The streetcar groaned to a halt on Canal Street. Brad and Ed stepped off as the thick air of a New Orleans evening enveloped them, heavy with the memory. At surface, the French Quarter clamored around them with lively banter and busy conversations. But underneath the noise, the city seemed to be waiting…listening…anticipating some as yet unknown appointment. Secrets beckoned with a whisper down forgotten streets.

As dusk stretched its velvety fingers through the city, the pair wandered past the Gardette-LePretre Mansion and the LaLaurie house with its palpably gruesome history. Brad paused to greet a mule harnessed to a carriage as it waited for its night tour, and on some unspoken agreement, the two joined the group. The mule stepped into the road. Hooves found the old stones, setting a slow rhythm against the buildings that seemed as if the city itself were keeping time.

Near a quiet stretch of Royal Street, an alleyway came into view, opening into an alluring courtyard with a summons that was difficult to refuse. Ed and Brad slipped away from the tour to follow it, venturing deeper into the city’s heart. It was some moments before they realized the cobblestones had narrowed. Where there had once been faint strains of conversation behind them, now there were none. In fact, they realized they had been wandering for some time without encountering another soul, and yet, they had the eerily distinct sensation that they were far from being alone. At the sound of footsteps trailing them, they turned; no one was there. They walked on, and the footsteps resumed, patient, unhurried, as though something behind them was waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

No voice was ever heard, but a distinct message passed between the living and whatever walked that alley with them. Our founders left the Quarter that night carrying a name: Haunted Spirits.

—

Lightning clawed down through a black Kentucky sky as Brad and Ed ran the storm's length into the Old Talbott Tavern on Court Square in Bardstown. Inside, the warm, time-worn walls shut the night out comfortably. The travelers settled down near the same crackling fire that has been warming travelers since the 1700s, and let the history of the place settle over them like a comfortable old coat.

The evening unspooled slowly, as such evenings should. They mused over the Inn's long guest list, from Daniel Boone to Abraham Lincoln, and one guest who is said never to have checked out. Jesse James, they say, still climbs the stairs in his duster, closing the door to his room with the quiet courtesy of a man who intends to be left alone. Whether they glimpsed him or only felt the brush of a cold draft, Brad and Ed could never say for sure. But they left the Tavern certain of one thing: the spirits had spoken their message again, and they meant to be remembered.

Home again in Asheville, they spent an autumn afternoon before one of the great stone fireplaces in the Grove Park Inn's hall, at the foot of Sunset Mountain. The conversation found its way, as all conversations in that great hall do, toward the Pink Lady, the apparition said to linger at the Inn since her fall from Room 545. They spoke of the flowing pink ball gown she wore to her death, that she still wears when she appears in a soft pink mist, luminous orbs drifting about her.

As her story settled over the room like smoke, Brad and Ed suddenly saw the edges of a ghostly apparition take shape. Not a being, but the bidding of the spirit realm, crystal clear: Haunted Spirits must be conjured right here in Asheville, taking the shape of deliciously mysterious whiskey, bourbon, and vodka.