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#Post#: 20450--------------------------------------------------
New Orleans Story: Dark Fire Ghosts: A Robert Jones Story
By: Raven Tepes Date: October 21, 2025, 6:54 pm
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The road into Savannah was a scar of asphalt lined with
moss-draped oaks, their roots coiling like veins through the
soil. The air was thick with the scent of salt, jasmine, and
ghosts.
Robert Jones throttled back on the Harley as he rolled into the
historic district. Cobblestone streets shimmered with evening
rain, and wrought-iron balconies hung heavy with flowers and
secrets.
Savannah had always been a crossroads — part living, part dead.
You could feel it in the bones of the city. The walls whispered
here. The air remembered.
Robert parked his bike outside a bar called The Wailing Widow,
tucked between two brick buildings older than the Civil War.
Neon flickered over the door, shaped like a crying woman’s face.
He stepped inside. Jazz played low, smoky and slow. Locals
murmured over whiskey and fried shrimp. And there she was —
sitting at the end of the bar, red leather jacket, silver hair
shining in the dim light.
“Thought you might swing back this way,” Raven said, not looking
up from her glass.
Robert smirked. “Guess I couldn’t stay away from your southern
charm.”
She chuckled softly. “You pick a hell of a time. Savannah’s
restless. Dead things are walking again.”
Whispers of the Weeping Lady:
Raven slid him a newspaper, folded open to the headline:
“Six Found Dead Near Colonial Park Cemetery — Police Baffled.”
Robert scanned the article. Victims drained of life, no blood,
no visible wounds.
“Not vampires,” he muttered.
Raven nodded. “No. Worse. Something old. Locals call her the
Weeping Lady. She’s been haunting the riverfront for centuries —
a ghost of lost love. But lately, she’s… different. Stronger.
Feeding.”
Robert frowned. “Ghosts don’t feed.”
“They do,” Raven said, “if something’s giving them power.”
She slid a charm across the counter — a small silver coin
inscribed with runes. It vibrated faintly against his palm, warm
and alive. “Witchfire sigil,” she explained. “We found these at
every death site. Someone’s binding her. Using her grief as a
weapon.”
Robert pocketed the charm. “Then let’s unbind her.”
The River Walk:
The next night, fog rolled thick over the Savannah River. The
moon was little more than a pale blur in the mist.
Robert and Raven walked the cobbled path along the water, the
sound of waves and distant laughter blending into something
eerie.
“This is where she drowned,” Raven whispered. “Eleanor Marston —
1784. Thrown into the river by her lover when she discovered he
was a smuggler. They say she waits for him still.”
Robert’s eyes glowed faintly orange. “She’s not waiting
anymore.”
A whisper floated through the air — soft, weeping, heartbreak
turned to hunger. Then the fog thickened, and a figure formed
within it.
The Weeping Lady.
She was beautiful and terrible — skin pale as river water, eyes
black with grief, hair floating around her like a drowned halo.
Her gown streamed like wet silk, and spectral chains dragged
behind her, clinking softly on stone.
“You shouldn’t have come here…” she moaned.
Robert stepped forward. “Neither should you.”
The Binding Circle:
The ghost’s scream split the air, and the fog exploded outward
like a wave. Spirits poured from the mist — lost souls bound to
her grief, their faces twisted with pain.
Robert summoned the dark fire. Black flames licked across his
arms, casting jagged shadows through the fog. The fire didn’t
burn light — it devoured it.
Raven moved beside him, drawing her chain and chanting under her
breath. Her voice wove through the air like a spell of defiance.
The spirits struck first. They rushed like a hurricane of
sorrow. Robert met them head-on, fists blazing, punching holes
through incorporeal forms that shrieked and dissolved into
embers.
But for every one he destroyed, another rose.
“She’s drawing from something,” Raven yelled over the chaos.
“Something alive!”
Robert focused — his supernatural senses flaring. There. A pulse
of power near the riverbank. A figure standing in the shadows,
chanting — cloaked in crimson robes.
“Found your puppet master.”
He blasted through the wall of spirits and tackled the robed
figure. They rolled across the wet cobblestone. The hood fell
back, revealing a young man — pale, eyes wide with fanatic glee.
“You can’t stop her!” he hissed. “The Weeping Lady will cleanse
this cursed city!”
Robert growled, his eyes burning. “She’s not cleansing anything
— she’s being used.”
He drove his flaming hand into the sigil etched into the ground.
The mark flared, cr@cked, and shattered.
Unbinding the Lady:
The ghost’s scream turned to a wail of agony and sorrow. The
spirits began to scatter, their forms dissolving into mist. The
Weeping Lady floated above the water, chains snapping one by
one.
Raven raised her hands, whispering words of release. “Eleanor
Marston! Be free!”
The ghost turned toward them, tears of black water streaming
down her face. “He promised he’d come back…”
Robert’s voice softened. “He’s long gone, darlin’. Let it go.”
For a long, fragile moment, she stared at him — then smiled,
faintly. The wind changed, the mist lifting with it. The Weeping
Lady faded into the riverlight, her form scattering like petals
on the tide.
The silence that followed was almost holy.
Raven exhaled. “That… was beautiful.”
Robert flexed his burned hand. “Pain usually is, when you let it
die right.”
Ashes and Moonlight:
Later, back at The Wailing Widow, they sat at the bar again —
two weary souls with whiskey and scars.
“So who was the kid?” Robert asked.
“Member of the Crimson Veil cult,” Raven said. “Same group
Duvall belonged to. Guess someone’s still trying to play god.”
Robert sighed. “Figures.”
She smiled at him — tired, warm, maybe even a little hopeful.
“You ever stop?”
He looked at his hands, the faint glow of dark fire still
pulsing beneath the skin. “Stopping’s not in my nature.”
They sat in silence a moment, the jazz low and lazy, the ghosts
outside finally quiet.
Raven raised her glass. “To the restless dead.”
Robert clinked his against hers. “And the fools who keep them
company.”
They drank.
Outside, the fog rolled back in from the river, and somewhere
out there, something else stirred — old, waiting, watching.
Robert felt it — that pull of the next storm, the next fight,
the next fire.
He smiled, stood, and threw a few bills on the bar. “Guess I
better keep moving.”
Raven’s eyes lingered on him. “Til next time, Fire Wolf.”
He nodded once, pulled on his jacket, and walked into the
Savannah night. The Harley’s roar followed, fading into the
distance — a promise and a warning to whatever darkness dared to
rise next.
In Savannah, ghosts never rest — and neither does the man made
of fire and shadow who rides between their worlds.
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