AUTHOR LINKS \u00a0EXCERPT\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I <\/b> Excerpted from THE KEEPER OF LONELY SPIRITS by E.M. Anderson. Copyright \u00a9 2025 \u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
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<\/span><\/span>
\n
A spirit was lurking in the stairwell of the historic steps on Savannah\u2019s
\nwaterfront.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
For months, the steps had been even more treacherous than usual. Not only
\ntourists but folks who had lived in Savannah all their lives had slipped going
\nup or down\u2014skinned knees, scraped hands, laughed nervously and said they must
\nhave missed a stair or misjudged the height. A few accused friends of pushing
\nthem, but said friends vehemently denied it, accusing the accusers of
\nclumsiness in turn.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
At last, a tourist had broken a leg and threatened to sue the city. Never mind
\nthe signs at either end, warning users the steps were historical and therefore
\nnot up to code. The signs probably would have prevented the success of such a
\nlawsuit, but the city, tired of complaints, hung caution tape across the
\nstairwell, and closure signs for good measure, and turned their attention to
\nother things.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Unbeknownst to them, the unassuming old white man standing before the steps in
\nthe wee hours of a mild April morning hoped to solve their problem before the
\nsun rose.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He didn\u2019t look like a ghost-hunter. He was tall and thin, with blue eyes, a
\nhawkish nose, and thin lips that rarely smiled. Just now, a messenger bag was
\nslung over his shoulder. Dressed in flannel, jeans, and work boots, he looked
\nlike a farmer\u2014which he wasn\u2019t but had been in his boyhood some two centuries
\nago.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Now he was a groundskeeper. At Colonial Park Cemetery for the present, but not
\nfor much longer if all went well this morning.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He thumbed up the brim of his flat cap, contemplating the stairwell and the
\nspirit therein. No corporeal form, but a haze of color and smell and emotion, a
\nrotted greenish brown that smelled like Georgia\u2019s coastal salt marshes but
\nmore. The whole stairwell was mucky with fear. Windows rattled in the buildings
\non either side.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The groundskeeper glanced down the street, saw no one, lifted the caution tape
\nand stepped under it.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
A cloud of fear enveloped him. Rot oozed on his tongue, a phantom feeling of
\nsludge. When he\u2019d been young and freshly cursed, the spirits\u2019 swell of emotion
\nhad overwhelmed him. He\u2019d drowned in it, unable to separate the feelings of the
\ndead from his own. They\u2019d scared him, the feelings. The voices, not that they
\nwere precisely voices. For decades, he\u2019d avoided them when he could, ignored
\nthem when he couldn\u2019t. Even Jack had never known about them.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
These days, the dead comforted him: company he didn\u2019t fear losing and never got
\nto know too well. The closest to death he ever came. A reason for him to live,
\nif there were a reason when life had been too long already.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Of course, there was the curse. But the curse wasn\u2019t a reason to live so much
\nas the thing keeping him alive.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The windows rattled harder. The rusting metal handrail in the center of the
\nsteps groaned.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The groundskeeper sucked in his cheeks, hoping he at last had good information.
\nHe\u2019d spotted the spirit right off, soon as he\u2019d visited the east end of River
\nStreet, but he\u2019d had a devilish time finding anything out about it. When his
\nusual hunt through libraries and newspapers failed him, he\u2019d resorted to riding
\naround with the tourists on three of Savannah\u2019s many ghost tours. The last had
\nset him on the right track, after two hours on a cramped trolley beside an Ohio
\nteen who never once let up complaining.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
This ghost tour was nothing, the teen had said. He\u2019d spent loads of time in the
\ncemetery back home, and it was way scarier. He\u2019d seen ghosts at home. He\u2019d
\nthought they were going to see one on the tour, too, and didn\u2019t their guide
\nhave any better ghost stories?
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The groundskeeper, of course, had actually seen several spirits on the tour.
