A Savannah Childhood Under Spanish Moss

The stately brick rowhouse at 228 East Oglethorpe Avenue in Savannah sits under a canopy of live oaks and trailing Spanish moss, its red-bricked facade exuding the genteel charm of the 19th-century South. In the late 1800s, this was the childhood home of Conrad Potter Aiken, a boy who would grow up to become one of America’s great poets. Savannah, often called the “Garden City” for its leafy squares and flower-scented air, was a place of both beauty and quiet mystery in young Conrad’s time. Gaslights flickered along brick sidewalks in the humid evenings, and the scent of jasmine mingled with the briny breeze from the nearby river. Across the street from the Aiken home stretched the old Colonial Park Cemetery, its weathered tombs and iron fences a constant reminder that in Savannah, past and present walk hand in hand.

Inside the Aiken house, life was not as peaceful as the idyllic surroundings might suggest. Conrad was the eldest of four children born to Dr. William Ford Aiken and Anna (Nannie) Potter Aiken, a well-to-do couple who had moved south from New England. Dr. Aiken was a respected physician – a talented surgeon and inventor – and outwardly the family projected success and refinement. Conrad’s mother Anna was a vivacious society lady, fond of music, poetry, and lavish gatherings, often filling the home with laughter and piano music during better times. But behind closed doors, Conrad’s parents’ marriage was deeply troubled. The children grew accustomed to the sound of raised voices echoing through the high-ceilinged rooms. Financial strains and Dr. Aiken’s fragile mental state fueled frequent arguments. Neighbors might see the family carriage rolling down Oglethorpe Avenue to church on Sundays, presenting a picture of Victorian propriety, but at night the mansion’s walls trembled with anger and sobs.

For young Conrad, Savannah was a city of wonder laced with foreboding. By day, he played with his siblings in the shade of magnolia trees and chased dragonflies in Forsyth Park; he might peer curiously through the wrought-iron gates of Colonial Park Cemetery at the rows of marble crypts and vaults. The cemetery was a playground of the imagination – vines climbing over centuries-old tombstones, cracked mausoleums where ghostly silence reigned. He heard local tales of voodoo spells and wandering spirits; after all, Savannah’s very soil was rich with history and legend. In the golden haze of a southern afternoon, it was easy for a sensitive child to dream up ghosts in the swaying moss or to fancy that the statues of angels in the graveyard watched him as he passed. These early impressions of beauty and eeriness would later seep into Conrad’s writing, giving it a dreamy, haunting quality. But nothing could compare to the real nightmare that would engulf his family and alter the course of his life forever.

The Tragedy at 228 Oglethorpe

It was the early hours of a winter morning – February 27, 1901 – when Savannah would leave an indelible scar on Conrad Aiken’s soul. The city beyond was dark and still, a low fog clinging to the ground, muffling the gaslight glow. Inside the Aiken residence, eleven-year-old Conrad lay awake in his bed, heart pounding in the silence. Down the hall, his parents had begun arguing once more. He could hear the familiar pattern of his mother’s strained pleas and his father’s deep, agitated voice. This night, however, felt different. The tension had escalated beyond any previous fight; there was a terrifying finality in the air, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

Suddenly, Dr. Aiken’s voice cut through the dark: a furious, deliberate “One. Two. Three.” rang out, each number like the tolling of a bell. Conrad sat bolt upright, every nerve on edge. Before he could scramble out of bed, a piercing scream from his mother sent ice through his veins. Then came the gunshot – an explosive bang that cracked through the quiet Savannah night, making the floorboards tremble. A second gunshot followed immediately, echoing off the plaster walls. Then… silence.

Trembling, Conrad crept from his bed. The hallway was dim, lit only by a weak flame from a lamp turned down low. The smell of acrid gunpowder hung in the air as he inched toward his parents’ bedroom. Pushing open the door, he peered into darkness and chaos. His mother and father lay sprawled on the floor, illuminated faintly by moonlight slanting through the window. The elegant room – the very room where guests had once admired Anna’s taste in wallpaper and gaslit chandeliers – was now a tableau of horror. Conrad’s mother was motionless, her silk nightdress soaked with blood. Nearby lay Dr. Aiken, the revolver still clasped in his hand, a dark pool spreading beneath his head. The eleven-year-old boy stood there shaking, unable to scream, unable to move. In that moment, Conrad knew both his parents were gone – his father had shot his mother, then himself.

