Spectral Savannah

Welcome, adventurer! You stand at the threshold of countless worlds. Where would you like to go? Or perhaps tell me what kind of universe you wish to explore?

You stand on a cobblestone street in Savannah's historic district. Spanish moss sways from oak trees as ghostly figures drift between antebellum mansions. Spectral whispers fill the humid air. Where in haunted Savannah would you like to explore?

You're outside the Six Pence Pub, a quaint British-style tavern with its iconic red telephone booth nearby. Through the windows, patrons drink alongside translucent figures. A ghostly woman in Victorian dress beckons you from the entrance.

You approach the iconic red telephone booth. Up close, you notice spectral fingerprints smudging its glass panels. The vintage rotary phone inside appears to ring silently - the dial spinning on its own. A faint, ethereal light pulses within.

You squeeze into the booth. The air turns frigid. As your fingers touch the dial, it stops moving. You dial 2-12-85-06 with trembling hands. The booth fills with eerie blue light as whispers surround you. The floor begins to descend like an elevator!

As the booth descends, a spectral figure materializes—a bearded man with knowing eyes and an otherworldly aura. He hums a haunting melody in Russian. “Not quite Boris Grebenshchikov,” he chuckles with an accent, “but perhaps a ghostly admirer of his music.”

The ghost's eyes widen in recognition. “Это твой номер!” he exclaims, his form flickering intensely to the rhythm of the words. The booth walls dissolve, revealing a spectral Soviet-era concert hall frozen in time, filled with translucent figures swaying to ethereal music.

You step through the hazy threshold. Outside, a spectral Leningrad materializes. Two translucent KGB agents in long coats materialize, their stern faces flickering between human and skull-like visages. They eye you suspiciously, whispering into ghostly radios.

You approach them with defiance. “The USSR is dead,” you declare, eyes burning with contempt. The agents freeze, their faces contorting in horror. One agent's form flickers violently as ghostly tears of blood streak down his face. “Lies!” he hisses, the air around you growing dangerously cold.

The words hit like psychic bullets. “The archives…” gasps one agent, his form destabilizing. Documents materialize in the air—spectral KGB files with names, dates, secrets. The ghosts begin to fragment, the street around you cracking like glass as Soviet propaganda posters peel and burn.

Your words twist reality further. The agents howl as more spectral files appear—hidden truths, personal contradictions. “Secrets… all exposed,” one chokes out as their uniforms dissolve. The Soviet ghostworld fractures around you, history and propaganda collapsing as buried truths surface.

You dash toward the phone booth as reality unravels. Ghostly Soviet architecture crumbles, KGB specters disintegrate into mist. You dive into the booth as everything implodes! The rotary dial spins wildly, blue light engulfs you, and suddenly—you're back outside Six Pence Pub in Savannah.

You enter the warm pub, still shaking from your spectral journey. The bartender, a burly man with knowing eyes, polishes a glass that occasionally turns transparent. “Six Pence? It's from the old British coin,” he chuckles. “Legend says the seventh penny belongs to the dead.”

The bartender reaches beneath the counter and produces an old sixpence coin. It's a small silver piece with the profile of King George VI on one side and a Tudor rose on the reverse. As you look closer, the king's face seems to shift expression, his eyes following your movement as ghostly fingerprints appear and vanish on its surface.

The bartender laughs heartily. “Then we'd be changing signs weekly!” His shadow briefly splits into three. “Six Pence isn't just money—it's history. Besides,” he lowers his voice, “the spirits get mighty upset with change. Last owner who suggested 'Seven Pence' found every glass shattered each morning.”

The bartender slides you a weathered menu. Spectral fingerprints briefly appear across its surface. It features “Phantom Fish & Chips,” “Haunted Shepherd's Pie,” and “Savannah Specter Shrimp & Grits.” The drink section includes “Ghostly Guinness” that occasionally levitates from the glass.

“On tap today,” the bartender gestures to six brass handles. “Traditional Guinness, Bass Ale, Fuller's London Pride, and local favorites—'Midnight Magnolia Stout,' 'Colonial Ghost IPA,' and 'Oglethorpe's Revenge Porter.' The porter's foam forms skull shapes that watch you drink.”

You order all six pints. By the fourth, the room tilts unnervingly. Ghostly patrons grin as your fifth pint slips through your fingers—literally through your now-translucent hand! “Easy there,” warns the bartender. “Drink too much here, you start crossing over yourself.”

The bartender nods and your order appears suspiciously quickly. Steam rises from a perfectly browned Shepherd's Pie, but the steam forms tiny wailing faces. The meat inside occasionally twitches. “Our chef died during the Revolutionary War,” explains the bartender. “Still makes a mean pie.”

You dig in. The pie tastes extraordinary—flavors from another century. With each bite, brief flashes of Colonial Savannah appear in your mind: redcoats marching, horse-drawn carriages. Your heartbeat temporarily syncs with distant drumming. The bartender nods approvingly as you finish.

You grab the remaining beers, determined. Halfway through the fifth pint, your vision splits—seeing both the pub and a Revolutionary War battlefield simultaneously. The sixth pint slips through your completely transparent hand, crashing down. “That's enough,” the bartender says firmly, his eyes now glowing.

“Twenty-six dollars,” the bartender says, accepting your payment through slightly-transparent fingers. “And a sixpence for luck.” He slides a coin across.

Outside, Savannah's night air feels surprisingly solid. Ghostly figures observe from alleyways as you stumble down cobblestone streets, still seeing occasional flashes of colonial days.

The bartender's eyes twinkle with mischief. “A collector, eh?” He reaches beneath the counter, producing a small velvet pouch. Inside gleam tarnished Spanish reales, Confederate coins, and British farthings. As they touch your palm, whispered stories fill your mind—their previous owners' fates.

The bartender's smile fades. He quickly covers most coins with his hand. “All? Impossible. These souls are bound to Savannah.” His eyes flash unnaturally. “Take one—choose wisely. Each carries its owner's fate. The Confederate half-dollar belonged to a deserter who never escaped.”

You close your eyes, fingers hovering over the coins. Cold and heat pulse beneath your fingertips as you select one. Opening your eyes, you see a worn 1805 Spanish 8 reales. The bartender inhales sharply. “Captain McIntyre's piece. Buried near his ship. The captain still searches for it.”

“Ah, you know your history!” The bartender nods as the coin suddenly warms in your hand. The profile of Carlos IV on the coin seems to turn slightly, looking directly at you. “The captain served Spain before turning privateer. Speaking the king's name binds you to the coin's… responsibilities.”

The coin burns suddenly hot! The bartender backs away as a ghostly mist forms around you. A spectral sea captain materializes, his face twisted with indignation. “Slander the king? I served with honor!” he bellows. Outside, wind howls as ship bells ring from nowhere.

You stare at the coin. Its surface now ripples like liquid silver. Carlos IV's profile continually shifts between the king and Captain McIntyre's weathered face. The date flickers between 1805 and dates of naval battles. Tiny ghostly ships battle across its surface. Blood seeps from the coin's edge.