Tales From Savannah’s Tondee’s Tavern | A Parnomal Investigation

I push open the heavy front door of Tondee’s Tavern, and it closes behind me with a solid thud, shutting out the sounds of Savannah’s nightlife. It’s just past midnight, and the tavern is officially closed—no patrons, no music, only the hum of the refrigerators and a faint scent of spilled beer and old wood. I flick on my flashlight, though the glow from Bay Street’s lamps seeping through the front windows provides a bit of light. The air inside is warm and still, yet I suppress a shiver of anticipation. This is it, I think. I’ve spent countless nights chasing ghosts in Savannah, but tonight feels special. I am standing in one of the city’s most storied haunts, utterly alone except for whatever — or whoever — might be lingering unseen in the corners….

Savannah, Georgia is often hailed as one of America’s most haunted cities—a place where history clings to every cobblestone and restless spirits are said to wander beneath ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss. In the heart of this storied city stands Tondee’s Tavern, an unassuming brick establishment on East Bay Street that locals and ghost hunters alike whisper about with equal parts awe and trepidation. By day, it’s a friendly pub serving up cold drinks and warm Southern meals. But by night, when the streets grow quiet and the lights flicker low, Tondee’s Tavern transforms into a vault of ghostly legends and unexplained phenomena. Generations of Savannahians have swapped tales of eerie encounters here: phantom footsteps echoing in empty halls, a gentle tap on the shoulder from an unseen hand, sudden cold spots in the sweltering summer heat. It’s reputedly one of Savannah’s most haunted restaurants—a place where you might catch a glimpse of a Revolutionary War-era patriot nursing an ale at the bar, or feel the lingering sorrow of those who suffered unspeakable fates in its shadow​.

What is it about Tondee’s Tavern that draws these ghosts from the past? To answer that question, we must venture deep into the tavern’s history and walk in the footsteps of the people who lived and died around it. In the pages that follow, we embark on an investigation into the haunted history and paranormal activity at Tondee’s Tavern. We will peel back the layers of time to uncover the building’s origins and its role in Savannah’s past, from Revolutionary gatherings to Civil War upheavals. We will explore the most famous legends and ghost stories tied to the tavern’s name—stories of mischievous barroom spirits, spectral soldiers, and the anguished souls of enslaved people that some believe still linger.

Are the tales of Tondee’s Tavern just spooky stories told for fun, or do they point to something genuine and profound lingering in the atmosphere of this old building? Join us as we seek the truth, venturing from the well-documented past into the realm of the inexplicable. The lights are dimming, the air is thick with anticipation, and Tondee’s Tavern is waiting. Let’s begin our investigation where all good ghost stories do: with the history that started it all.

A Historical Overview of Tondee’s Tavern

To understand the hauntings of Tondee’s Tavern, one must first understand its history. The story of Tondee’s Tavern is actually a tale of two taverns spanning centuries: the original Tondee’s Tavern of the 18th century, and the modern establishment that adopted its name in homage. Both the colonial-era tavern and the current building on Bay Street have played remarkable roles in Savannah’s past. Their walls have witnessed revolution and revelry, commerce and conflict—and perhaps it is this rich, tumultuous history that echoes in the ghostly phenomena reported today.

The Original Tondee’s Tavern (Colonial Era)

The name “Tondee’s Tavern” first entered Savannah lore in the 1700s, long before the brick building on Bay Street existed. Peter Tondee, an early Savannah settler and entrepreneur, opened a tavern in the mid-1760s that would become one of the most important meeting places of the Revolutionary era​. Located at the northwest corner of Broughton and Whitaker Streets, Peter Tondee’s establishment—often called Tondee’s Long Room—was more than just a colonial pub. It was a hub of political ferment and “the central social hub of early Savannah,” where locals gathered to drink ale, trade news, and even play colonial tavern games like quoits (ring toss)​.

As talk of liberty and revolution swirled through the colonies, Tondee’s Tavern found itself at the center of Georgia’s quest for independence. On August 10, 1774, delegates from every parish in Georgia defied the Royal Governor’s ban and convened at Tondee’s Tavern to discuss grievances against British rule​. The owner, Peter Tondee, stood at the door with a guest list to guard against spies. This audacious meeting—held in secret defiance of British authority—was one of the first sparks of rebellion in Georgia. In the months that followed, more revolutionary assemblies took place in Tondee’s Long Room. On July 4, 1775, as muskets flared in the northern colonies, the Second Provincial Congress met at Tondee’s Tavern and effectively created Georgia’s first independent government​. It was here that delegates drafted resolutions, elected representatives to the Continental Congress, and formed a Council of Safety to guide the colony’s rebellio. In essence, Tondee’s Tavern became the cradle of liberty in Georgia, its upstairs meeting room serving as the seat of Georgia’s revolutionary government during and after the American Revolution​.

Tragically, Peter Tondee did not live to see the outcome of the Revolution—he died in October 1775, passing the tavern’s care to his wife, Lucy Tondee​. Lucy continued to operate the tavern throughout the war, even as the British captured Savannah in 1778 and surely eyed the notorious rebel meeting spot with suspicion. After the war, when American forces retook Savannah in 1782, the revolutionary government resumed meeting at Tondee’s Tavern, symbolically reasserting the ideals of independence under its roof​. The tavern’s legendary run finally came to an end in 1796, when a devastating fire swept through Savannah. In the city’s first great conflagration, two-thirds of the town was lost—including the original Tondee’s Tavern, which burned to the ground that year​. All that remained were ashes and legends, and a historical reputation that would not be forgotten. A century later, Savannah’s patriotic societies remembered the tavern’s significance; a historical marker now stands near Broughton Street, commemorating Tondee’s Tavern as the site where Georgia’s thirst for liberty was first quenched with rebellion.