What does a child do in the face of such devastation? For Conrad, instinct and terror took over. Barefoot and still in his nightclothes, he turned and fled out of the house into the deserted street. The cool night air hit his face as he ran – a small, frightened figure dashing beneath the gaslamps and looming oak trees. Some accounts say he bolted directly to the nearby police barracks, which stood only a block or so away, banging on the doors and crying out for help. According to this version, a stunned officer on duty followed the boy back to the house, where the tragic scene confirmed Conrad’s words. Other local legends paint a slightly different picture, suggesting that Conrad first gathered his younger siblings (two sisters and a brother, all asleep during the violence) and led them across Oglethorpe Avenue into the dark haven of Colonial Park Cemetery. In that telling, the children hid among the tombs, huddling together inside a cold, stone mausoleum while the night still rang with the echo of gunshots. There, surrounded by Savannah’s dead, the Aiken children waited for the dawn’s first light before Conrad sought out the authorities.

Whether or not that latter detail is true, it endures in Savannah folklore – an image of innocent children taking refuge in a graveyard on the most harrowing night of their lives. Either way, by morning the news had spread across the city: a murder-suicide in the prestigious Aiken home. Savannah, a city accustomed to its share of ghost stories and gothic tales, now had a very real tragedy to whisper about. Neighbors and acquaintances were stunned. Dr. William Aiken, only 36 years old, had long battled inner demons that few outsiders saw. In an era when mental illness was poorly understood, his paranoia and bouts of depression went largely untreated – hidden behind a gentlemanly facade. Those close to the family knew he feared being declared insane and institutionalized, and that he and Anna quarreled often (rumors hinted their fights were over money, jealousy, or Dr. Aiken’s fragile mind). But no one imagined it would end like this. Anna Potter Aiken, just 36 as well, beloved for her charm and wit, was gone – slain by the husband who had once adored her. And Conrad, their first-born, had been the one to discover the carnage.

As the police and concerned friends descended on 228 Oglethorpe, they found the three younger Aiken children safe but in shock, and Conrad himself in a daze of grief. In a single night, four children had been orphaned and a distinguished family destroyed. Savannah society mourned the tragedy – and also shuddered at its grimness. Here was a tale almost too gothic even for this old city: a genteel doctor driven mad, a beautiful mother slain in her own boudoir, orphaned children wandering among graves. It was as if one of the morbid ghost yarns told in the city had sprung to life. Conrad later described that moment with chilling eloquence, writing that on finding his parents’ bodies, he “found himself possessed of them forever.” In other words, the horror of that night took permanent residence in his psyche, like a ghost that would never let go.

The Aiken siblings were soon taken in by relatives, and Savannah’s warm embrace suddenly fell away as Conrad was whisked far from the only home he had known. The house on Oglethorpe was shuttered, its windows dark, left to stand silent under the hanging moss – a beautiful house now marked by death. But for Conrad, the true haunting had already begun, carried within him as he left Savannah behind.

Haunted by Memory

Conrad seldom spoke of the tragedy in those years, but its shadow followed him. At night he was plagued by nightmares – vivid scenes of gunflashes in the dark or of his father’s voice counting “One… Two… Three…” (how many times did those words replay in his head?). In the daylight, he sometimes felt he could see his mother’s face in the corner of his eye or hear an echo of her laughter from the next room. Of course, it was only memory and imagination, but for a sensitive boy, it was as if the ghosts of William and Anna Aiken had literally latched onto his shoulders. New England’s overcast skies must have seemed particularly grim to a child used to Savannah’s golden sun. Still, Conrad pressed on, channelling his turmoil into studies and, increasingly, into writing.

As a teenager and young man, Conrad Aiken discovered solace and expression in literature. He had always been precocious – an avid reader even before the tragedy – and now books became both escape and therapy. He particularly fell in love with poetry, finding that in carefully crafted lines he could pour out feelings too complex or painful to say plainly. The influence of his early loss began to surface in the poems and stories he wrote: recurring themes of death, dreams, and the frailty of sanity. Teachers noted the depth and maturity in his writing; fellow students found him quiet, perhaps brooding, but undeniably gifted. Conrad went on to attend Harvard University, where he forged a lifelong friendship with another young poet, T. S. Eliot. With Eliot and others, Aiken dove into discussions of philosophy, psychology, and art, trying to make sense of the world and himself. In the early 20th century, new ideas were swirling – Sigmund Freud’s theories of the unconscious and the inner workings of the mind captivated Aiken. He recognized pieces of his own haunted psyche in Freud’s descriptions of trauma and dreams. Indeed, understanding the psychology of the human soul became one of Conrad’s missions, both personally and in his writing.

