Nestled on the banks of the Albemarle Sound in a remote part of eastern North Carolina lies the small town of Edenton. Incorporated in 1722, Edenton was the first capital of colonial North Carolina and as such has a rich history dating back to its early days as a maritime seaport of pre-Revolutionary War America.
Given the age of some of the historical homes and buildings in Edenton, not to mention that there are graveyards with graves dating to the early 1700’s, its not hard to believe, in fact, it’s almost expected that Edenton is haunted by the restless souls of its past.
On a recent visit to the town with my wife we had the opportunity to see firsthand evidence of the presence of one of Edenton’s many colonial ghosts.
Edenton has several very old homes that have been painstakingly restored to their previous glory. One of these is the Cupola House. Built in 1758 and occupied for 141 years by the Dickinson Family, the Cupola House now stands empty, and can be toured by appointment.
When my wife and I toured the house on a guided tour, we found out, along with the rest of our group, that we were not necessarily the only people in the house.
While taking us through the Cupola House, our tour guide rather nonchalantly pointed to the bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms and explained that a ghost routinely sits at the foot of the bed. On the edge of the bed we could see an indentation in the mattress. It looked exactly like what one would expect to see if someone had been sitting at the foot of the bed.
Keep in mind that the beds in the house have period-correct goose feather mattresses covered with handmade quilts. They wrinkle easily and the mattresses, which are basically just big bags of feathers, do not recover easily from being sat down on like today’s mattresses.
Our guide explained that no matter what anyone does to the mattress and quilt during the day that the indentation will always return by the next morning. There are several volunteers that routinely unlock the house and dust the furniture and they all report the same thing – when they clean the house and smooth out the quilt on the bed, the indentation always returns once the house is locked up and left for the night.
It is believed that a dying child once occupied the bedroom, and that the ghost of the child’s mother now returns to sit at the edge of the bed to grieve. It is believed that it is her ghost that causes the indentation in the sheets. None of the other beds in the house are affected by this bedside ghost.
So if you’re in the mood to stroll the sidewalks of a quaint little town full of history, I highly recommend a visit to Edenton. You can take a boat ride along the historic shoreline of the town, as well as a trolley ride through the tree-lined streets. And don’t forget to take the walking tour, which includes a visit to the Cupola House where you will be able to see the evidence of the bedside ghost of Edenton with your own eyes.
Introducing my newest horror novel, The Darklands. You can preorder a copy now and it will be delivered to your Kindle on the publish date of June 10, 2016.
A sexy hitchhiker with slits on her wrists, a long-haired biker with a fork stuck in his eye, a gated road leading into a burning forest guarded by a man with a gash on his neck… These are just some of the strange people that await poor Barlow McSwain when he finds himself in the middle of a bizarre landscape known as The Darklands.
Barlow’s journey begins when he narrowly avoids a head-on collision with a truck on a winding road leading into the mountains. When he pulls his motorcycle to the side of the road to calm his nerves, a red El Camino arrives and the driver invites Barlow to have a drink at a saloon just up the road. At first he doesn’t think much about the man in the mysterious car, but when Barlow gets back on the road and continues his journey up the mountain he starts to get the sinking feeling that something is just not right.
On his way to the saloon Barlow stops at a gas station that appears to be from a bygone era. There he meets Velton, the gas station attendant who proudly displays his 1947 Knucklehead Harley Davidson to Barlow. But there is something strange about Velton that Barlow can’t quite put his finger on.
And later, as Barlow rides deeper into the mountains he begins to realize that despite what he might have thought, the near-miss he had with the truck might not have been such a near-miss after all.
Click here to go to the Amazon preorder page for The Darklands.
The locals tell a strange ghost story down on Edisto Island, SC. It is one of the most horrifying and heartbreaking tales you will ever hear. It is the story of the ghost of Julia Legare.
The Legare family owned a plantation on Edisto Island in the time before the Civil War. Their family mausoleum is located on the grounds of the Edisto Island Presbyterian Church, built in 1831. The Church is still active, and the mausoleum still attracts visitors to this day, over 150 years since the night that poor little Julia Legare was laid to rest.
Or, so they thought she was laid to rest.
In those days it was common for families to lose children to illnesses that today are easily cured. And the rest of the not-so-modern medicine of the day also left a lot to be desired, such as the ability to tell whether or not a person was dead or just in a deep coma. Turns out it was the latter for little Julia Legare.
