COWETA WEEKEND

A ghost tour seemed like just the remedy after an unusually stressful couple of weeks at work and home.

I am fascinated by the unexplained, but I know better than to go looking for trouble. I enjoy exploring cemeteries – in the daytime – but I don’t go near ouija boards and I don’t try to summon dead people in mirrors. I already have an unintentional knack for “fooling around and finding out,” as my Gram would say. No point in opening up some theoretical portal to the afterlife just to have her scold me from the other side for interrupting her well-deserved eternal nap.

This one time, though, I was prepared to set aside everything I learned from horror movies, Stephen King novels and growing up with four brothers who liked to jump out from behind things. I ponied up six bucks for a ghost hunting app so I could approach things from a scientific perspective (as one does).

By the time I joined the rest of my group in the lobby of the Georgia Tour Company, though, I’d already chickened out of using those “ghost tools.” I convinced myself it was more practical to use my phone’s voice recorder, because I didn’t want to miss any good stories and I was already juggling my phone and a hefty digital camera.

And if my voice recorder happened to pick up something else? Well, I didn’t go looking for it, so I would be fine.

After introducing ourselves to Sally Toole in the tour’s headquarters – crowded with signed memorabilia, knick-knacks, morbid curiosities and all the other essentials of a tourist-driven business – we headed for the bus, with a quick pause to meet Butterscotch, the yellow town tabby.

As is usually the case with ghost tours, the best part of the Senoia Spirit Stroll are the stories that form the foundation of the excursion – stories about births and deaths, families and change, love and hate, history and growth, all not-so-neatly wrapped together in one small Southern town; the mysterious stranger who visited two young girls to warn them of a fire, then disappeared; seances on the porch of a local home; the unmistakable rush of angel wings at the exact moment a beloved mother passed away; the newborn cries of ‘Our Baby’ in the home of a childless couple; the house that required visitors to ask permission before it would allow them inside.

We set out in hot evening sunlight to start the tour in the town cemetery. Staying within earshot of the group, I wandered off to explore alone. The sky darkened and the wind began to pick up, and I had a brief flashback of a trip years ago to a Port St. Joseph, Florida cemetery and its mass grave of yellow fever victims. As my husband loaded our children into our minivan, I’d lingered to read the historical marker. He decided to hurry me along with a spine-chilling, “They’re coming for you, Barbara,” the line from “Night of the Living Dead” that is uttered about 10 minutes before the furthest I have ever made it into that movie.

The idea of flesh-eating zombies leaves me unreasonably terrified, and it suddenly occurred to me that I was in the town of The Walking Dead. I hot-stepped my way closer to the group to finish the cemetery tour.

Back on the bus, Sally told the story of dead ringers. During yellow fever outbreaks, she said, towns rushed to bury the victims, who weren’t always dead. Bells were attached to the wrists of those who were buried quickly so that if they awoke from the coma-like state often mistaken for death, these dead ringers could be rescued. Those who sat up during the night to listen for ringing bells were said to work the graveyard shift.

Her story did not help me overcome my earlier uneasiness. However, as we drove through town and Sally pointed out former homes of the current cemetery residents (and one very special man-made fishing lake), her stories made me feel a strong connection to Senoia through the people who had once lived there.

By the time we arrived at the Veranda Inn and carefully picked our way in the dark among the tree roots and vines in our path, there was no more creeping horror. In its place was genuine curiosity about the little boy who died generations ago after drinking tainted well water – and who now supposedly haunts the popular bed-and-breakfast.

We finished up back at the Georgia Tour Company, where Sally talked about how she got into the tour business. She refuses to schedule tours on Friday the 13th and as she related that tale I learned a new word: paraskevidekatriaphobia. I don’t share that particular phobia, but after hearing her story, I don’t blame Sally one bit for staying inside and locking her doors when those days come around.

Among hundreds of photos I took during our tour, I found just one tiny oddity. Two members of our group who took live photos caught some unexplained movement, and one says her phone will not hold a charge since she “caught that ghost.”

As for my voice recordings, well, let’s just say you might want to download some ghost tools of your own before you board that bus for the cemetery. NCM

The drive to Senoia was quiet. Henry, my 14-year-old son, doesn’t talk much anymore. It’s hard to believe that the little boy who once relentlessly questioned me about how the world worked had grown into such a taciturn young man.

“Do you think we’re going to see any ghosts?” I asked, desperate for conversation on our way to Georgia Tour Company to take part in their weekly Spirit Stroll of Senoia. Henry looked up from his phone, almost surprised I was still there.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, returning to his text conversation; I turned up my music, resigned to another missed attempt at connection. “Maybe, but probably not.”

We were the first of the group to arrive, and I made small talk with Sally Toole, our tour guide, ready to apologize for Henry’s reticence when, suddenly, that child yelled at me across the storefront. “Mom! Mom! Come look!”

I had forgotten that, for his 14th birthday, one of the things Henry asked for was permission to start watching “The Walking Dead.” Paused in the middle of the third season, and obsessed with the show, Henry was fascinated by the memorabilia strewn through the Georgia Tour Company’s shop in downtown Senoia. Sally grinned.

“Oh, now he’s interested,” she winked at me conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got eight grandchildren. I can handle this.”

As the rest of our party trickled in, Sally took a few moments with Henry, asking seemingly banal, innocent questions. To my surprise, he warmed to her right away. Sally asked him to carry her lantern on the stroll, he shyly agreed, and we set off.

On our first stop, a historic cemetery filled with the graves of Senoia’s founding families, Henry quietly snapped photos, occasionally texting one to a friend. I surreptitiously rolled my eyes, damn-near certain he wasn’t listening to a thing Sally said.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. When Sally began talking about how many of Senoia’s early residents died of yellow fever, Henry lit up. “We talked about this in school!”

Sally honed in on his sudden interest in the topic, asking him to explain the concept of “Dead Ringers” to the group. Henry prattled on, then trailed off, embarrassed at his own enthusiastic display. My co-worker Misha, who is well-acquainted with Henry’s often monosyllabic responses to her questions, leaned in and whispered to me, “Jill. He’s talking.”

From that moment, the tour, packed with fascinating historical information and often amusing anecdotes about Senoians both living and dead, captured both of our imaginations: Henry was excited about the movie trivia Sally wove into the narrative, and I was excited that, after 18 months of learning through a Chromebook screen, Henry was talking, listening, laughing and engaging again.

That evening, Sally not only brought history to life, she revived my sullen, pandemic-weary son. Henry might not have seen any ghosts, but I did: the spectre of the relentlessly curious, unapologetically enthusiastic little boy my now-teenager had once been. NCM