Throughout his twenties and thirties, Conrad Aiken built a literary career, publishing volumes of poetry and fiction that gained respect for their musicality and psychological insight. Outwardly, success seemed to come readily: his poetry collections were praised, he became editor of a prominent literary journal, and by 1930, he would even win the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Yet under the polished surface of the acclaimed writer roiled the same old fears and sorrows. Conrad worried obsessively that he might inherit his father’s instability. After all, William Aiken’s descent into paranoia had ended in violence – would Conrad someday suffer a similar crack in sanity? In an era with limited treatments for mental illness, that fear was like a ticking time bomb in his mind. He married and tried to lead an ordinary family life, fathering children of his own, but even domestic happiness could not fully banish his inner demons. In one particularly dark period during the 1930s, Conrad came dangerously close to suicide himself. Overwhelmed by depression and convinced he was spiraling into madness, he prepared to take his life – a terrifying mirroring of his father’s fate. Thankfully, his second wife at the time, Clarissa, intervened and pulled him back from the brink. This episode, never publicized widely, left Conrad shaken. The ghosts of the past were not content merely to rattle their chains in his dreams; they wanted to consume him entirely.

And yet, from this lifelong struggle emerged art of remarkable beauty. “Out of agony, the miracles of creation,” one might say. Aiken’s writing often reads like a delicate balance between nightmare and serenity. In his famous short story “Silent Snow, Secret Snow,” a young boy becomes absorbed by an imagined world of snow that muffles reality – a gentle metaphor for withdrawal and possible madness that undoubtedly drew from Conrad’s own childhood coping mechanisms. In many of his poems, one senses a dialogue with the dead or an exploration of what lies beyond conscious thought. His lines can be dreamlike, haunting, sometimes nightmarish. Critics and readers were drawn to the very qualities in his work that his life had forced upon him: an intimacy with darkness, a yearning for understanding, and an ability to find lyricism in pain.

Through the years, Conrad Aiken achieved what many writers only dream of. He earned not just a Pulitzer but also a National Book Award, served as Consultant in Poetry at the Library of Congress (a role equivalent to Poet Laureate of the United States), and became a leading voice in American letters. Honors and accolades piled up. Yet, for all his worldly achievements, there remained a quiet corner of his heart that belonged to Savannah – to the dreamy city of his birth and the ghosts that still lingered at 228 Oglethorpe Avenue. It would take him decades, but eventually Conrad felt the pull of that southern soil once more. Perhaps he sensed that to truly face his ghosts, he would have to return to where they were born.

Return to Savannah

And so it was that the elderly poet took up residence literally side-by-side with his childhood haunt. The house at 230, a charming neighbor to the old Aiken home, became Conrad’s Savannah abode. From his window or front step, he could see 228’s brick walls and elegant balconies. Each morning, when the sun slanted through the live oaks and painted dappled shadows on the street, Conrad might gaze at the home that was once his and reflect on how far he had come – and how close he still was to that boy he’d been. There must have been a mix of comfort and unease in that proximity. It was as if he were keeping vigil beside a grave: close enough to feel the presence, but not daring to disturb it. Neighbors who knew the story found it intriguing, even eerie. Some thought it morbidly poetic – Aiken choosing to literally live in the shadow of his past. But perhaps this was Conrad’s way of making peace. He couldn’t change what happened in that house, but he could assert control over how he faced it now: on his own terms, next door, eye to eye but not subsumed.

Savannah society welcomed Conrad Aiken back warmly. To the locals he was something of a celebrity, but also one of their own. Imagine him strolling slowly through Monterey Square or sitting on a bench in Chippewa Square, an old gentleman in a seersucker suit, maybe a Panama hat, nodding politely to passersby. Did those passersby realize this was the same man who as a boy had run screaming down Oglethorpe under terrible circumstances? Some did – Savannah has a long memory – but many younger folks perhaps only knew his name from newspaper articles or from a plaque that would eventually commemorate his presence. Conrad resumed a polite southern lifestyle in his twilight years. He and his third wife Mary (whom he had married back in 1937) wintered in Savannah, escaping the harsher northern cold. The rest of the year they spent at a quiet farmhouse in Massachusetts, but every winter, like migratory birds, they came back to the mild climate of coastal Georgia. In this seasonal rhythm, Conrad relived the first eleven years of his life in reverse: now, the last eleven years of his life would be set once again against Savannah’s backdrop.

At first, living next door to the old family home was an exercise in restraint. Conrad seldom spoke of the house at 228 with others, but he certainly observed it. Sometimes he saw lights on inside; the property had various occupants over the years. It’s easy to imagine him standing on the sidewalk at dusk, looking up at the dark windows of his childhood bedroom, now empty or inhabited by strangers, and feeling a chill of recollection. Yet he did not shy away. One day, accompanied by a friend or perhaps just bolstered by courage, he might have even stepped onto the porch of 228. Did he ever enter the house again? Some say he may have, briefly, out of curiosity or a need for closure, while others insist he refused to cross that threshold. Regardless, the house remained a specter he could observe intimately but safely from next door.