Although the original colonial tavern was gone, its spirit lived on in Savannah’s collective memory. More than two hundred years later, when a new restaurant opened on East Bay Street, its owners chose the name “Tondee’s Tavern” as a deliberate tribute to Peter Tondee’s famous gathering place​. In an eerie way, the past and present were about to collide: the modern Tondee’s Tavern occupies a site with its own dark history and would soon inherit not just the name of the old tavern, but perhaps some of its restless spirits as well.

The Modern Tondee’s Tavern Building (19th Century to Today)

Among those who worked in the upstairs offices was a man whose legacy would contribute to the tavern’s “sinister side”: Joseph Bryan. Bryan was the largest and most infamous slave broker in Savannah in the 1850s​. From his office above what is now the tavern dining room, Bryan oversaw an enterprise of human misery, arranging the sale and transport of enslaved African Americans. It is said that he sold more people into bondage than anyone else in the city’s history​. His business was so extensive that the open-air slave “pens” (holding areas) were located right outside the back door of the building on Bay Lane, also known as Factors Walk, where slave auctions and transactions were a grim daily routine​. Local lore even insists that Bryan’s reach extended below ground: a “shanghai tunnel” allegedly connected the building’s basement to Factors Walk, used to clandestinely move captives (including drunk or drugged sailors who had been kidnapped, a practice known as shanghaiing) directly to ships at the riverfront​. If true, this tunnel would have been a conduit of unspeakable suffering—its bricked-up entrance perhaps still lurking beneath the tavern’s floor, a mute witness to those dark deeds.

Inside the building, the basement itself is subject to debate and legend. Some sources claim that Bryan sometimes held enslaved people (and shanghaied sailors) in the basement temporarily—imprisoning them below ground until they could be led outside to the auction pens​. “Slaves and sailors were occasionally stored in the basement,” one local history tour reports bluntly, adding that the unfortunate souls could be led through that rumored tunnel to the river​. However, others are skeptical of this specific claim. One investigator noted that the basement’s layout doesn’t have any obvious secure rooms and that, since the regular slave yards were literally a few feet away, it would seem unnecessary to keep captives under the building itself​. Whether or not human beings were physically confined in that basement, it is beyond doubt that great anguish transpired on this property. At the very least, enslaved men, women, and children passed through its doors or just outside them, their fates sealed by Joseph Bryan’s dealings. This legacy of human suffering would later be cited as a possible source of the tavern’s hauntings—a “spiritual residue” left behind by those who endured trauma here​.

The building’s historical drama didn’t end with the Civil War looming on the horizon. In December 1864, Union General William Tecumseh Sherman completed his infamous “March to the Sea” by capturing Savannah. Rather than burn the beautiful city, Sherman chose to occupy it—and the building at 7 East Bay Street was commandeered for Union use​. After Savannah’s surrender, General John W. Geary, one of Sherman’s officers, used the building as his headquarters while he governed the city under martial law​. One can imagine Union soldiers trudging in and out of what is now the tavern’s doors, their blue uniforms a strange sight to citizens who had known only Confederate gray for years. Did any skirmishes or violence occur on the premises during the occupation? Records are scarce, but given the tense atmosphere, it’s easy to speculate that armed troops stationed there could have met with resistance or dealt with restless locals. If so, the building may have absorbed those war-time energies as well.

After the Civil War, the Bay Street building continued to adapt with the times. Savannah entered a new era, and the structure at 7 East Bay likely saw use as offices, warehouses, or shops in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. By the turn of the 21st century, it had transformed into a restaurant space. In fact, before it became Tondee’s Tavern, the building housed a Tony Roma’s restaurant, a franchise rib joint. Even then, employees and diners reported odd occurrences—lights that flickered for no apparent reason and sudden chills in certain areas, especially on the lower floor. It seems the ghosts did not wait for the name “Tondee” to return before making themselves known.

The modern iteration of Tondee’s Tavern as we know it opened its doors in 2013, bringing the historic name back to Savannah’s nightlife​. The new owners embraced the building’s history—both the patriotic legacy of Peter Tondee and the darker chapters that followed. The tavern’s interior décor leans into an old-fashioned charm: exposed brick walls, heavy dark wood bars and beams, and historic photographs that make patrons feel as if they’ve stepped back in time​. You might sit at a polished barstool enjoying shrimp and grits, unaware that upstairs, Joseph Bryan once brokered flesh and blood, or that around the corner, enslaved people stood in chains. But Tondee’s Tavern never lets you forget its past for long. Ask the bartender about the building’s history, and you’ll get an enthusiastic rundown of its role in the Civil War or perhaps a pointing out of original features. Ask them about ghosts, and you’re liable to hear a nervous chuckle and a personal anecdote or two.

By day’s light, Tondee’s thrives as a beloved local pub and grill—a place of laughter, clinking glasses, and Southern hospitality. By night, especially after the customers have left and the staff begin closing up, the atmosphere can change. As we’ll see, history is always present at Tondee’s Tavern, sometimes making itself known in uncanny ways. With the context of its revolutionary origins, its grim antebellum connections, and war-time occupation established, we now turn to the legends and ghost stories that have blossomed from this history. Why do so many insist that Tondee’s Tavern is haunted? The answers lie in whispers from the past and sightings in the dark. Let’s delve into the tavern’s most infamous paranormal tales.

Legends, Ghost Stories, and Paranormal Claims

Tondee’s Tavern has accumulated a reputation as a spiritual hotspot, where the past and the paranormal intertwine. Over the years, patrons, employees, and paranormal investigators have reported a catalog of strange occurrences within the tavern’s walls. Some of these experiences are easily dismissed—a fleeting chill or a flicker of light. Others are harder to explain: voices with no source, objects moving on their own, even visual anomalies caught on camera. These stories have evolved into local legends that make Tondee’s a favorite stop on Savannah’s ghost tours. Below, we explore the most prominent ghostly tales and claims tied to the tavern, from the benevolent barroom spirit of “Catherine” to the more harrowing specters possibly linked to slavery and war.

