Savannah has a funny way of reminding you that you’re not always the one in control of the evening.

The Story

One night, I was in the middle of leading my ghost tour when my sporran suddenly unclasped itself and dropped to the ground.

If you don’t know what a sporran is, it’s basically the Scottish equivalent of a fanny pack. I like to joke that they invented it.

Now here’s why that was strange: the hardware that holds my sporran on my waist is not flimsy costume junk. It’s heavy-duty, like horse riding tack. It should not just pop open on its own.

And yet, in the middle of the tour, with no warning at all, it just… unclasped.

Fortunately, I have enough extra girth around my waist that the thing didn’t go flying dramatically into the street. It sort of dropped and hung there, which somehow made it even funnier.

It had never happened before.

It has never happened since.

So was it a ghost? Mechanical failure? A spirit with a sense of humor and questionable boundaries?

I can’t say for sure.

But I can say this: when you spend enough nights walking Savannah after dark, telling stories about the dead, every now and then the city seems to answer back.

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Want More Than One Story?

That’s kind of my whole job.

I lead ghost tours, history tours, private tours, and paranormal experiences in Savannah — told the way I actually tell them, not from a stiff script and not with fake spooky nonsense.

And yes, if you found this page from the sandwich board, you’re exactly the kind of person I like meeting on tour.