Instead of dwelling on the house’s grim past, Conrad found joy in Savannah’s living culture. He reconnected with the city’s literary and artistic community, sharing stories from his London and Boston days, charming local writers with anecdotes about T.S. Eliot or his adventures in the Jazz Age. He undoubtedly frequented familiar places like the historic Pulaski Hotel (perhaps recalling the little ghost Gracie Watson whose statue he had seen as a child), or visited the Savannah libraries, donating copies of his books. There was a measure of celebrity in having a Pulitzer Prize winner in town, and Savannah’s genteel circles no doubt invited him to teas, lectures, and dinners under crystal chandeliers in those grand mansions around Lafayette Square. In many ways, Conrad’s return to Savannah was a victory lap – a homecoming king of sorts, crowned not with laurel but with a lifetime of literary laurels.

Yet, despite this renewal of life in the city, Conrad Aiken was steadily gravitating toward a quieter, more spiritual place in Savannah – one filled not with parties and parlors, but with moss-draped oaks and silent stone angels. In the stillness of one particular site, he found a form of solace and communion that perhaps no living company could provide. That place was Bonaventure Cemetery, where his parents – and soon he himself – would rest.

Bonaventure: Communion with the Dead

In his final years, Conrad Aiken became a frequent visitor to Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah’s famed necropolis on the Wilmington River. There, beneath ancient oaks whose limbs are adorned with ghostly Spanish moss, he sought the company of the dead – specifically, his own mother and father. William and Anna Aiken had been interred in Bonaventure after the tragedy, side by side for eternity despite the violent way their union ended. On a gentle rise overlooking the river’s tidal waters, their graves lay in the shade, marked by modest stones among other Aiken family plots. It was to this spot that Conrad returned again and again, as if drawn by an invisible thread of duty, forgiveness, or longing. Locals who strolled Bonaventure’s sandy paths in the 1960s sometimes saw him there in the golden late afternoon light: a lone elderly man sitting quietly on a marble bench, gazing at the tombstones. Some recognized him – “That’s Conrad Aiken, the poet” – while others just observed from afar, sensing they were witnessing a son in vigil.

That marble bench was no ordinary seat. Conrad Aiken himself had commissioned a special bench to be placed next to his parents’ graves, intending it as a place of reflection for years to come. Carved from pale Georgia marble, sturdy yet elegant, the bench bore inscriptions that spoke volumes about Aiken’s outlook. On the seat’s surface were chiseled two phrases. The first, “Cosmos Mariner – Destination Unknown,” was a mysterious epitaph Conrad had chosen for himself. The second, on the opposite side, read “Give my love to the world.” These were not random words. They were part message, part poetry, and they encapsulated the witty, philosophical reconciliation Aiken had made with life’s uncertainties.

The story behind “Cosmos Mariner – Destination Unknown” became a bit of Savannah legend. One sunny day, as Conrad enjoyed his usual respite at Bonaventure, he glanced out toward the river that flows just beyond the cemetery’s edge. In the distance, a ship was gliding by on the sparkling water. Painted on its bow he could just make out its name: Cosmos Mariner. The name delighted Conrad – something about its combination of cosmic grandiosity and seafaring adventure. Curious, he later checked the shipping news in the local paper to see where this Cosmos Mariner was headed. Strangely, the log simply listed the ship’s destination as “unknown.” Conrad, with his poet’s mind, seized upon that as a perfect metaphor for life and death. We are all travelers, he mused, setting sail into the cosmos with no clear knowledge of our ultimate destination. What better final inscription for a lifelong wanderer of both the world and the soul? And so he had it engraved on his bench tombstone. “Give my love to the world” was the other side of that coin – a final toast of affection and farewell to the life he was leaving behind. It also hinted at Aiken’s warm heart: despite all the darkness he had endured, he wanted his last message to be one of love.

In Bonaventure Cemetery, Conrad found the peace that had eluded him for so long. The place is hauntingly beautiful – “everywhere you turn, death seems lovingly embraced by nature,” visitors often remark. Towering live oaks form a shaded canopy, their branches like the vaulted ceiling of an outdoor cathedral. From them hangs the silvery Spanish moss, swaying gently even when the air is still, as if moved by unseen spirits. The ground is blanketed in ivy and seasonal wildflowers; azaleas burst into shocking pinks and reds each spring, even among the gray headstones. Marble statues of angels, cherubs, and mourning women keep eternal watch over graves, many of them dating back to the 19th century. Stone faces have grown lichen and soft edges over time, giving them a dreamy, otherworldly appearance. And through the trees, one can catch glimpses of the Wilmington River, its waters glinting in the sun or moon, carrying the scent of marsh and ocean. Bonaventure is less a cemetery and more a vast sculpture garden where each monument tells a story, and all are unified under that mantle of moss which locals like to call “the tapestry of life and death.”