Ghostly Regulars at the Bar – The Spirit of “Catherine”

One of Tondee’s Tavern’s most talked-about ghosts is known simply as Catherine. According to staff and visitors, Catherine was a regular patron of the tavern back in the 1800s, and it seems she enjoyed the place so much that she decided to never truly leave​. By all accounts, Catherine’s ghost isn’t malevolent or frightening—if anything, she’s described as a mischievous, even friendly presence who likes to remind the living that she’s around. Staff closing up late at night have reported incidents that they jokingly attribute to “Catherine playing tricks.” Beer mugs and wine glasses have been known to shift or tip over on their own, as if nudged by an invisible hand​. Sometimes a barstool that was tucked in moments before will be pulled out slightly when no one is looking, as though an unseen customer had taken a seat. On a quiet evening, bartenders have heard the faint sound of a woman’s laughter or felt the subtle pressure of someone leaning over the bar—but when they turn, the room is empty save for themselves.

Catherine is also infamous for her whispers. Numerous patrons have experienced an unnerving yet oddly intriguing event: while sitting at the bar enjoying a drink, they suddenly feel a soft breath against their ear and a woman’s voice whispering—but the words are indistinct, and when they glance around, no flesh-and-blood person is nearby. One visitor recounted how, as she waited for a friend at the bar, she distinctly felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned, expecting to see her friend greeting her, only to find no one there at all​. In her own words, “I got this tap on my shoulder plain as day and no one was behind me. It wasn’t too busy; no one brushed up against me trying to move through a crowd. I have no explanation for what I felt that day – all I know is that Tondee’s Tavern is haunted, like really haunted”​. Such firsthand accounts have convinced many that Catherine’s ghost is more than just a tall tale. In fact, some nights the staff will play along, setting an extra shot of whiskey at the end of the bar as a tongue-in-cheek offering to their resident spirit “so she behaves.” While Catherine’s true identity and story remain part of the mystery (Was she the wife of a 19th-century patron? A lonely soul who died nearby? No one is quite sure), her playful hauntings add a touch of old-fashioned Savannah charm to Tondee’s ghost lore. She’s the kind of ghost who seems to mean no harm—perhaps even a protector of the tavern—ensuring that even after death she can enjoy the revelry and camaraderie of her favorite haunt.

The Basement’s Restless Souls – Enslaved People and Shanghaied Sailors

Beneath the jovial pub atmosphere of the main floor lies the basement of Tondee’s Tavern, a space that many describe as the epicenter of the building’s eerie activity. It’s a dim, cramped area with old brick walls and a heavy atmosphere that’s hard to put into words. The basement was never open to diners—it’s used for storage now—but those who have ventured down those creaking stairs often come back visibly affected. Some describe an overpowering feeling of sadness or dread washing over them as soon as they set foot on the cold stone floor. Others report an uncanny sense of being watched from the shadowy corners where the light of a flashlight barely reaches. These sensations tie into the widespread belief that the basement is haunted by the spirits of enslaved people and kidnapped sailors who once suffered there.

As mentioned in the historical overview, local legend holds that enslaved individuals were confined in this basementby Joseph Bryan, the slave broker, in the 1850s (even if just temporarily)​. Their presence in life was one of misery and fear—and in death, some say, they remain trapped, unable or unwilling to move on from the site of their torment. Visitors on ghost tours often report sudden cold spots in the basement, which many interpret as the proximity of a spirit. Unlike the gentle mischief attributed to Catherine upstairs, the encounters in the basement carry a heavier mood. Tour guides have whispered of EVP recordings captured down here where faint moans or sobbing can be heard on playback—disturbing hints that echo the cries of people who were once held against their will. In darker moments, a few witnesses have even claimed to see shadows that resemble crouching figures, as if huddled in despair along the walls. Shine a light and the shadows vanish, leaving the question of whether it was a trick of the eyes or a forlorn soul briefly showing itself.

Then there are the tales of the shanghaied sailors. In the mid-19th century, Savannah was a busy port, and like many port cities, it had its share of notorious crimps who would drug or knock out able-bodied men and whisk them onto ships to serve as unwilling crew. If the story of a secret tunnel from Tondee’s Tavern’s basement to the docks is true, one can imagine how many disoriented sailors awoke in those cellar depths, pounding on the walls in panic as they realized they’d been “sold” to the sea​. According to ghost lore, some of these sailors may still be down there in spirit form, reliving the confusion and betrayal of their final moments on land. Paranormal investigators have set up voice recorders in the empty basement and later heard what sounds like men pleading in old seafaring slang or a gruff voice barking an order that nobody in the room spoke. One chilling account tells of an investigator who felt a sudden, tight grip around his ankle while standing in the dark basement, almost as if a hand had reached out of the darkness trying to pull him down. It’s hard not to draw a connection to the image of a desperate sailor chained up, grabbing at the legs of someone free as if to say “Don’t leave me.”

While such dramatic experiences are not everyday occurrences, the collective reports paint a picture of a basement saturated with paranormal intensity. Many suspect that the levels of paranormal activity emanating from the basement are a direct result of the “spiritual baggage” left by Joseph Bryan’s victims​. In the words of one Savannah Terrors tour guide, the cruel events that took place there created “a massive spiritual build-up that is still seen today”​. Indeed, ghost tour groups often end up huddled together in that basement, listening to the guide’s voice reverberate off the brick, telling them to be respectful—“If you feel a cold hand on yours, it may just be someone who doesn’t realize the war is over and they’re free,” one guide gently tells her group. It’s an emotional moment that underscores how the paranormal stories of Tondee’s Tavern are deeply intertwined with its historical tragedies. Ghosts of the enslaved and the shanghaied are not treated as curiosities here, but as solemn reminders of the people who passed through these walls under duress.

