Tanner Hall

Candy House

It was just one of those days; hotter ‘an hell with no more than the occasional whisper of a breeze. Summer in Savannah was a sticky affair most days, and it had not gotten any better since the Great Fire. But this was something else. Anna would just as well spend the day indoors with a moldy, broken-spined paperback as muck about in the swamps to check her traps. The snakes weren’t biting anyway. What was biting was every God-forsaken mosquito south of the Tennessee line, all come out at once to torment the poor old hermit woman in her shack.