For Aiken, sitting by his parents’ resting place, Bonaventure offered a safe space to converse with his ghosts. In the rustle of leaves, he might imagine hearing his mother’s gentle voice. In the play of shadow and light, perhaps his father’s silhouette appeared forgiving and calm. Here, finally, the memories that had tormented him could be laid to rest or at least laid out in the open, confronted without fear. Conrad often brought along a thermos or flask – and here enters a charming bit of lore: it’s said he would mix himself a martini and sip it on that marble bench, sometimes toasting the memory of his parents or simply enjoying the late-day sun. Indeed, after Aiken’s death, a tradition developed where Savannahians and literary pilgrims would come to his grave-bench to sit and have a drink in his honor. Aiken had essentially invited them to do so – the bench itself was an open invitation. “Come, sit, have a martini on me,” his epitaph implied with a wink. It was the Southern hospitality of the afterlife, courtesy of Conrad Aiken.

In John Berendt’s famous book “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” which spotlighted Savannah’s eccentric characters and supernatural fascinations, Aiken’s grave gets a special mention. Berendt recounts how a fashionable Savannah socialite would bring newcomers out to Bonaventure at twilight. They’d settle on Aiken’s bench, martinis in hand, and as the sky turned orange and pink over the river, they’d share stories – both true and tall tales – about the city. In those stories, Conrad Aiken’s presence loomed large: the tragic boy, the accomplished man, and now the hospitable ghost inviting you to sit a spell. The bench became one of Bonaventure’s must-see attractions, joining other legendary graves like that of Little Gracie Watson (the eternally six-year-old girl whose statue purportedly cries tears of blood if disrespected) and songwriter Johnny Mercer (whose epitaph “And the Angels Sing” quotes one of his own hits). Visitors to Bonaventure often map out a route to find Conrad’s bench, leaving behind tokens – a rose, a pencil, sometimes an empty gin bottle – as if paying tribute to an old friend.

On August 17, 1973, Conrad Aiken’s own journey reached its destination unknown. He passed away in Savannah at the age of 84, in the city that had given him life and nearly death, and which had finally given him peace. True to his wishes, there was no somber granite obelisk or weeping angel statue erected for him. Instead, he was laid to rest in the Aiken family plot, and the simple marble bench he’d sat on so often was now engraved with his name and dates, officially becoming his tombstone. When the funeral concluded and the last clod of earth was patted down, one can imagine the quiet that fell over Bonaventure, broken only by the whisper of the breeze through moss. Conrad’s bench now held his memory, and in the fading light you might envision his spirit at last rising, arm in arm with his long-lost parents, wandering off among the familiar trees.

His third wife, Mary, who had been his companion in those Savannah winters, would join him in burial years later – her name is inscribed beside his on the bench, marking a love that endured. The bench’s inscriptions remain as a final conversation. “Cosmos Mariner – Destination Unknown” on one side: a shrug at mortality’s mystery. “Give my love to the world” on the other: a tender goodbye. The sand around the bench is often marked by footprints of admirers who come to commune, just as Conrad communed with his ghosts. Even today, if you visit Bonaventure in the quiet of an evening, you might find a fresh flower on the bench or notice the faint scent of juniper and vermouth – the ingredients of a martini – left by some whimsical traveler sharing a drink with the poet.

Ghosts and Legends at the Aiken House

Conrad Aiken’s body rests peacefully in Bonaventure, but back in downtown Savannah, the house at 228 East Oglethorpe Avenue remains – and according to many, it is far from peaceful. Over the years, the Aiken house has earned a reputation as one of Savannah’s most haunted houses, a place where the past refuses to stay silent. The tragic events of 1901 imprinted themselves so deeply into the home’s fabric that some say the very walls remember. Locals, ghost hunters, and curious visitors have all reported uncanny experiences there, fueling a wealth of folklore and legend around the property. Conrad’s personal ghosts may have found closure, but the house where they originated seems to harbor phantoms still replaying that long-ago nightmare.

Stories circulate of strange occurrences at 228 Oglethorpe almost as soon as new occupants moved in, after the Aiken children moved away. In the decades following the tragedy, the house changed hands multiple times – a few families, an office at one point, and later a bed-and-breakfast – and many residents didn’t stay for very long. One family in the 1920s, unaware (at first) of the house’s history, supposedly complained of hearing unexplained sobbing in the night and footsteps on the upper floor when no one was there. A tenant in the 1950s awoke repeatedly to the sound of a man’s voice in an adjacent empty room, murmuring as if in pleading or argument; this tenant only learned later that it might be Dr. Aiken’s restless spirit reenacting his final heated discussion with his wife. Savannah, being a city that loves its ghost lore, only added flourishes to these tales: neighbors claimed that on some anniversaries of the murder-suicide, faint light could be seen moving from window to window in the deserted house, or that the spectral figure of a woman in a white nightgown sometimes appeared briefly on the balcony, then vanished.