\nBut in the absence of anyone under age twelve, he was the only one. As the
\ntrolley bumped over the cobbles, tilting alarmingly on the steep ramp down to
\nRiver Street, the tourists saw the still water, the three-story riverboat
\nGeorgia Queen docked alongside the quay, the dark windows of the
\nnineteenth-century storefronts lining the near side of the street. The
\ngroundskeeper saw the dead.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Most ghost tours\u2014most ghost stories\u2014were largely hogwash, but they often
\ncontained nuggets of truth. In this case, the guide had told the tragic tale of
\ntwo tween girls who had disappeared less than a year ago. The police had barely
\nbothered looking for them; the disappearance had never been solved. Their
\nghosts had allegedly been spotted over a dozen times in the last six months,
\nalways on the waterfront: they\u2019d ask strangers for help, only to vanish when
\npeople tried to take a closer look. Hogwash\u2014partly. The spirit in the stairwell
\nwas a newer one, young and scared, so the groundskeeper had investigated any
\ndisappearances reported in Savannah in the past year. In a newspaper article
\ndated nine months back, he\u2019d found a small paragraph mentioning the
\ndisappearance of two tween girls and instructing anyone with information to go
\nto the police. Less than a week later, one girl had been found, traumatized but
\nalive, at which point all information about the incident had dried up. The
\nother girl, the groundskeeper reckoned, had never been found and was likely
\ndead.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
What there were of the spirit\u2019s memories fit such a story. It remembered
\nneither life nor death, only the confused terror of its last moments. The
\nclearest glimpse the groundskeeper had gotten was the frightened face of a
\ngirl: the one who\u2019d been found. This, then, might well be the girl who hadn\u2019t.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He\u2019d returned to the waterfront this morning to find out. To send her on, if he
\ncould, into whatever awaited in the hereafter, before she did something worse
\nthan break a tourist\u2019s leg.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cLayla Brown,\u201d he said.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The spirit twisted toward him. He let out a soft breath. Finally. The right
\nname. A name alone often wasn\u2019t enough to calm a spirit, but names had power,
\nhis mam had always said. This spirit\u2019s name had been buried nearly as deep as
\nhis own: Peter Shaughnessy, a name no one now living knew and the last
\nconnection he had\u2014aside from an old pocket watch\u2014to his family and the place
\nhe\u2019d been born and raised and cursed.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cLayla Brown,\u201d he repeated more forcefully.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The spirit shuddered. The nearest window splintered.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cSure, there\u2019s no need for that. Ain\u2019t here to bother you none. Here to help,
\nis all.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She hung over him like a storm cloud. His heart stuttered, but he reassured
\nhimself that she couldn\u2019t touch him. His messenger bag was filled with iron,
\nsalt, yellow flowers, various herbs.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She could bust a window over his head, though. If she was stronger than he
\nthought, she could whip up a wind that\u2019d send him tumbling down the steps, same
\nas if she\u2019d pushed him herself.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cDied bad, it seems,\u201d he said softly. \u201cNever found. That right?\u201d The rot
\nsoured, her fear tinged with regret. She wasn\u2019t strong enough to take form, but
\na faint whisper echoed in his ears. Even that much took more power than most
\nghosts had, but speech took less than corporeality.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Keisha.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
And he knew what she wanted.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cThey found Keisha,\u201d he said. \u201cWhatever happened to you, she didn\u2019t share in
\nit.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The spirit wheeled and shifted. Wind moaned, ruffling his shirt and the caution
\ntape behind him. Images flashed before his eyes like a slideshow. That same
\nfrightened face he\u2019d seen before: Keisha. A rough hand gripping a thin wrist.
\nThe steps, slick with rain. A sudden burst of pain in her temple, a scream,
\nsneakers squeaking. Then, nothing.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She was remembering her death.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The wind howled in the stairwell. The groundskeeper slipped, gripped the
\nshaking handrail. Shivered, blinked the images away before they could overwhelm
\nhim.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cLayla!\u201d he shouted. \u201cLayla Brown!\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
A window shattered. The groundskeeper ducked, hoping the building was empty at
\nthis hour. Glass rained on his cap. She\u2019d gripped onto his words about what had
\nhappened to her, same as she\u2019d held tight to her fear the past nine months. If
\nhe didn\u2019t remind her of something else soon, there\u2019d be no calming her.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He dug into his messenger bag, searching for the beaded bracelet he\u2019d stashed
\nthere yesterday afternoon. He hadn\u2019t wanted to use it, if he didn\u2019t have to,
\naware of its importance and concerned so small a thing might be destroyed or lost
\nin the confrontation.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cLayla Brown,\u201d he repeated, more forcefully than ever as the wind threatened to
\nswallow his voice. The caution tape fluttered, ripped itself from its
\nfastenings, and blew away. \u201cLook here.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He thrust the bracelet out.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The wind died. The windows stopped rattling. The handrail stilled. A thin,
\nbutter-yellow strand of affection threaded through the greenish brown of the
\nspirit\u2019s fear.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
A new memory emerged. Two girls, younger, maybe ten or so, singing loudly and
\noff-key to a pop song as they braided embroidery floss into friendship
\nbracelets. They shouted out the chorus and fell giggling to the ground, pelting
\neach other with lettered beads.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The bracelet in the groundskeeper\u2019s hand was grubbier now. The embroidery floss
\nwas fraying; the lettering on one of the beads had worn away. But it was still
\nlegible.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Best friends 4ever.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Keisha Adeyemi had tied it to a fence post during the candlelight vigil for
\nLayla Brown held outside their middle school not two days ago.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cKeisha\u2019s all right,\u201d the groundskeeper said. \u201cNewspaper didn\u2019t say much but
\nthat she\u2019d been found, but she left that for you.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The spirit softened. The rotten fearful smell lessened, the feeling of sludge
\non his tongue with it. He breathed deep. Used to it, he was, after dealing with
\nthe dead for so long, but it was a relief nonetheless when they calmed down.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cShe\u2019s all right,\u201d he repeated. \u201cBut you been scaring people\u2014 hurt some of \u2019em,
\ntoo. Aye, you have.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She rattled a window, not as vigorously as before, annoyed with the accusation.