A victim of Diphtheria, Julia was pronounced dead by the physician brought in by the family. No heartbeat or breathing could be detected and due to the primitive level of mortuary science practiced during that era, with no embalming or other form of preservation possible, her thought-to-be dead body was rushed to interment in the family mausoleum. The family paid their respects and with heavy hearts sealed and locked the door of the mausoleum.
Years later when Julia’s older brother was killed in the Civil War, the family once again had to open the mausoleum. What they found horrified them.
Lying on the floor of the mausoleum just inside the door were the crumpled remains of little Julia. Only bones and tattered clothing remained. Claw marks could be seen on the inside of the door and on the walls and floor where Julia had tried in vain to escape after coming out of her Diphtheria-induced coma.
The family, now more consumed with grief than ever, placed Julia’s brother in the mausoleum, gathered up Julia’s remains, reinterred them next to her brother and then resealed the mausoleum.
And then the hauntings began.
When the family returned shortly after resealing the mausoleum, they found the door had been reopened. They closed and locked the door only to return several days later to find that it had once again been reopened.
Distraught and confused, the family then had the door removed and replaced with a heavy stone slab. But that too was found pushed to the side several days later. After a few more attempts, the family gave up and left the door to the mausoleum open. And that is how it remains today. Since the discovery of poor little Julia’s fate, no attempt to keep the mausoleum door sealed shut has been successful.
So if you’re ever down on Edisto Island just south of Charleston, stop by the cemetery at the Edisto Island Presbyterian Church. There you will find the Legare family mausoleum. And just inside the open door you will see the claw marks left by the hands of a little girl unwittingly entombed long before her time, whose ghost still stands a lonely vigil to ensure that the door to her family’s mausoleum remains open so that no one will suffer the same fate as she did over 150 years ago.
Near the town of Morganton, NC in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains lies Brown Mountain. As far back as the early 1900’s, people have observed a ghostly phenomenon in the skies around the mountain that has become known as the Brown Mountain Lights.
Ghost hunting is a popular sport among paranormal enthusiasts, especially in the South. Many people pay good money to take tours of haunted houses or spooky graveyards in the hopes of seeing the elusive ghosts that haunt them. Down South, there is a better chance to see a ghost since Southern land is known to be haunted by the restless souls of its tortured past. But even though the ghosts are there, they often do not want to be seen and many paying visitors often walk away disappointed. Not so for the Brown Mountain Lights. Unlike most ghosts they are anything but shy.
The Brown Mountain Lights are so dependable that visitors come from miles around to see them. The best time is reportedly in the fall months from September to December. The ghostly lightshow is so dependable that overlooks have been constructed on the highways around Brown Mountain to give visitors a place to stop and see the lights. Mile post 310 on the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Brown Mountain Overlook on NC Highway 181, and one of the best vantage points, Wiseman’s View near Linville Falls are some of the best places to see the lights.
To this day, no one has been able to figure out exactly what causes the Brown Mountain Lights. The lights have been blamed on the reflections of locomotive headlamps, campfires, moonshiners, UFO’s and all other manner of physical anomalies. The US Geological Survey has conducted investigations into the lights but has never found a plausible reason for them to exist.
Legend has it that two warring Indian tribes fought on Brown Mountain hundreds of years ago and that the lights are said to be the ghosts of the wives of the warriors that died in the battle. But as with most ghost legends, it depends on who you ask as to how the story goes.
One thing is for certain when it comes to the Brown Mountain Lights – most efforts to see them will be rewarded. So if you’re ever in the area near the mountain, stop by one of the many overlooks on a dark, clear night.
What you will see just might surprise you.
Guest post by Lisa Young
As a woman born and raised in the South, I’ll be the first to tell you that the spirits of our loved ones are never far away. Whether they visit in the night, the way my husband’s dead relatives tend to do, or whether they leave a symbol of their presence, such as a penny from Heaven, we always know they are with us.
Last year saw the passing of my father. He was my rock and meant everything to me. I was lost without him. The heartache from losing my father, along with my son leaving for boot camp was almost more than I could handle. My days were long, and my nights were even longer.