These anecdotes remained informal whispers until the era of organized ghost tours and paranormal investigations arrived. By the late 20th century, Savannah had fully embraced its title as “America’s Most Haunted City,” and professional ghost hunters came armed with EMF meters, infrared cameras, and digital recorders to probe places exactly like the Aiken house. One subsequent owner of 228 was actually a doctor himself, and he grew convinced that something unearthly shared the home with his family. He would lock up at night only to find doors inexplicably open in the morning. Small items – a set of keys, a framed photo – changed location with no explanation. In the upstairs hallway, where the master bedroom door stands, he and his wife felt sudden cold drafts on otherwise warm days, as if someone passed right through them. After hearing disembodied whispers and even seeing floating orbs of light in the darkness with his own eyes, the doctor-owner agreed to invite a team of paranormal investigators to formally study the property.

What followed could be the climax of a ghost movie. The investigators set up cameras and audio devices throughout the house late one night, every room lit only by the eerie green glow of night-vision. They didn’t have to wait long before uncanny phenomena began. In the very bedroom where Dr. Aiken had killed his wife and himself, the air turned markedly cold, sending the team’s equipment readings off the charts. Their infrared video camera later revealed dozens of orb-like spheres zipping around that room – bright, circular anomalies that believers interpret as manifestations of spirit energy. Most startling of all was an Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP) they captured. While the house was empty, one recorder picked up the faint, raspy whisper of a man’s voice. When the team played it back and strained to decipher it, the words became clear (and hair-raising): “Do you want to know what I know?”

Those seven words sent a chill through everyone present. It was as if some unseen presence – perhaps Dr. Aiken’s tormented spirit – was trying to communicate, to share a secret or a burden. Do you want to know what I know? The question feels full of regret and mystery. What is it that he knows? The truth of why he did what he did? Some hidden family secret from beyond the grave? The investigators could only speculate. But for them, this was confirmation that the Aiken parents’ spirits lingered in that house, repeating their tragedy or seeking resolution that never came in life. The team concluded that William and Anna Aiken were still “living” there in a sense, perhaps unaware that time had passed since that fateful night – a classic residual haunting scenario, where ghosts play out the same scene over and over. From then on, 228 East Oglethorpe became a highlighted stop on Savannah’s ghost tours. Guides regale tourists with the gruesome story of the Aiken murder-suicide as they pause outside the house on evening walks. Often the guide will lower their voice and say, “Listen closely: some have heard Dr. Aiken counting ‘One, two, three…’ in the dead of night,” prompting everyone to lean in with apprehension. While hearing that is rare (and likely embellishment), the power of suggestion makes the bravest of souls shudder when gazing up at the dark second-floor windows.

Interestingly, 230 Oglethorpe – the house Conrad chose to live in – is said to be comparatively quiet in supernatural terms. Perhaps by sidestepping the exact location of trauma, Conrad also sidestepped any personal haunting in his daily life. Still, a few ghost tour guides insist that a sensitive person standing in front of 230 might occasionally feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow emanating from the adjacent property, as if Conrad’s own childhood anguish radiates from the bricks. The entirety of Oglethorpe Avenue in that block carries a bit of gloom in local lore, being flanked on one side by the old cemetery and on the other by the house of tragedy. Some older Savannah residents will recall being children in the 1930s or 40s and daring each other to run up to the Aiken house porch on Halloween night, or swearing that they saw a curtain move when no one lived there, convinced it was Mrs. Aiken’s ghost peeking out.

Beyond the Aiken house itself, the surroundings hold their own ghostly associations. Colonial Park Cemetery, literally across the street, is one of Savannah’s oldest burial grounds and steeped in spooky tales. During the Civil War, occupying Union soldiers camped there and allegedly tampered with gravestones for fun, altering dates – hence local legends of confused spirits wandering because their markers were desecrated. The cemetery is also where victims of Savannah’s 1820s yellow fever epidemics lie in mass graves; it’s often said that at night, wispy figures can be seen drifting among the headstones or even that the smell of phantom roses sometimes wafts by (the scent many associate with ghosts). For young Conrad back in 1901, that cemetery might have been both a terrifying and strangely comforting presence – a playground of imagination by day, but a menacing city of the dead by night. If indeed he and his siblings sheltered in a tomb there after the shooting, one can hardly conceive a more gothic scene: innocent children trembling in the dark while just yards away lay their slain parents and the restless dead of centuries.