Soldiers and Specters of the Civil War

Layered atop the spirits from the 18th and mid-19th century are those from the Civil War era. When General Geary and the Union troops occupied the building in late 1864, they brought with them the energies of a nation at war. Some of those energies may well linger. Ghost stories involving soldiers at Tondee’s Tavern tend to surface occasionally, often from people who weren’t expecting a ghost at all. One common claim is the sighting of a figure in old-fashioned military attire, seen out of the corner of an eye. A bartender locking up for the night might catch a fleeting reflection in the mirror of a tall man in a Union Army blue coat standing by one of the back tables. Yet when they spin around, there’s only emptiness and the faint smell of something like gunpowder or burning wax. On more than one occasion, patrons have asked staff, “Is there a costume event tonight? We saw a gentleman in an antique uniform near the stairs.” There is no such event—only the possibility that a long-dead soldier is still pacing his post.

During quiet afternoons, some employees have heard what sounds like the distant clang of metal on metal upstairs, as if a saber were being drawn or a bayonet fixed to a rifle. Of course, the second floor is now just offices and storage, and no one was up there at the time. Could it be residual energy from the days when Union officers made these rooms their headquarters? Paranormal theorists might label such occurrences as residual hauntings—like an echo of the past imprinting itself on the environment, playing back the sounds of long-ago military activity. Other times, the activity feels more interactive: for instance, an investigator once claimed to have heard a clear “Yes, sir,” in response to a question he asked in an empty upstairs room during an EVP session, almost as if a dutiful soldier’s spirit was still following orders.

One particularly poignant legend involves a young Confederate sympathizer who was supposedly shot near the tavern during the Union occupation. According to this tale (which blurs fact and folklore), the youth had been spying on Union troops and was caught and mortally wounded just outside the building. His friends dragged him into the basement of the tavern, trying to hide him, but he died there. It’s said that on certain nights, people on Bay Lane behind the tavern hear a faint cry or see a misty apparition of a teenage boy clutching his chest. Whether this story has any basis in documented history is uncertain, but it feeds into the narrative that Tondee’s Tavern is a nexus for Civil War spirits, both Union and Confederate. Savannah’s history is complicated that way—ghost stories cross the battle lines, and in death, enemies might share the same haunted space.

A Fire, Orbs, and a Mysterious Rescue

Not all of Tondee’s Tavern’s ghost stories are rooted in distant history. One of the most dramatic events happened in the 21st century and suggests that whatever spirits dwell here may at times be protective of the living. Late one summer night, sometime in the 2010s, a small fire broke out inside Tondee’s Tavern​. The tavern had closed, and two employees—one of them a woman named Lisa Scrougin—had decided to spend the night upstairs rather than going home, so they could get an early start prepping for the next day​. In the pre-dawn hours, around 3:00 AM, Lisa was jolted awake by a sensation she later described as “someone had touched me in my sleep”​. Startled and confused, she sat up to find the room hazy with smoke. Almost simultaneously, she heard her co-worker screaming from downstairs: a cigarette butt left smoldering in a flower pot on the front patio had ignited a real fire near the entrance of the tavern​. Flames were licking up the doorway and filling the place with smoke. Heart pounding, Lisa rushed down to help. Together the two employees managed to douse the fire with water from buckets and prevent what could have been a catastrophic blaze. Shaken and exhausted, they eventually went back to catch a little more sleep once they were sure the danger had passed.

It wasn’t until the next day, when the owner reviewed the security camera footage, that the strangest part of the story emerged. The surveillance cameras, which had been recording during the night, revealed something eerie in the moments leading up to the discovery of the fire. According to those who saw the footage, the cameras captured dozens of small orbs of light darting and dancing throughout the tavern’s interior around the time of 3:00 AM​. The orbs varied in size and brightness; some were little more than pinpricks, while others were large, glowing spheres that floated across the rooms in unpredictable patterns​. They weren’t stationary like dust motes or insects near the lens (common causes for “orb” effects in photos); these seemed to pulsate and move with purpose. At one point, a cluster of orbs zoomed directly toward the area where the fire had started, almost as if drawn to it. There were no known light sources or reflections that could explain the phenomena.

For those who believe in the paranormal, the conclusion was clear: the spirits of Tondee’s Tavern had manifested as orbs, possibly to alert or even aid the sleeping employees​. The timing was just too coincidental—Lisa being inexplicably touched awake moments before the fire might have turned deadly, and the outbreak of fluttering orbs caught on camera at the same time. Some suggested it was Catherine or another benevolent spirit shaking Lisa awake to save her life. Others thought perhaps the souls of the oppressed (slaves or sailors) rose up in unity to prevent two innocents from perishing in flames, a sort of karmic balancing for the tavern given its past. Lisa herself, initially a skeptic, reportedly became a firm believer that something otherworldly was looking out for them that night. The story made the rounds on local news and ghost blogs, and that security footage was played repeatedly in paranormal circles as rare video evidence of Tondee’s ghostly residents in action.

Interestingly, since that fiery night, there have been no similarly major documented paranormal events captured on camera at Tondee’s Tavern​. It’s as if the spirits, having intervened once, receded to the background. Skeptics might argue that the orbs were just an anomaly of the camera or dust stirred up by the commotion of the fire. Believers counter that the orbs were too numerous and behaved too strangely to dismiss, especially coupled with the personal experience of the employees. Either way, the “orb incident” has become a central legend of Tondee’s Tavern. Ghost tour guides love to recount it, finishing the tale with a flourish: “In saving two of its own, Tondee’s Tavern proved that not all ghosts are there to scare us. Sometimes, they’re the ones keeping watch over us.” Few haunted locales can boast that their ghosts might actually be guardian angels, making Tondee’s Tavern’s haunted history all the more compelling.

Other Unexplained Encounters and Phenomena

Beyond the headline-grabbing stories, Tondee’s Tavern is rife with everyday hauntings—that steady drip of minor paranormal occurrences that, taken together, reinforce its haunted reputation. Disembodied voices are frequently reported, even when the bar is bustling. A patron at a table might hear someone murmur right behind them—turning around, they find no one, or perhaps just see a distant customer who definitely wasn’t close enough to whisper. Sometimes these voices are unintelligible, just at the edge of perception; other times people catch a single word like their own name or a hushed “hello.” Such incidents often happen in the late afternoon lull between lunch and dinner or late at night during closing time, when background noise is minimal and it’s easier to notice a stray voice from nowhere​.