My son’s graduation was December 19th, our big extended-family Christmas party was December 20th and my 50th birthday, despite my best efforts to ignore it, was fast approaching. I hoped our busy schedule would soften the sharp edges of what was ahead of me – my first Christmas without my father. The sadness was unbearable
It was then that my niece Ashley, who had also lost her father, told me about her pennies from Heaven. She told me that she believes that the random pennies she finds, sometimes in the oddest and most unlikely of places, are her father’s way of letting her know that he is still with her. This brings comfort to her, and also to her children. They love thinking about their Pawpaw every time they find a penny.
My father worked for the Coca Cola Company and for years drove a big 18-wheel Coke truck. Every time I see one of those big trucks on the highway I think about him and wonder if it’s his way of giving me a sign that he is with me.
Then one night during my evening prayers I asked my father if he could send me a penny the way Ashley’s father sends them to her. But as the weeks passed and no penny showed up my hope began to wane. Maybe my father’s way of speaking to me would just have to remain with the big Coke trucks and not with pennies.
Then it happened. I came downstairs on Father’s Day with a heavy feeling in my heart knowing that it was going to be a very long day. There on my kitchen floor was a bright, shiny 2015 penny. I knew then that my dad was showing me that he is still with me. It was exactly what I needed. There on the floor was my penny from Heaven.
So when you find your penny from Heaven remember that heads up or tails up doesn’t matter because it’s not about luck. When you find your penny remember that it’s about love, the love you have for that special person whose memory you hold close in your heart. Let your penny serve as a reminder that the spirits of our loved ones are never far away, and that oftentimes they will make their presence known just when we need them the most.
In April of 1862, Union and Confederate armies met in southwestern Tennessee near the town of Shiloh. It would be the bloodiest and most costly battle of the Civil War up to that date, and it would produce a ghostly legend that came to be known as the “Angel’s Glow of Shiloh”.
Almost 25,000 soldiers, both Union and Confederate, gave their lives during the two day Battle of Shiloh. The Union emerged victorious but suffered a higher death toll than the Confederates they opposed. When the battle was over, General Grant had a foothold in Tennessee, the western flank of the Confederacy.
As the wounded and dying men lay on the Shiloh battlefield, a strange thing started to happen. When night fell their wounds began to glow in the dark. No one at the time, including the medics, had any idea why a soldier’s wounds would glow in the dark. Medicine at the time was anything but modern and the medics, unable to come up with any sort of explanation, dubbing the condition the “Angel’s Glow”.
And to make matters even more mysterious, many of the wounded soldiers that had the glowing wounds began to heal and improve at a faster rate than those that didn’t have glowing wounds. This baffled the already bewildered battlefield medics. Since the wounds glowed in the dark, which was strange enough at the time, and many of the soldiers with glowing wounds enjoyed a higher survival rate, the medics had no other explanation than to assume that a higher power was involved, hence the nickname “Angel’s Glow”.
The legend of the Angel’s Glow survived for almost a hundred and fifty years until two high school students participating in a science fair found out what had caused the soldiers’ wounds to glow in the dark. It turns out that the two students discovered that a bioluminescent bacteria known as Photorhabdus Luminescens had most likely taken up residence in the wounds of the Shiloh soldiers. These bacteria glow a soft blue color when alive.
The trouble with the theory however, is that it is well established that Photorhabdus Luminescens cannot survive at the temperature of the human body. So how could it be possible to attribute the glowing wounds to the bacteria if the normal body temperature of the soldiers would have killed it off?
It turns out that since the Battle of Shiloh was so intense and resulted in so many casualties in such a short two-day period, that many of the soldiers on both sides ended up lying on the battlefield for days with little or no help from the medics, who were overwhelmed to say the least. Since the Battle of Shiloh occurred in April, it was still very cool weather in that part of Tennessee. As a result, many of the wounded soldiers went into a state of hypothermia, which lowered their body temperatures enough to allow the Photorhabdus Luminescens bacteria to survive in their wounds.
Once the living bacteria took up residence in the wounds, they began to eat the other more harmful bacteria, such as the type that causes gangrene. That’s a good thing since the cure for a gangrene infected limb in those days involved a saw. Once a soldier’s condition started to improve, their body temperature would return to normal and kill off the Photorhabdus Luminescens bacteria.