Savannah’s ghost lore tends to blend and blur fact with fiction, and in the case of Conrad Aiken’s story, that is certainly true. We have the documented facts of the murder-suicide and Conrad’s later life, but around the edges a mist of folklore has arisen. Some swear that on certain February nights, if you stand very still outside 228 East Oglethorpe, you might catch a faint sob or a brief flash inside – perhaps the eternal replay of that tragic argument. Others, after a few of Savannah’s signature cocktails on a ghost pub crawl, will adamantly claim they saw Dr. Aiken’s specter pacing on the balcony, a gaunt man in a vintage suit wringing his hands in despair. One imaginative tale suggests that Conrad Aiken’s own ghost occasionally returns to his boyhood home, not in fear but in comfort, to check that his parents’ spirits are at rest. In such tellings, a neighbor one night spotted an old man in a white linen suit sitting in a rocking chair on 228’s front porch. He puffed a cigar and nodded politely, but when she looked again moments later, the porch was empty – the figure gone as if he’d never been there. “It was Conrad,” the neighbor whispered later. “He came back to say goodbye.”

Whether or not one believes any of these ghost stories, there is no denying the atmosphere that clings to Conrad Aiken’s Savannah haunts. The combination of gorgeous, historic settings with the knowledge of dramatic, tragic history creates a fertile ground for legends. Savannah’s very air – thick with humidity – can feel heavy with unseen presences. Walk by the Aiken house at twilight and you might feel an inexplicable prickling on your skin. Visit Bonaventure at dawn, and amid the chorus of birds you might sense a watchful stillness, as if a hundred eyes were peering from behind the headstones. These sensations are the canvas on which people paint their ghostly narratives.

For Savannah, Conrad Aiken’s story is a poignant chapter in the city’s lore. It’s not as flashy as tales of pirates or Gullah root doctors or midnight murders in Bonaventure (of which there are a few), but it resonates on a deeper level. Here was a real boy who endured something unthinkable and went on to transform that pain into art that touched many. The city takes a quiet pride in that, honoring the way he transcended tragedy. At the same time, Savannah cannot resist embroidering the edges with whispers of “his house is haunted, you know.” Perhaps it is the city’s way of keeping Conrad’s parents in memory too – not letting William and Anna be simply villains of the piece, but rather lingering spirits to be empathized with. After all, a ghost story often evokes pity as much as fear, and who wouldn’t pity those troubled souls?

Echoes in the Garden of Good and Evil

In the end, the life of Conrad Aiken reads almost like a Southern gothic novel that, against all odds, finds a redemptive arc. He began in an idyll of Victorian Savannah – humming cicadas, lemonade on the verandah, the innocence of a child chasing fireflies in Johnson Square. Then came the shattering horror that could have destroyed him. The ghosts of that night pursued him across time and geography, from Savannah’s mossy shadows to New England’s academic halls and London’s literary salons. They lurked in his subconscious, coloring every poem, every relationship, every quiet moment alone. And yet, Conrad Aiken did not succumb. He stared into the abyss of his father’s madness and his own despair, and instead of flinching away, he wrote his way through it. In elegant stanzas and prose, he conversed with his ghosts and in doing so became a kind of ghostbreaker for himself.

That he chose to come home to Savannah at the twilight of his life is a testament to the unbreakable bond between person and place. Savannah – lovely, haunted Savannah – had been waiting for him. In her shaded squares and weathered cemeteries, Conrad found that the city had kept faith with his memories. The house on Oglethorpe still stood, not exorcised of its demons but patiently holding them until he was ready. The graveyard by the river still murmured its songs of life and death, offering him a seat among its ranks when he was weary. Far from fleeing his past, Conrad wove himself back into the tapestry of Savannah’s story.

Today, if you visit 228 East Oglethorpe Avenue, you’ll find a plaque noting it as the childhood home of Conrad Aiken, Poet Laureate. Tourists snap photos of its dignified exterior, perhaps not sensing the dark tale hidden within. On the adjacent house at 230, another marker commemorates that Conrad Aiken lived there in his later years – the city’s gentle nod to his personal victory over the past. Savannah has countless historic homes, but few embody such a full circle of life: tragedy and trauma, followed by reconciliation and honor.