\nShe\u2019d never hurt anyone in her life, she insisted.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cIn life, maybe not. Now you have. Best for you and everyone else if you let go
\nof all that fear and move on, now you know Keisha\u2019s all right.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The handrail groaned, swaying back and forth. The nearest support rattled, then
\nripped out of the ground, bending the rail and leaving a crack behind. For a
\nmoment, he thought he was losing her again.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Then the shaking stopped.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Eyeing the ghost, the groundskeeper bent to examine the crack. Wedged into the
\nstone was a friendship bracelet matching the one in his hand. More of the
\nlettering was worn away; the braiding was frayed and broken. The groundskeeper
\nplucked it carefully from the stone with a handkerchief, like it was made of
\ndiamonds and pearls instead of embroidery floss and plastic beads. The spirit
\nsighed around him.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cThis one\u2019s yours, is it?\u201d She confirmed it. He hesitated. \u201cYou understand,\u201d he
\nsaid, \u201clikely they won\u2019t find who done this to you even if I send it along.\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She agreed, going gray like the Spanish moss draping Savannah\u2019s many live oaks.
\nNot scared, now. Just sad and regretful, wishing she weren\u2019t dead.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The groundskeeper ignored that particular wish. His own wants, to the extent he
\nallowed himself any, tended the opposite way. He empathized with the dead,
\nunderstood them. But he envied them, too.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cNo helping that, now. I\u2019ll make sure whoever you want to have it gets it.
\nPromise. But you got to let go. All right?\u201d
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She twisted over the twin bracelets in his hands, faintly yellow again. Glad to
\nknow her friend was okay, if nothing else.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He wished he could do more for her. Spirits of children were his least
\nfavorites. Not because of the spirits themselves\u2014they were no worse, nor
\nbetter, than any others. He just didn\u2019t like knowing how young they\u2019d died, and
\nso often terribly.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
\u201cTell me about Keisha,\u201d he said.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
She didn\u2019t speak, of course. Instead, she shared memories. Two girls on the
\nswing set, daring each other to jump off the higher they flew. Painting each
\nother\u2019s nails in a bright purple bedroom. Holding hands, skipping home from
\nschool in the rain. In every memory, both of them, together.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The groundskeeper\u2019s insides twisted. It\u2019d been a long time since he\u2019d been that
\nclose with anyone. He said nothing, did nothing, merely stood as silent witness
\nto the ghost\u2019s memories of the friend she was leaving behind.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The spirit glowed softly gold, shimmering like morning mist.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
As the memories faded, she faded alongside them, until at last she winked out.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The stairwell was dark and empty, the air clear. Layla Brown\u2019s fear had gone
\nalong with her.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
The groundskeeper breathed deep, feeling like a weight had lifted off him. For
\na moment, he was satisfied. Another spirit sent on, at peace now, he hoped.
\nLiving folks saved further trouble, even if none of them realized it.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
Then he looked at the bent handrail, the busted support, the shattered glass,
\nand he sighed. Easier to deal with a haunting\u2019s aftermath when the spirit was
\nconfined to a cemetery, where there was less to destroy and destruction could
\nmore easily be explained by natural phenomenon.
<\/span><\/span>
\n
He stuck the support back in the stone and reattached the rail, swept the glass
\nto the side. He found the caution tape a ways down the street. Best he could,
\nhe hung it back across the stairwell\u2019s entrance before trudging uphill and
\nuptown to tie the two friendship bracelets back on the fence by the school.
<\/span><\/span>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n
\nby E.M. Anderson. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HTP\/HarperCollins<\/i><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
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