half-smile. “But then words aren’t my livelihood the way they are yours.”
“Yeah, my mind tends to ‘run along different rails’, as my mother used to say.”
“Beats being boring.”
Brad nodded and then found himself at a loss of anything else to say. Socialization was definitely not his strong suit. He found it much easier to interact with the imaginary people he created for his books than flesh-and-blood individuals he encountered in real life. “I don’t want to keep you if you have other places to be.”
“I’ve got a little time if you need some help putting the stuff away.”
Brad pushed down the “No” rising to his lips. He was determined to overcome his usual idiosyncrasies and become part of the community. This was a good place to start. “If you’re offering, that’d be great.”
Neisha pulled crackers and chips out of one of the bags. “Where do these go?”
“The cupboard at the end of the counter.”
She moved past Brad, and they both had to turn sideways so she could squeeze by.
“I apologize for the cramped quarters in here,” he said. “It’s almost like being in a coffin.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“I once had a studio apartment with a larger kitchen area.”
Neisha shrugged. “Probably because this kitchen was an afterthought. Most of the older homes around here originally had their kitchens in the basement.”
“Yeah, that’s what the real estate agent said. This used to be a walk-in pantry, and the bathroom on the other side of this wall was a corridor leading from the backstairs into the dining room.”
“Makes sense,” she said, stowing away the last of the chips and closing the cupboard door. “I mean, no one wants to lug all the food up from downstairs just to eat, so they’d have to move the kitchen.”
After placing napkins in the holder on the counter, Brad grabbed a quart of milk and a block of cheese and put them in the refrigerator. “Would you like some coffee, Neisha? It’s instant, but it’ll be hot.”
“Caffeinated?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m in.”
Together, they made quick work of putting away the rest of the items Brad had purchased, before he filled the kettle and put it on the stove. While they waited for the water to boil, he took two large mugs from one of the cabinets, and spooned mounds of instant coffee into each. The aroma was pungent and stimulating. He liked the smell of coffee much more than the taste. Neisha said no to sugar and milk, but Brad added ample amounts of both to his. With their steaming cups, Brad led his guest to the den.
Robin egg blue walls and a thick crimson carpet decorated the large room. Empire style furniture filled the space, each piece a restored antique. Neisha seemed hesitant to actually have a seat until Brad flopped down on the sofa, placing his mug on top of a marble slab coaster on the mahogany coffee table. Neisha perched on the edge of a wingback chair, taking a sip of her brew.
“Well,” Brad said when the silence stretched on too long, “you’re officially my first guest.”
“I’m honored. Lucky for me, I was there to rescue your errant fruit.”
“Very fortuitous, indeed. You were in the right place at the right time.”
“I don’t think we can give destiny the credit here. I was just leaving work.”
“Oh, you work close by?”
“Next door at the Maverick Heritage Center. I’m Curator of the museum there.”
Brad paused with his mug halfway to his lips. “Curator? How old are you?”
As if mirroring her host, Neisha now paused with her mug halfway to her lips. That half-smile of hers, which Brad imagined probably drove many a man wild, resurfaced. “Didn’t your Mama teach you never to ask a lady her age?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean— It’s just, you don’t look old enough to be out of college, much less have a job like that.”
“Okay, for that I will forgive your preceding transgression. College is definitely in my rearview, but I’m not going to tell you how many miles back.”
Brad, eager to draw attention away from his faux pas, said, “Did you go to school around here?”
“No, actually I got my Masters in Historical Studies from Tulane University. I was planning to stay in New Orleans after I graduated, but then my grandmother fell ill and I came home to help care for her. Savannah got her claws back into me and I replanted my roots.”
“It’s a beautiful place.”
“It really is. Growing up here, I don’t think I fully realized that, but being gone for a few years gave me a new appreciation for the city. And although Savannah is a lot more touristy since that damn Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil book, it’s still less garish and tacky than New Orleans.”
“I must admit I was once one of those garish, tacky tourists myself. I fell in love with Savannah about a decade ago during a vacation.”
“Back before you were a world-famous author, huh?”
Brad laughed. “Yeah, back then I was working for my hometown paper writing obituaries.”
“So your work hasn’t changed too much; you’re still writing about death.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
“I’ll confess I haven’t actually read any of your books. I know of you by reputation, but I’m a bit too squeamish for horror. A mystery, on the other hand, suits me just fine.”
“Hey, to each his own. Or her own. I like mysteries, too; in some ways they share similar elements with horror.”
Neisha leaned forward and placed her mug on the table, then stood and walked over to the large fireplace. Her attention seemed to be focused on the abstract watercolor hanging on the wall above the marble mantel. A sweeping blend of pastels, which was rather soothing to look at, even though Brad didn’t know what the hell it was supposed to be. After a few moments of studying the painting, Neisha crossed over to the opposite wall to scrutinize another piece hanging between the two windows facing the square. Another abstract, but Brad thought he could detect the hint of a face in the strokes of this one.
“These are stunning,” Neisha finally said.
“Yes, they’re by a local artist, actually.”
“Really? Who?”
“Um, I can’t remember the name.”
“Male or female?”
“Hmm, I think, maybe . . . okay, I’m busted, I didn’t pick out any of the furnishings or artwork in the house. I hired an interior decorator, and she handled all of it. I know she mentioned these pieces were by a local artist, but that’s all I remember.”