While modern science has explained the Angel’s Glow of Shiloh, it pays to remember that in the minds of the soldiers saved by it on the Shiloh battlefield, it was nothing short of the handiwork of the angels above them.
Located on Magazine Street in one of the oldest parts of Charleston, lies the Old Charleston Jail. Built in 1802 and operated until 1939, the jail hosted its share of notorious criminals over the years, not to mention a slew of Civil War prisoners and those caught up in the slave revolts of the time. Given this distinguished guest list it is not hard to believe that the Old Charleston Jail is haunted. Just ask anyone who has visited the place.
In its heyday the Old Charleston Jail was not only used to house violent criminals, it was also used as a place to execute them. Out in the jail’s backyard visitors can see the remnants of the old gallows, including the small shed that was used to hide the iron weight that served to break the neck of the condemned man unlucky enough to find himself on the wrong end of the rope. Instead of falling through a trap door like with most gallows of the day, the condemned man stood on the ground with the noose around his neck. A trap door underneath the iron weight was then triggered and the falling weight did the dirty work. Great skill on the part of the executioner had to be employed when choosing the amount of slack played out in the rope. It had to be based on the weight of the person being hanged. Too much slack and the iron weight would yank the head clean off of the condemned man, which tended to horrify the onlookers. Too little slack and the weight would not do its job in a humane way, resulting in the condemned man suffocating while he danced on the end of the rope. Again, this tended to horrify the onlookers.
One of the most notorious criminals housed at the Old Charleston Jail was a woman by the name of Lavinia Fischer, who is believed by many to be the first female serial killer in the United States. At least the first one ever caught, anyway. She and her husband were both convicted of highway robbery, which at the time was a capital offense, and hanged in 1820. The legends differ as to whether or not Lavinia Fischer ever actually killed anyone. But nonetheless, her ghost is said to still wander the halls of the Old Charleston Jail.
One year while on vacation, my family and I visited the Old Charleston Jail on one of the ghost tours operated in the area. As with any ghost tour there were strange sounds and other creepy occurrences that we all took with a grain of salt. The tour guide’s job was to entertain us and he succeeded greatly at it, scaring my kids out of their wits even though we all knew that any real ghosts would not be so punctual as to conveniently show up during a ghost tour. But as I walked through the darkened hallways of that old jail, I asked myself what it would be like to be alone in those rooms in the dead of night, with no one else around. No tour guide, no fellow tour takers, no one.
Something told me that if I had found myself in that kind of situation, with no one else around, that I might have found out the hard way that no one is ever alone when they are inside the Old Charleston Jail.
When my wife was in high school she was convinced that she lived in a haunted house. Her mother felt the same way. Small objects in the house would vanish without a trace, never to be seen again, and the only explanation they could come up with was that their house had to be haunted.
Since there were only three people living in the house at the time – my wife and her two parents, they were convinced that a thieving “haint” had taken up residence in their house. Being from the South, they all knew that ghosts were real and that it was perfectly reasonable to assume that the ghost of a dead relative had decided to pay them an extended visit. And maybe, just maybe they reasoned, that ghost had sticky fingers. As a result of this my wife and her mother dubbed the ghost “the thieving haint of Belshire Lane”, after the name of the street they lived on at the time.
The problem was that every time my wife’s mother would buy fingernail polish, the bottle would vanish within a day or two. She would often sit in her chair in the living room and paint her nails while the whole family watched TV and when she was done she would leave the bottle of fingernail polish on the coffee table. The next day the bottle would be gone, never to be seen again.
At first my future mother-in-law accused her daughter, the girl who at the time had no idea that she was destined to be the love of my life, of stealing the bottles of fingernail polish. My wife always denied stealing the fingernail polish and would often show her unpainted fingernails as proof that she was not the thief. This went on for several years. My future father-in-law could only look on in amazement as his wife and daughter fought over the missing bottles of fingernail polish. Oftentimes he would try to lighten the mood by showing them his unpainted fingernails as proof that he was also not the thief.
Finally my mother-in-law gave up and resigned herself to the fact that she would at best get only one use from a new bottle of fingernail polish. No matter where she left the little bottle – the coffee table in the family room or the nightstand in her bedroom, the bottle always vanished within a day or two of her using it.