Employees have grown accustomed to the tavern’s temperamental electrical quirks. The old chandelier lights have a habit of dimming or flickering exactly when ghost stories are being discussed. “I swear, every time I start talking about Joseph Bryan or Catherine to curious customers, one of the lights above us will flicker as if on cue,” a waitress says with a grin. On a few occasions, entire sections of the tavern have gone electrically dead for a few seconds—blinking off and then on—without any breaker tripping. Electricians have found no faults to explain it. Maybe the spirits just love a dramatic effect. Temperature fluctuations also keep things interesting. Tondee’s is climate-controlled like any modern restaurant, but people will inexplicably walk through a pocket of frigid air in one corner of a room while the rest of the place is warm​. These cold spots wander too; a tour guide might be extolling a ghostly anecdote when everyone in her group suddenly shivers at the same time, each feeling a chill waft right through them.

Physical objects sometimes act up in subtle ways. Silverware has been heard clattering in the back of the empty kitchen. Doors that are known to latch securely have been found ajar. One cook swears that a heavy stockpot flew off its hook overnight, landing several feet away (though no one witnessed it fall). In the dining area, an antique clock on the wall occasionally stops at 3:00 AM sharp, the same time the fire incident happened—then inexplicably starts ticking again later, keeping correct time. Could be just a mechanical quirk… or something more.

Finally, some patrons describe an “overall feeling of being watched” while inside Tondee’s Tavern​. It’s not the sort of thing that leaves evidence or proof, but it’s commonly felt. You might be halfway through your gumbo when you feel eyes on you, as if someone at the next table is staring—but every table around you is engaged in their own conversations. Some guests even say they felt a presence slide into the booth next to them for a moment. This sensation of company—unseen but palpable—captures what it’s like to experience Tondee’s Tavern beyond the stories. The tavern feels alive with history. The spirits that reside here, if they indeed do, seem interwoven with the fabric of the building, making themselves known in brief, surprising moments that leave you questioning your senses.

From the playful pranks of Catherine, to the sorrowful echoes in the basement, to the heroic orb display during the fire, Tondee’s Tavern’s ghost stories run the gamut of paranormal activity. They are by turns fun, eerie, chilling, and even heartwarming. Yet, hearing these tales is one thing—witnessing the phenomena yourself is another. To truly grasp the atmosphere of Tondee’s Tavern after dark, one must step into that world of creaking wood and lingering shadows, armed with curiosity and perhaps a bit of courage. In the next section, we switch gears from documenting history and folklore to reliving an actual paranormal investigation that sought to separate fact from fiction. 

Into the Shadows: A Paranormal Investigation at Tondee’s Tavern

I push open the heavy front door of Tondee’s Tavern, and it closes behind me with a solid thud, shutting out the sounds of Savannah’s nightlife. It’s just past midnight, and the tavern is officially closed—no patrons, no music, only the hum of the refrigerators and a faint scent of spilled beer and old wood. I flick on my flashlight, though the glow from Bay Street’s lamps seeping through the front windows provides a bit of light. The air inside is warm and still, yet I suppress a shiver of anticipation. This is it, I think. I’ve spent countless nights chasing ghosts in Savannah, but tonight feels special. I am standing in one of the city’s most storied haunts, utterly alone except for whatever — or whoever — might be lingering unseen in the corners.

Well, not completely alone. Tim, a fellow investigator from Ghost City Tours, is with me, kneeling by the bar as he unpacks some of our equipment. We exchange a quick look—equal parts excitement and determination. We both know the lore of this place inside and out. We’ve regaled tour groups with the tales of Catherine’s barroom antics and the basement’s restless souls. Tonight, however, isn’t about storytelling for tourists. Tonight is about capturing evidence. We want to see if the spirits of Tondee’s Tavern will show themselves to us in a measurable way: a voice caught on tape, a flicker on an EMF meter, perhaps even an apparition on camera. Tim hands me a MEL REM-ATDD device, a trusty piece of ghost-hunting gear that serves multiple purposes – it detects electromagnetic field (EMF) disturbances and can alert us to temperature drops (the “ATDD” stands for Ambient Temperature Deviation Detection)​. Essentially, it’s a high-tech sensor that will beep and light up if something (or someone) electromagnetic comes near it, or if the temperature suddenly changes by a significant degree. Many investigators, myself included, believe that spirits can manipulate energy and temperature, so a gadget like this is our electronic “eyes” for those changes.

“Let’s do a quick baseline sweep,” I whisper to Tim. It feels appropriate to whisper; the tavern has the hush of a church at night. We power on the MEL meter, and it emits a soft blue glow. Slowly, we walk it around the main floor, watching the readout. The device remains silent and steady as we weave between wooden tables and leather-upholstered booths. I trail my fingers along the back of a chair, recalling how many times people have claimed to feel a ghostly presence slide into their seat. Right now, though, it’s just a chair. No EMF spikes, no temperature dips beyond the normal uneven cooling of an old building. The dining room is behaving itself. As we pass by the framed antique photos on the wall, my flashlight illuminates a particular picture: an old drawing of colonial men gathered in a long-ago tavern—likely a nod to the original Peter Tondee’s Long Room. I wonder if Peter Tondee’s spirit ever visits this modern namesake. “If you’re here with us, Mr. Tondee,” I think to myself, “we’d love to raise a glass with you.” But that’s a conversation for later.

We reach the bar area, polished wood gleaming under a pendant light (we’ve left a few lights on for safety, casting golden pools in spots). This is Catherine’s domain, if the legends are true. Tim sets the MEL device on the bar counter, right next to an empty rocks glass that stands abandoned from closing duties. It’s so quiet that I become aware of the ringing in my own ears. We decide to conduct our first EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomena) session here, at the bar, in hopes of contacting Catherine or any other spirit present. I pull out a small digital voice recorder and place it beside the EMF meter. By habit, I also take out my phone and ensure it’s on airplane mode—don’t want any stray signals interfering with our devices.

