You can get used to about anything, living at the Jamesport Manor Inn on Long Island. A former dishwasher who was also a tenant before it burned and was restored, proved it one afternoon as he was at his sink, doing his job. A waitress, who was also familiar with the specter of what people presume to be a former Lady of the Manor, was somewhat taken aback to come into the scullery and find her a short distance from the dishwasher, watching intently.

The dishwasher, David Ferreira was used to this, and shrugged it off. The ghost was equally non-plussed by the arrival of the waitress, and continued to watch Ferreira, oblivious to anyone else in the room. After all, there’s nothing unusual about people sharing a house spending a little time together. Even if one isn’t of this world.

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Editor’s Note: I received this article from David Ferreira, who spent a decade living and working at one of Long Island’s most famous haunted houses, and who has an interesting story to tell. Since there appears to be quite a lot of interest in the Jamesport Manor Inn, I thought I’d pass it along.

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I really enjoyed my ten years living at the Jamesport Manor. I would have purchased it, but I did not have the money. I took great care of it as much as possible, putting buckets under the falling water to keep the house from completing rotting or worse. I had to rid the place of vermin with my own money when it was closed. I also mowed the whole lawn with a little push mower.  Well here are some of my stories, which I hope you find interesting. They are factual and actually happened, some of stories have witnesses.

One day many moons ago, I had been driving on Manor Lane in Jamesport, looking for a place to eat.  I still remember the first time I came in- a middle aged waitress greeted me and I sat down at the bar. I had a few drinks and left for the night when they closed.  Being that I did not have anything to do most nights after work, I came in frequently.  One day, while eating my dinner, a waitress came over and said the owner wants to speak with me. It was Neil Kopp,  who informed me that I could move in the manor if I was willing to work there. I just had to wait a month for Neil to evict the other tenants. I agreed, and began washing dishes as a start. I was told about the ghosts, but really did not see much at first, just the large doors flying open once in a awhile, while I ate at the bar. Sometimes the lights would flicker in the front alcove at night when  the customers left. After living there for a month or so, I had noticed that there was a rose sscent on my way upstairs to the apartment, butI really did not pay much attention. I actually grew accustomed to it.

One  time during the day I was relaxing in the afternoon in the bar area and a black mist came out of the large air condition duct on the ceiling. It was a strange, large mist or mass, which wrapped around the front stairs and then went up.  It was not smoke but a weird mist.

Many other events took place, such as one night I was having a few drinks with a waiter and a waitress. There were no customers. The alcove lights began to do their thing and then the whole house began to flicker. It actually was a bit frightening, and we went in the kitchen. When we got ourselves together, we came back to the barroom area and all of our glasses were smashed on the bar.  That night, as I slept there were voices in some other language coming from the yellow room. The yellow room is where they used to store liquor. These voices were not quiet, but very loud. Sounded as if they were arguing.

I used to have a pager. The pager would call me from the number of the Manor when no one was there. I would call back thinking it was the owner. However, either no one was there or a waitress picked up and said no one paged me.  It would usually happen when I was at my mother’s house.

During Halloween, Donna who was the owner’s wife at the time, used to hang a frightening costume figure in the front main upstairs window. When I would go upstairs to the apartment. It would turn around and look at me. This happened every time.

In severe weather, the house as large as it was…used to shake.  The tenants who lived before told me about this. Kind of a strange shaking as if the place were alive.

When the manor closed for five year, very little activity happened. An occasional child sounding as if playing.  Sometimes I would wake up with bug bites on my legs when I did not see any bugs.  I usually spent the time in the manor by myself studying for my BA in Art Education. I also painted almost every angle and season of the Manor.  The manor when it was closed was a great place to use as an art studio.  I still own some, but sold most of them to the Kar’s.  When they purchased, I left, leaving the furniture and some of my belongings  in the apartment.  I was going to ask for them later when I had the opportunity. The Kar’s had some people living upstairs in the apartment.