Stroll a bit further, and you can wander the same paths in Colonial Park Cemetery where young Conrad may have steeled himself in the face of horror. By daylight, the cemetery is surprisingly cheerful – green grass, bright blooms, and occasionally a costumed guide telling stories to a rapt audience. At night, though, with the gates locked and the moon high, one imagines the old graveyard comes alive with phantoms. It’s not hard to picture a small boy’s ghost, clad in early 1900s short pants, leading three little figures by the hand between tombs. They hide in a crypt’s doorway as a faint screaming echoes from the direction of Oglethorpe Street… until a cock’s crow (or a police bell) at dawn dispels the nightmare. Is it pure imagination? Of course. But in Savannah’s supernatural folklore, the line between imagination and memory is blurred. Perhaps a residue of that desperate night truly does remain, a psychic imprint replaying like an old film reel in the astral plane. Savannah, many believe, is a city where time folds strangely and spirits find easy purchase.

And if you take the scenic drive out of the historic district to Bonaventure Cemetery, you’ll find Conrad Aiken’s grave easily enough – the map at the entrance even marks the notable burials. Under the arching oaks, amid the chatter of squirrels and the distant horn of a ship on the river, look for the gray marble bench in a family plot that reads “AIKEN.” More often than not, that bench has fresh offerings: perhaps a single white rose, a few pennies left heads-up for luck, sometimes a cigar or a tiny bottle of liquor discreetly placed by someone who remembered Conrad’s penchant for a drink. Take a seat on that bench (that’s exactly what it’s there for) and feel the smooth cool stone under your palms. You’re sitting where Conrad himself sat countless times, looking at the graves of his mother and father. To one side you see his name and dates, to the other Mary’s, and near your feet the headstones of William and Anna. In that silent communion, you might feel an overwhelming sense of narrative completion – a life that went from cradle to grave, almost literally, in the same soil. The river breeze through the moss sounds like a sigh. Perhaps it’s Conrad expressing contentment, or Savannah herself exhaling, knowing that one of her most tortured children found peace at last.

As you rise from the bench, don’t be surprised if you have the urge to whisper something to the air – maybe a thank you to Conrad for his poetry, or a wish that he and his parents are reunited and reconciled. Many have done so. And when you step away, leaving that lonely bench behind, you carry with you a piece of his story, now part of Savannah’s endless lore.

Conrad Aiken’s Savannah is a tapestry woven of light and darkness: the glow of lamplight on Spanish moss and the darkness of a child’s worst fear; the lilting verse of a poet laureate and the hushed whisper of a ghost in an empty room. It’s the sweet fragrance of magnolias in the square and the metallic smell of gunpowder in a stately home. It’s the laughter of a society party drifting out of open shutters and the anguished cry of a boy running barefoot through the night. All these sensations coexist in the Savannah that nurtured and haunted Aiken.

In the grand narrative of this city, Conrad’s tale invites us to reflect on trauma and healing, on the way places remember events long after the participants are gone. Savannah’s beauty endures, but her ghosts keep us humble, reminding us of the fragility behind the façade. The Aiken house stands as a beautiful but cautionary emblem: splendid in architecture, scarred in spirit. Bonaventure stands as the great equalizer: a place where all the stories eventually conclude in quiet, but where, if the legends are true, the spirits still converse under the moss.

If you ever find yourself in Savannah on a misty evening, you might walk down Oglethorpe Avenue with a new awareness. Perhaps you’ll pause in front of number 228 and imagine the windows glowing warmly as they did on a happier night in 1900, with young Conrad reading by lamplight in the parlor while his mother played piano. Perhaps you’ll sense, just over your shoulder, the faintest whisper – “Do you want to know what I know?” – and feel a chill, as if some remnant of the past is aware of you too. And then you’ll continue on, heading to dinner or to meet friends, leaving the house and its unseen inhabitants to their eternal dialogue.

Later still, you might cap off the night with a visit to Bonaventure, under a sky pricked with stars. You’ll find Conrad Aiken’s bench in the dark (bring a flashlight to navigate the twisting paths). Pour a little gin or whiskey if you’ve brought it, and raise a quiet toast. In that moment, you join the ranks of those keeping vigil with Conrad’s spirit. The river slips by in the gloom, and an owl hoots from somewhere in the live oaks. You sit, you reflect, you absorb the heavy, beautiful atmosphere. Savannah envelops you just as she did Conrad all those years ago. Destination unknown, we are all travelers through darkness into light, but here in this enchanted city, it feels as though the veil between worlds is thin. Conrad Aiken’s story – full of tragedy, creativity, and the supernatural grace of finding peace – is but one thread in Savannah’s rich tapestry, yet it shines luminously, forever a part of the soul of the city.

And as you leave, you might whisper into the night, echoing Conrad’s own words on that stone: “Give my love to the world.” For in sharing his tale, in remembering his ghosts and his triumphs, that is exactly what Savannah has done. The world hears the story and, in turn, leaves a bit of love – and perhaps a few friendly ghosts – in Savannah’s keeping.