I slide onto a barstool, feeling the leather cushion sink under my weight. Tim stands a few feet away, leaning on the bar. “This is Chris and Tim,” I say aloud, introducing ourselves to the empty tavern. My voice sounds oddly loud in the silence. “We don’t mean any harm. We’re here to listen to you, to maybe talk if you want to talk.” I pause, then add with a half-smile, “We’ve heard so much about this place, we just had to come experience it for ourselves.” Tim chimes in, “Is anyone here with us tonight? We’d love to know your name.” We go quiet, giving a long moment for any response. This is the hard part—patience.

In the stillness, I become acutely aware of the environment. The smell of old alcohol and a hint of char from that long-ago fire linger. The ticking of an unseen clock somewhere adds a rhythmic backdrop. My eyes slowly adjust, and shadows take on shapes. Is that a figure by the hallway to the restrooms? I blink, and realize it’s just a coat rack. The mind plays tricks when searching for ghosts. After about a minute, I ask another question: “Catherine, are you here? We’ve heard you like to have a drink at the bar. You’re welcome to join us.” I deliberately set a second empty glass on the counter in front of the stool beside me, an invitation of sorts. “Maybe you could give us a sign of your presence,” Tim adds. “Can you move something, like you’ve done before? Or just say hello?”

We lapse into silence again, expectant. Ten seconds. Twenty. The EMF meter stays inert, its lights dark. I feel a slight disappointment, but it’s early in the night. Suddenly, a faint tap, tap comes from behind the bar. Both of us straighten. It sounded like glass against wood. I shine my flashlight over the counter—nothing obvious. Tim whispers, “Did you hear that?” I nod and reply quietly, “Yes… sounded like maybe a glass clinking.” Could have been cooling pipes or any number of mundane things. Or not. We make a note of the time for later review of the audio recorder.

We continue a bit longer at the bar, but aside from that one soft tap, nothing overt happens. No disembodied whispers respond to our questions that we can hear in real-time. That’s normal; if EVPs occur, we usually only discover them afterward when listening to recordings. We’ll check later for any faint voice that our ears missed. I gently say, “Thank you,” into the air, in case someone was listening, and we wrap up the session. As I stand up from the stool, I feel a sudden cool breeze against my right arm, as if someone just walked by in a hurry. It’s odd because the air conditioning is off and there were no drafts a second ago. “Did you feel that?” I ask Tim. He didn’t; he was a few steps away. I hold out my arm—goosebumps. The skeptic in me notes that maybe my body just reacted to sitting still too long. The believer in me wonders if Catherine has brushed past, having heard enough of our questions. Either way, we’ll see if the recorder picked up anything when we review the audio.

Now it’s time for the place most likely to yield results: the basement. If there’s a heart to this haunting, it beats below. Both of us pause at the top of the basement stairs, which are accessed at the front of the main floor. I click on a stronger flashlight; the basement has no windows and is pitch black. As the beam cuts into the darkness below, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The temperature notably drops with each step downward. Wooden stairs creak underfoot, each groan announcing our descent to whatever might dwell beneath. When I reach the bottom, I carefully sweep the flashlight across the basement. The walls are brick and stone, crusted with lime and age. The ceiling is low—I can reach up and touch a beam (and I do, to ground myself). Several rusted pipes snake along one wall, and in the far corner I see the outline of an old coal chute or perhaps the sealed-off entrance to that rumored tunnel. The air smells of damp stone and mildew with a hint of something metallic.

 It’s quiet—heavy quiet. Our footsteps sound intrusive, and I find myself stepping lightly as if in a room where someone is sleeping. Tim places the MEL meter on an old wooden crate that sits on the floor; its little red pilot light glows, indicating it’s on and ready. I take out a REM-Pod(another type of EM field detector with an antenna that lights up if something gets close) and place it a few feet away, near the base of the wall that used to lead to the tunnel. We’re effectively creating a mini minefield of sensors; anything moving in a 6-foot radius will likely trigger one of them. We also position a second voice recorder on a step and switch on a night vision video camera on a tripod to record the scene. Preparation complete, we retreat a short distance, observing quietly, letting the environment settle. The plan is to attempt a “call-and-response” session with yes/no questions, inviting any entities to respond by interacting with the devices.

I draw in a deep breath and begin: “We know this place was used to hold people against their will… If anyone who suffered down here can hear me, we are here to listen to you. We want to tell your story. You don’t have to be afraid of us.” My voice comes out gently, reverberating slightly in the confined space. The silence that follows is profound. In the distance, through the ceiling, I think I hear a faint rumble of a car passing on Bay Street above, but down here it’s like another world—cut off, timeless. I continue, “If you want to communicate, you can touch one of these devices we placed on the floor. They’ll light up and let us know you’re here.” As if on cue, the MEL meter’s screen flickers—just a tiny blip of an EMF reading—then goes back to zero. Tim and I exchange a glance. That could be something, or it could be nothing at all. I keep my tone steady: “Thank you. Can you do that again, please, to show us it wasn’t an accident?”

We wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Beep! The MEL meter suddenly chirps and its LED light flashes once, then goes silent​. I feel a spike of adrenaline. That was a clear detection—a short burst of electromagnetic energy near the device. Tim’s eyes widen. He’s careful, whispering to me, “No one moved, right? We’re still.” We are both stone-still. I nod. I can hear the excitement in my own breathing.

Maintaining the protocol, I ask the next question twice (to ensure clarity), leaving space in between: “Were you brought here as a slave? … Were you brought here as a slave?” Nothing at first. I rephrase, trying yes/no: “Touch the device for ‘yes’. Were you enslaved here against your will?” We sit in thick darkness for nearly half a minute. No response. Perhaps that was the wrong approach—or too direct. I decide to pivot. “Were you a sailor who was kidnapped? If yes, please touch the device.” We wait. The devices remain dark and quiet, save for their tiny power LEDs. I remind myself that patience and persistence are key. It must be said, I think, we had this device on in the basement for almost an hour prior… and it never went off until now​. That’s true—while we were setting up equipment and getting baseline readings, the MEL never blipped. The timing of that chirp, right after asking for a sign, is encouraging.