The most frightening is experiences are what I would call, the follower ghost. I am not sure if it is the women or who or what it is. Anyway, this entity calls my name early in the morning 2-3 per year. It can be a female voice, male or even a voice from someone that I know.  It always calls from downstairs when I am lying in bed. The voice will call my name until I wake up from sleep, then it stops.  This entity came after I lived at the manor. I actually forgot about these occurrences while I was in the military.  While  living with my first wife in Portsmouth VA.I was living in a in a townhouse and my name was called. While this happened. I thought to myself. How can this be? I am living in another place and not even in the bed alone.  A few years later, I  moved to northern VA, where it happened a few times, though I never told my new wife, who happens to be Peruvian. She had a dream that this old woman was downstairs and could not come upstairs. She was mad and tried to touch the baby who was in her stomach but could not.  I told my wife after this, and she understood. However, I am very protective of my baby. Now that the baby is born, I haven’t heard that voice. Nor would I dare answer it if I did. My mother says to answer it,  but no way. I don’t know what it is,

When I heard of the lady who came to the manor to bring back the ghost, I was not too thrilled. Better to just leave and let alone.  That’s fine if they just stay there. However, I do not want them to get curious and see how I am doing.

It was sad when I did see the ruins of where I used to live. I was told about it burning to ground from my older brother. He is a member of the fire department and was there when it crumbled. I was living in Winchester, VA and was about to go into the US Naval boot camp  I visited the new manor when I had some leave time. I did not feel anything there. That’s not to say nothing was there or on the grounds.

Submitted by David Ferreira

Click here to learn more about the hauntings and history at the Jamesport Manor Inn, as well as the travel review

Click here to see pictures of real haunted houses on Long Island

The Jamesport Manor Inn, Jamesport, Long Island, New York. To order fine art prints or view larger, click here

One could argue that the main character of The Witching Hour, a novel by Anne Rice is the Mayfair mansion on First Street in New Orleans, Louisiana. In the book, the house is painstakingly restored, making a dandy home, custom-built for the spirits that live within.

But this begs the question, what ties a spirit to a particular location? When you gut a house and rebuild it, is it the house or its furnishings holding the spirits earthbound, the ground the house sits upon, or is there something familiar about the structure, which as long as it is extant, even in a restored version, will be familiar enough to the spirits so that they can find their way home?

It’s also possible that as long as the house looks enough like the original, and sits upon the same spot, and looks haunted, that people will still tell the old tales, and therefore keep the spirits, even if they never existed, alive.

The Jamesport Manor Inn in Jamesport, New York, out on the north fork of Long Island is a study in these questions.

Aptly described by the New York Times, “The Jamesport Manor Inn looks like Halloween every day of the year. The landmark, which dates from the mid-19th century, would be a suitable abode for the Addams family. It is a typical haunted house, Hollywood style.”

And yet it hasn’t always been so. In fact, before the present owners purchased the house in June of 2005, it had fallen into disrepair and was in such a dilapidated state that locally it was referred to as “the haunted house.” No doubt the look of the house itself drew people to make this conclusion. But that a woman was frequently seen in the center, upstairs window of the abandoned house helped quite a bit.

Originally known as the Dimon Mansion, the restored Second Empire building that you see today, beautifully topped by a multi-colored slate Mansard roof and surrounded by farmland, is a fair approximation of how it must have looked after an expansion in 1870-80.

Originally it was thought that this was the time the house was built. But it seems to have been a much older structure, as evidence turned up by the present owners showed.

The Dimon family first laid claim to the property in the 1750′s, and in all probability, Jonathan Dimon built the original structure around then. His son, also Jonathan, served in the American Revolution as a minuteman, a minority in a part of New York which swarmed with loyalists.

It’s fitting that the family was a family of shipbuilders, as one of Jonathan’s descendants collected a cannonball which came rolling through the fields as he watched a battle in the 1814, during the War of 1812, fought out on Long Island Sound and the nearby shore. The Dimons founded a shipyard in New York City with Stephen Smith, and built what is believed to be the first clipper ship, the Rainbow, as well as its more famous sister, the Sea Witch. Both the Rainbow and the Sea Witch set records for the fastest trip from China to the United States in the middle of the nineteenth century. In addition, Smith and Dimon were also associated with Cornelius Vanderbilt, both in racing competition and friendship.