Neisha looked back at him and smiled. “No shame in that. She did a fabulous job. In fact, the entire transformation this house has undergone is astounding.” She returned to the chair. “Though I couldn’t help but notice during the restoration, you seemed to have a little trouble with the construction crew.”
Brad groaned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, at first I hired a local company, and it turned out to be a nightmare. They were constantly behind schedule, not meeting deadlines, but of course they always claimed the delays weren’t their fault. It was a barrage of excuses. Equipment breaking down, materials gone missing, they even claimed some days they’d show up to find the work they’d done the previous day undone by unknown vandals. After almost six months of this, I spoke with the foreman on the phone and he suggested the ‘evil spirits’ residing in the house were responsible for all the problems. That was the final straw for me; I fired the company and hired one from out of town. Just as I predicted, they had no problems and got the job done quickly and efficiently.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“It’s obvious. The locals grew up hearing all the spooky stories about this house, had it drilled into their brains this is one of the most haunted spots in the city.”
“Power of suggestion?”
Brad spread his hands and shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s at least psychologically possible that being fed a steady diet of those kinds of tales could . . . color one’s perception. Have you jumping at shadows and reading sinister intentions into the most mundane occurrences. I don’t think it’s inconceivable it could even foster a need to create circumstances that would lend credence to the stories.”
“Not to sound like a cynic, but there’s another possibility. Someone enterprising and unscrupulous could even use the legends surrounding the house as an excuse to pad the job and therefore bilk the owner out of more money.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too,” Brad said with a chuckle. “All I know is I hired some folks from out of town who didn’t know much about the house, and they got through the job without a single story of ghostly interference.”
“Well, growing up here, I certainly heard all the stories about this house, not to mention various others, but as a historian, I’ve done my research and discovered a lot of those stories are just bullshit.”
“So General Wilson’s young daughter didn’t really die tied to a chair in front of these windows?”
“First of all, Benjamin Wilson was never a General in the Civil War. He was a cotton merchant. He and his wife moved into this house with their three sons and two daughters, none of which died here as far as I can tell. In fact, both daughters lived into adulthood, the youngest marrying into a very prominent Savannah family, the oldest living until 1942.”
Brad shook his head. “It’s amazing the ghost tour companies can be allowed to just fabricate stories like that.”
“Well, there were some actual real people involved in that story. Not like the tale of the murdered teenagers in the 50s or 60s.”
“Yeah, I heard it was completely made up.”
“Absolutely no truth to it whatsoever. Trust me, I scoured the local paper archives and came up empty-handed. I find it hard to believe murders that gruesome could take place without any news coverage. Also could find no evidence there had even been a police investigation for a crime fitting the description. Pure fantasy, plain and simple.”
Brad raised his coffee mug in Neisha’s direction as if toasting her. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to meet someone in this city that doesn’t think my house is haunted.”
“Not so fast, I didn’t say that.”
Throwing his head back, Brad made a sound part groan/part laugh. “You telling me you believe in ghosts too?”
“I’m not sure you can grow up in Savannah and not believe in ghosts,” Neisha said with a smile, and then finished her coffee in one long swallow. “While most of the stories about this house are as fake as a reality TV show, there is at least one that is rooted in bona fide fact. The land in this area was indeed once a slave cemetery that the city planners built on top of.”
Brad stood and wandered over to the glass door leading onto the balcony, where he could look down on the side yard. It was a bit of a mess out there, the shrubbery grown into monstrous tangles, the grass dry and brown except for bald spots in the lawn. Luckily, the landscaper was scheduled to start working at the beginning of next week. “So you’re saying there are caskets full of bodies beneath our feet?”
“I doubt most slaves were buried in caskets. Just dig a hole and throw them in, more like it.”
“Then why is it just my house that’s supposedly haunted?” Brad asked, turning his back to the window. “Why aren’t there spirits over at the Maverick Center, or haunting Crenshaw Square itself?”
“Who says there aren’t?”
Brad laughed softly and decided to drop the subject. He wondered why he always found himself in such debates, but he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising considering the subject matter he dealt with in his books.
“So,” he said, “would you like a tour of the rest of the house?”
Neisha glanced at her watch. “I think I’ll have to take a rain check. I should probably get home before my grandmother starts to worry.”
“Of course, I’ll walk you out.”
“Very gentlemanly of you.”
On the stoop, Brad said, “Stop by sometime after work and I’ll give you the tour.”
“Count on it.”
She walked down the steps, paused, and looked back when Brad called her name.
“I was just wondering, it sounds like you spent a lot of time looking into the history of my house.”
“Oh yes, there was a period when I was quite obsessed with it.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
Neisha leaned against the iron railing and tilted her head. “My family has lived in this area for generations, and it dates back to the pre-Civil War days. Some of my kin are buried in the plot of land on which your house stands.”
Brad wasn’t sure how to respond to this revelation, so he merely nodded and shifted awkwardly on his feet.
“You have a good night,” Neisha said. “And good luck.”
With a wave, she made her way back to the sidewalk and took a left onto Gordon Street. Brad stood there, enjoying the cool breeze ruffling his hair, not sure how he felt about the encounter with Neisha. She knew a lot about the house; he wouldn’t mind talking with her some more in the future.
Two unusual meetings with two unusual people in one day, and he’d offered to give both of them tours of the house. Well, he’d wanted to be more social.
With a bemused smile, Brad walked back inside and closed the door.