I decide to try a more open-ended invitation. In a calm voice, I say, “We know terrible things happened in this room. If you want to tell us anything—about who you are, or what happened to you—please speak, or make a noise, or touch the lights. We’re so sorry for what you went through.” As an investigator, I strive to be respectful, especially given the nature of this haunting. We fall silent again, allowing a minute or more to pass in quiet vigilance. My ears strain to pick up anything beyond our own sounds.

And then it happens. The REM-Pod’s light suddenly flashes green and it emits a high-pitched tone. My heart leaps. Tim lets out an involuntary “Oh!” before quickly covering his mouth, eyes shining. The green light means something broke the field near the antenna. I immediately follow up, my voice a bit shaky with excitement: “Thank you! I saw that. I hear you.” The REM-Pod falls silent again, but that one blip was clear as day. I continue, “Is that you, Catherine? Or someone else?” Perhaps silly to ask—Catherine is usually upstairs, but who knows, maybe she wandered down. No immediate answer.

I glance at the MEL meter’s digital readout. It shows a transient EMF spike of 4 milligauss that wasn’t there before. We note it carefully. We then do something important: we attempt to debunk. Standing up slowly, I walk around the perimeter with the MEL in hand, checking for any hidden sources—maybe a wire or appliance in the wall giving off EMF, or a phone signal sneaking through. Nothing unusual emerges; the baseline EMF away from the devices remains near zero. We even stomp on the floorboards above a bit to see if vibrations trigger the REM-Pod (perhaps dust or a settling shaking it). No reaction. It seems the earlier blips were not environmental or mechanical in origin.

Given the promising responses, we decide to press just a bit more with questions. I recall the story of the young man supposedly dying here during the Civil War. “Are you a soldier?” I ask clearly. “If you were a soldier, please come near the light.” This time, we get two quick beeps from the REM-Pod, like beep-beep, and I feel a chill that’s not just the damp air. Could that be a “yes”? Two beeps wasn’t a pattern we established, but it was definitely a reaction. Tim murmurs, “That’s wild….” I nod, my mind racing. Were there any documented soldier deaths here? None that I know of for certain, aside from folklore. If a soldier’s spirit is here, he hasn’t been the main focus of tours, which makes this even more intriguing.

We carry on a careful, methodical Q&A for another half hour. We make sure to ask the same question multiple times, attempting to rule out coincidental alerts on our devices​. Sometimes we get a responding blip on the second or third repetition, which is oddly consistent with an intelligent communication pattern. One compelling sequence is when I ask, “Do you want us to leave this basement?” I ask it once—nothing. I ask again, firmly but politely: “Do you want us to leave? If you touch the light, we will go.” Immediately the MEL meter spikes to a 5 on the display and the REM-Pod gives a single shrill chirp. That clear “yes” sends a little bolt of anxiety through me. I’ve learned over the years that when an unseen presence tells you to leave, you probably should. It could mean we’re pushing too hard or venturing into territory that makes the spirits (or us) unsafe.

Tim looks at me, eyebrows raised, silently asking what I want to do. I nod. “Okay,” I say aloud, “we hear you. We’ll head back upstairs now. Thank you for talking with us. We’ll leave you in peace.” We begin gathering our devices, moving respectfully slow. I can’t shake the feeling that as we pack up, someone is watching from that dark corner by the blocked tunnel entrance. My flashlight doesn’t reveal any figure, but the feeling is tangible, a weight on my back between the shoulder blades. I speak one last time: “We’re going now. Once again, thank you. I hope our visit brought you some comfort. We won’t forget you.” It may sound odd, but I always try to leave with gratitude, not fear.

As we climb the stairs out of the basement, the air grows warmer and lighter. I hadn’t realized just how oppressive it felt down there until I emerged into the comparatively airy first floor. I take a deep breath of the tavern’s kitchen-scented air. Both Tim and I are buzzing with excitement and a bit of nervous energy. We whisper excitedly to each other as we check that we’ve got all our gear. The results we got in the basement are among the most striking either of us have encountered in a haunted location: responsive EMF hits that correlated to our questions, multiple devices triggered in a seemingly intelligent manner, and all of it in a location known for intense history. Neither of us say it yet, but I suspect we’re both thinking about the review to come—pouring over the audio and video evidence for any voices or visual surprises to back up what we experienced.

After our excursion in the basement, Tim went back down alone….

Before we pack everything up, I suggest we do a final walk-through of the main floor, as a kind of farewell and to see if anything has changed now that we stirred the pot downstairs. It’s about 2:30 AM now, and we’re tired but not ready to quit. We slowly wander through the tavern one more time, thanking any lingering spirits and staying attuned. The atmosphere is calm, almost serene. I get the sense that whoever wanted us out of the basement is content now that we’ve complied. Still, one moment gives me pause: as I stand by the bar one last time, I have the sudden feeling that someone is right behind me. I freeze, expecting at any second to feel that legendary tap on the shoulder. Instead, what I get is perhaps even more startling—the faintest whisper of a sigh directly in my ear, and a brief impression of warmth, as if a person were standing there exhaling. I whirl around, heart pounding. Of course, no one is there. “Did you just sigh?” I ask Tim, who is across the room. “No,” he replies, looking puzzled. He was too far for it to have been him anyway. I smile, my pulse still racing. I can’t help but address Catherine, assuming it might be her: “Goodnight, Catherine. Thanks for having us.” In the silence, it almost feels like a soft giggle echoes back, but perhaps that’s just my imagination putting a gentle cap on the night’s adventure.