As the Dimon family fortune grew, the house in Jamesport retained its position as the ancestral home, with the children summering there, in addition to frequent visits. But in the mid 19th century, the first of the scandals and tragedies which would rock the family occurred as one of the family ended up in the cups of the demon rum, and took up residence in the town’s poor house.

John F. Dimon made his fortune trading bird crap from Peru. The guano trade was incredibly lucrative, being used as fertilizer, and it was in Peru where John met Rosalie and fell in love. Sometime in the 1860′s they came back to Jamesport and made their home in the manor house.

But their lives in Jamesport would not prove to be a happy time. In 1868, their ten-year-old daugher, Margaret Olivia was climbing one of two large oak trees in the front yard and fell, breaking her neck. Her mother, Rosalie was plunged into an inconsolable despair, from which she never recovered.

Perhaps in an attempt to cheer up his wife, John F. began renovating the home about 1880, stripping it down to its frame and essentially starting over, building something quite like the structure you see now. Another daughter, Laura became embroiled in scandal with her lover and future husband, which became tabloid fodder at the time. Laura later accused her husband of threatening to poison her, a fate which suspiciously befell his next wife.

Laura’s future proved no more cheerful than her mothers’. Her own daughter died at the early age of 29, and Laura, “dazed by an immeasurable and uncomprehended grief,” visited her grave on an almost daily basis till her death four years later. Her obituary read “Born in Lima, Peru, she was brought to this country in early childhood, and reared in strict seclusion in the old mansion on Manor Lane. . . . Of remarkable beauty in youth, time and sorrow but softened that beauty as it faded, and the little black-robed figure with the white pathetic face, never failed to appeal to the sympathies even of those who did not understand.”

By 1931 there were no more Dimon’s living in the manor house, and in 1947 it became the Twin Oaks restaurant, named for the trees in the front yard. The restaurant went through several owners and several names, before it was eventually abandoned and left to its later incarnation as Jamesport’s haunted house. Rumors swirled about the building, in addition to the woman in the second floor windows, it was also whispered that the house, probably without basis in fact, at one time was a brothel.

When Matt and Gail Kar and Frank and Anne McVeigh began lovingly restoring the property in 2006, they were amazed at the home’s features which were continually being revealed, such as beautiful parquet floors hidden by ragged carpets on the first floor, as well as the frame of the original 18th century house. And by fall, the building was almost ready to open for business, when on the early morning of October 20th, some rags seemed to spontaneously combust and the whole building was gone in just over an hour.

Luckily, much of the house had been documented during the restoration, and by August of 2006, with the support of the community and a gaggle of architects and builders in tow, the house rose again, almost identical to the original, except where modifications had to be made to bring it up to code. Included in the restoration are replicas of the original archways through the house, with their signature decorative keys.

Ironically enough, it was these keys which put me in mind of Rice’s The Witching Hour, where a signature architectural motif of keyholes is what acts as a portal for the spirits of the Mayfair ancestors to recognize and find their way home. And perhaps it’s this attention to detail which has brought the spirits back to the Jamesport Manor Inn.

According to Matt Kar, “The first few weeks that we were open, someone came in and had this candle that they said would bring the Manor’s ghost back,” Matt told me. “I told them that I didn’t believe in ghosts. Later on in the conversation, I repeated that I didn’t believe, and as I said it, he took the candle out. Literally the moment the candle hit the table, lightning struck the telephone pole across the street and all the lights in here started to flicker. After that, it was kind of hard not to believe, even for me.”

But as so often is the case in haunted restaurants, it’s the workers that most keenly feel the presence of spirits. A waitress reports that roses still grow in the spot where young Margaret fell from the tree and broke her neck, despite attempts to get rid of them. A bookkeeper claimed to hear the sound of heavy breathing behind her when working alone in the building. Restaurant staff give witness to the sounds of people walking around and closing doors, in parts of the restaurant which are empty of human occupants. It’s said that the staff try to leave all at once, in order to avoid leaving anyone in the building alone. And of course, Matt reports that he still hears from customers that they’ve seen the woman standing in the upstairs window, long thought to be Rosalie looking out at the spot where her daughter fell to her death.

