Rain hit the glistening barren street in cold pellets from the ominous sky, sending steam off the cobbled-stoned pavement as my car circled Reynolds Square. The flame from a tall lantern flickered in the breeze, coaxing me to come inside the softly lit tavern for a warm cognac. Following the invitation, I bustled up the slippery marble stairs onto the white-columned verandah and passed through the doorway to The Olde Pink House.

As I entered the foyer I was surprised to notice that it was empty--not even a Maitre-De? But somebody was staring at me. I could feel it, and being all alone in the silence of the restaurant unnerved my stance. Looking around to find the source of my discomfort, I realized the invader of my soul was merely a picture. The man was of a high stature with an all-knowing smirk upon his face; And those dark eyes let me know he had been expecting me. Walking towards the stairs that descend to the lounge, I felt his eyes following me, and looking out of the corner of my own eyes, I confirmed that indeed they were. For he had a story he wanted to tell. I could read it on his face and it gave me chills as his glare continued until I was no longer in his view.

“The man in the portrait is James Habersham, the founder of this house. It’s a creepy picture, all right. I won’t even look at it. When I walk through the front room, I make sure to keep my back to him,” confides a tall, lean and most-friendly server who approached me as I curiously looked about the lounge. He seemed more than willing to share the secrets that constantly whispered in every piece of wooden furniture, dancing picture, and decaying brick. Many stories were waiting to be told about this building, having been here since 1771.

The Olde Pink House is but one of the many haunted mansions located around one of the twenty-four squares, famous for its spanish-mossed oak trees, strategically planned by Savannah’s founder, James Oglethorpe. The house was built out of native red brick, which from over the years began to bleed changing the house into its now shocking color of carnation pink--an embarrassment I’m sure, to such a wealthy family of that time. Out of my own curiosity I went on Savannah’s ghost walk tour to learn more about the spirit-infested downtown area, but to my dismay was ruined by a horrible story-telling guide who made us laugh at stupid one-liners more than shutter in fear. However, the Pink House spoke for itself that night and intrigued me enough to come back to explore on my own.

Jazz music resounded in inviting deep pitches through the cozy basement, sung by a woman with large rimmed glasses, as the candle-lit room danced in time with the warm tones of her voice. Smells of garlic, wine, and mint permeated the air intoxicating the murmuring guests. As lazy but welcome eyes followed my every move, I felt as if I was but another masterpiece in James’ house.

For some reason my gaze kept returning to the corner of the brick-walled lounge, which had formerly been the kitchen. An enormous wooden vault door shut tightly sparked my interest, so much so I could not quit staring at its foreboding existence.

“That is the door to the wine cellar. Would you like to go inside?” my informant asked. I took heed of the offer, but cringed at a thought that jumped into my racing mind. I pictured remnants of skeletal remains of an entrapped victim who might have accidentally been left there. But to my slight disappointment, there was nothing but racks upon racks of burgundy, merlot, and pinot noir.

“I don’t usually tell this to other guests, but James was said to have hung himself down here. His wife, Mary Bolton, had been having an affair with the architect. There used to be a twin cellar to this one on the other side of the fireplace that separated the two. But it caved in and was bricked off, and nobody knows what was in there at the time. Maybe someday they’ll dig it out and find some surprises.”

For some reason I wasn’t surprised. My suspicions had been confirmed. Every piece of the décor that caught my eye had a story behind it. The velveteen chair on the side where the other vault door had been was old James Habersham’s. Several different bartenders made notice of a strange, yet nicely dressed man, who sitting upon that chair would sip upon Madeira, and watch the ongoings of the gossiping, full-bellied, drunken guests.

“The Habersham family made their money on selling Madeira,” stated my newfound friend. “The story is that James materializes to oversee that the guests of his house are enjoying themselves to their fullest extent. Although I must confess that I haven’t seen him, much to my disappointment. But some of the others have seen James, as well as two more ghosts.”

Mesmerized by the sight of the chair that James sat in, I made my way to the corner and sat by myself to perhaps get a glimpse of what so many others were vowing to have seen. I didn’t encounter anything of a supernatural significance, but I did hear odds and ends of various conversations that made me feel like I was tuned into Savannah’s very own “Days of our Lives”. Tales of worthless garbage with a raised eyebrow and a tell-me-more shake of the head hummed lowly throughout the room. Perhaps this was how James kept on the up and up of Savannah. Very entertaining!

Another sight worth mentioning was a chubby older man with thick glasses who sat upon the edge of the fireplace right next to the grand piano. He said nothing, but just sat there sipping on his cocktail and puffing upon a cigar, while listening intently to the low tones of the woman singing. I asked about him hoping that maybe he was one of the other ghosts of the house. But he was only the woman entertainer’s husband.

“You’re not the only one who has asked about him. People are curious about him all the time. People are always looking about as if anyone could be a ghost,” the server remarked. “In fact, a man came up to me while you were looking about upstairs and asked where you had disappeared to so suddenly without him noticing. He thought you seemed strange sitting there all by yourself. And since one of the ghosts of The Pink House is a girl, he assumed it must be you.”

Now that was the best thing I had heard all night. I was now a part of this house. Ghost or not, I had been another story. Smiling to myself at this fact, I noticed that I was the only one left. All the satisfied guests had made their wobbling ways up the wooden spiral stairs and out the door without me even taking notice. Since my glass of Grand Marnier was now empty, I decided that it was also my time to leave.

I had not seen an apparition of any kind, but I had heard many stories and been a star of another, and it had been enlightening. In fact, that is what made this house so alive. Years upon years of stories, starting with the Habersham’s life here, then to its use as a bank, to the brief time the lounge had been a gay bar, and now its present use, make The Olde Pink House. I suspect that it actually thrives upon these hundreds and hundreds of stories. And on my way out the door I stared at old James’ portrait, hesitant to break my gaze. But this time I smirked right along with him, because we both knew that I would be back.