We close and latch the heavy front door of Tondee’s Tavern behind us sometime after 3 AM. The humid Savannah night air wraps around us, and we’re greeted by the distant sound of a ship’s horn on the river and the rustling of palm fronds in a light breeze. For a moment, we just stand on the quiet sidewalk under the glow of a streetlamp, letting everything that happened sink in. The tavern’s brick facade looks peaceful and still, betraying nothing of the lively exchange that just took place inside. But we know the truth. We have in our possession hours of recordings that might hold even more than we realized in the moment. As we walk away, gear in tow, I glance back and imagine for an instant a figure—maybe in a long skirt, maybe in a tattered uniform—watching us from the tavern’s front window. I blink and the window is empty. Yet I don’t feel frightened. If anything, I feel a strange kinship with the spirits of Tondee’s. In those late hours, we listened to them and they listened to us. History came alive in the form of a few beeps and a whispered sigh.

Where History and the Unexplained Intertwine

The story of Tondee’s Tavern is a testament to the idea that history leaves an imprint—sometimes literally. Few places encapsulate Savannah’s past as vividly as this tavern: it has been a stage for the aspirations of patriots, a den of human suffering in the age of slavery, a billet for occupying soldiers, and now a cheerful pub where locals and tourists raise glasses possibly alongside lingering spirits. Through our long-form journey—tracing the tavern’s historical significance, recounting its legends, and even stepping into its shadows for a first-hand investigation—we’ve seen how the line between past and present can blur in the glow of a flickering lantern light.

What are we to make of the tales and experiences at Tondee’s Tavern? Some will argue that the cold spots and phantom whispers are just overactive imaginations in an old building. But after immersing in both the archival records and the midnight encounters, it’s hard to deny that something beyond the ordinary is at play here. The weight of evidence, both anecdotal and investigative, suggests that the spirits of Tondee’s Tavern are very much real to those who experience them. They might not show up on demand for every skeptic with a EMF meter, but in quiet moments, when the conditions are just right, they make their presence known: a clink of an empty glass in salute, an unseen hand guiding a frightened employee to wake up and smell smoke, a mournful word captured on tape echoing centuries of pain.

More importantly, these ghostly manifestations serve as a powerful reminder of the tavern’s past. In a city famous for hospitality and charm, it’s easy to stroll into Tondee’s for a bowl of gumbo and forget that the ground beneath your feet once saw revolution and bondage, celebration and violence. The hauntings ensure that we do not forget. Each time a bartender nervously laughs off a mysterious whisper, or a tourist snaps a photo hoping to catch an orb, they are in effect acknowledging the deep historical roots of this place. The ghosts compel us to remember Peter Tondee and the Sons of Liberty toasting freedom in a time of oppression​; to remember the nameless men, women, and children who cried out in those basement walls longing for freedom of their own; to remember soldiers who marched in as enemies and perhaps left as phantoms. In Tondee’s Tavern, history isn’t entombed in textbooks or museums—it’s an active, swirling energy that can knock on your shoulder or call your name when you least expect it.

The intersection of history and the unexplained at Tondee’s Tavern also invites a broader reflection. Why do certain places become haunted? One might say that when events of great emotional magnitude occur—be they heroic, tragic, or traumatic—they leave a mark on the environment. Savannah is an old city with a long memory; its brick and plaster have absorbed laughter, tears, blood, and hope across generations. And in places like Tondee’s, perhaps these memories play back, like echoes that refuse to fade. The result is a haunting: not a Hollywood horror show, but a quiet, persistent presence that keeps the story alive. Ghosts, in a sense, are historians. They make sure we don’t gloss over the uncomfortable chapters. They force us to face both the noble and the grim facets of our collective story.

For paranormal enthusiasts and investigators, Tondee’s Tavern offers validation that not every ghost story is mere fiction. With its combination of well-documented history and corroborated hauntings, it stands as one of those rare locations where a skeptic can be converted and a believer can be vindicated. When a traveler asks, “Is Tondee’s Tavern really haunted?” one can answer, “Go have a drink there and see for yourself.” Odds are, if they keep an open mind (and perhaps stay till the crowds thin out), they’ll come away with a story of their own—be it a photo of an orb, a voice they can’t explain, or simply that eerie feeling of not being alone. At the very least, they’ll leave having learned about Georgia’s first revolutionary meetings, about Joseph Bryan’s infamous deeds, about the fire that almost consumed the place. And thus, the ghosts will have done their job, teaching yet another visitor about the tapestry of triumphs and tragedies woven into the tavern’s fabric.

Standing outside Tondee’s Tavern as dawn approaches, one might reflect that the building is like a sponge soaked in time. Squeeze it (with curiosity, with technology, with respectful attention), and droplets of history seep out—some in the form of ghostly phenomena, others as vivid mental images of days long past. The paranormal and the historical are not opposites here; they are partners in telling the full story. The ghosts give voice to history’s emotions, and history gives context to the ghosts’ existence.

In conclusion, exploring Tondee’s Tavern is a journey that rewards both the intellect and the imagination. It challenges us to consider that the past is perhaps not dead at all. Maybe, just maybe, those who came before us still walk alongside us in places like this, unseen but not inactive. The next time you find yourself in Savannah, take a stroll down East Bay Street. When you reach the old brick facade of Tondee’s Tavern, pause for a moment. Look up at the second-story windows where candlelight once flickered over secret meetings of patriots. Run your hand along the cool stone by the entrance and think of the anguished souls who may have passed that threshold in irons. Step inside, breathe in the aroma of wood and whisky, and listen. If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on your perspective), you might hear the soft clink of a phantom toast or feel a gentle tap on your shoulder when no one is there. In that moment, you’ll know, as we do, that the haunted history of Tondee’s Tavern is not just a tale to be told, but an experience to be felt. And as you raise a glass – perhaps feeling compelled to murmur a toast to Peter Tondee or to whisper thank you to a shadowy helper – you become a part of the ongoing story, another thread in the rich tapestry of Tondee’s Tavern where history and the unexplained are forever intertwined.