The mystery of the thieving haint of Belshire Lane was finally solved one evening during my wife’s senior year of high school while the family was watching TV together. A brand-new bottle of fingernail polish was sitting on the coffee table when Jellybean, the family dog, walked into the room. The family then watched in amazement as “the Bean”, as they called her, got up on her hind legs at the edge of the coffee table and took the fingernail polish bottle into her mouth. Then the Bean strutted across the living room to the couch and dropped the bottle of fingernail polish on the floor. She then laid down on her side and took her paw and pushed the bottle of fingernail polish underneath the edge of the couch.
The family could only look at each other in amazement. My wife’s father then got up, walked over and lifted up one side of the couch. Hidden underneath was a large collection of fingernail polish bottles. Dozens of them.
The thieving haint of Belshire Lane turned out to be a Kleptomaniac Lhasa Apso with very sticky paws. After that night my mother-in-law always placed her new fingernail polish out of the reach of the Bean and as a result the bottles stopped vanishing. But anytime something else vanished, like the car keys, a makeup compact or the latest copy of Reader’s Digest, everyone knew that the thieving haint of Belshire Lane was back, and that the first place to look for the missing item was underneath the couch.
Most people have heard the story, in one form or another, of the legendary Delta Blues guitar player who went by the name of Robert Johnson. Legend has it that on a dark October night sometime in the late 1920’s, Johnson traveled to the intersection of Highway 8 and Highway 1 in Rosedale, Mississippi and struck a deal with the Devil himself.
According to the legend, when Johnson arrived at the crossroads the Devil was sitting on a log by the side of the road. The Devil was accompanied by a hairless dog, described in local folklore of the time as a “Hellhound”. As Johnson approached, the dog began to make a sound unlike anything he had ever heard before. The Devil, being the shrewd businessman that he was, recognized the look in Johnson’s eyes when he heard the wailing sounds of the dog.
“The dog is mine, but that sound he makes is called the blues and it has a price if you are willing to make a deal,” replied the Devil as Johnson listened to the sorrowful sounds of the dog howling as its eyes glowed yellow in the moonlight.
The Devil then took Johnson’s guitar, tuned it and handed it back to him. Then the Devil explained the terms of the deal. In exchange for his soul, Johnson was given the ability to play the guitar beyond the ability of any of his fellow bluesmen that roamed the Mississippi Delta playing on street corners and in the Juke Joints of the day.
Robert Johnson died at the age of 27 near the town of Greenwood, Mississippi after drinking whiskey laced with poison given to him by the jealous husband of a woman Johnson had been friendly with. It is said he died on his hands and knees barking like a dog. His half-sister came for his body several days later and took his guitar and other possessions with her after she took care of having Johnson buried. There are currently three grave markers in different locations that bear his name. Even his exact burial place is unknown.
Little else is known of Johnson’s short life. He left only a handful of recorded songs and his guitar has never been found. But his guitar skills are undisputed. Decades later, when Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards first heard one of Johnson’s recordings, he asked who the guitar player was playing along with Johnson on the record. Johnson’s picking was so complex that it sounded as if two guitars were being played together. To this day, no one has been able to match Johnson’s style and the tunings he used on his guitar are still undecipherable.
There is no shortage nowadays of guitars owned by famous guitar players. And very few of them have any sort of mystery tied to them. The whereabouts of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s guitars, as well as those of Jimi Hendrix are all well known. Even Buddy Holly’s famous Stratocaster is owned in a private collection. No mystery there. Walk into any Hardrock Café and you will see more than a few famous guitars on display.
But the most famous guitar of all time, the guitar played by a man who sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for his extraordinary playing skills is still shrouded in mystery almost 80 years after Johnson’s death.
Perhaps it is best that Johnson’s guitar remain lost forever. Who knows what kind of sound would come out of it were it were ever played again. And what would happen to the person bold enough to strum a chord across its strings?
Some things are best left alone. Maybe Johnson’s guitar vanished for a reason. Maybe it is not meant to be played by anyone other than the signatories of that infamous deal, namely Johnson and the Devil.
In one of Johnson’s songs, he sings of a Hellhound on his trail. His sad voice and intricate guitar playing match the soulful wails of the Hellhound present when he made his deal on that moonlit night at the crossroads.
If Robert Johnson’s guitar is ever found the person who finds it should proceed with caution. The sound from that guitar may very well conjure the Devil himself.