“Before the fire,” says Matt, “there was most definitely a presence here. When I first walked into the building, you could feel it – something was here, something was going on.” And if the stories are true, the spirits have found their way back to the Jamesport Manor Inn.

Gothic Travel Review: It’s a fairly long haul from Manhattan to Jamesport, pretty much the full length of Long Island, which can be surprisingly long. Hence the name, eh? But in my studied opinion, well worth it. On the north fork of Long Island you find yourself in true countryside – farms, picturesque small villages and wineries. For those of historical bent, you’ll be pleased to know that the first settlements on Long Island, and some of the first in the country are to be found on the north fork. And for those who don’t relish the long drive back to the city, there is a plethora of interesting bed and breakfasts to be had at a much more reasonable rate than Manhattan hotels.

I don’t find haunted restaurants to be particularly creepy, and the Jamesport Manor Inn is no exception. Instead, what you’ll find is a lovely drive, an enchanting ambiance and an incredible dinner. If you’re looking for upscale dining with a grown-local bent, and you should damnit, this is the place.

I arrived racing the sunset for photos and the view and the light was breathtaking, and after a long day of visiting haunted Long Island sites, of which there are many, the dinner and service was much appreciated. I highly recommend the duck by the way. But as for a chilling atmosphere, it’s probably not going to happen. Then again, with a wine list like theirs, does it really matter? Three crypts for an overall wonderful experience, and a great history.

Click to learn more about Gothic Travel ratings and what they mean

Sources:
Ghost Story of the Jamesport Manor Inn, Long Island, New York. 123HelpMe.com. 13 Sep 2011
Haunted Beauty: Great Design, Scary Details by Chelsea Foster
www.jamesportmanorinn.com
History of the Jamesport Manor, Richard Wines – 2007

The Jamesport Manor Inn, Jamesport, Long Island, New York. To order fine art prints or view larger, click here

Chapel of ease on St. Helena Island, Beaufort County, South Carolina. Click here to view larger or order art prints from the low country of South Carolina

St. Helena Island, a sea island located in the Port Royal Sound of South Carolina has a long history. Some say it’s the oldest settlement in the United States, founded shortly after its discovery by Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón, a Spaniard looking to colonize the sea islands, some time around 1520. Port Royal, located on the adjacent island of the same name, was once the capital of the Spanish colony of Florida, and today is best known as the bucolic and utterly charming city of Beaufort. Think Forrest Gump, as a fair amount of the movie was filmed there. Since its discovery, it’s been ruled at various times by the Spanish, French, English, Scots, United States and of course the Confederate States of America.

Noticing a resemblance to the portions of West Africa known for ideal rice-growing conditions, slavery became a hot commodity from an early time. In addition to rice – spices, cotton and indigo became valuable cash crops, made profitable on the backs of not only slave labour from Sierre Leone, but native Americans, as well as indentured servants from across Europe. At the time of the American revolution, St. Helena Island, see-sawing between French and Spanish rule became English.

All these influences formed a gumbo of culture, cooked in the sweltering South Carolina summers, somewhat isolated from the mainland. Today, most of the island’s 8,000 plus residents live in rural areas, and you find a very strong Gullah element as well.

Heading out towards Fort Fremont on the southwestern tip of the island known as Land’s End, you pass beneath the overhanging branches of what has come to be known as the hanging tree, from a legend that runaway slaves were once hung there as a warning to others who contemplated escaping their shackles and chains. If you find yourself here after dark, park beneath its branches, turn off you headlamps and wait for the Land’s End light. It begins in the distance like a single headlight coming down the road towards you, but as it grows closer you realize it’s much larger and not nearly as bright. Some say as it speeds by it leaves you charged with static electricity. Others have reported being overtaken by the light as they drove back towards Port Royal Island. No one agrees on what the cause for the light might be, though it’s pretty much agreed upon that the light is real, and even somewhat reliable. Some even claim the light appears every night, if you’re patient enough.

Sheriff’s patrols in the seventies reported that there might be a hundred or more cars lining this stretch of the road some nights. At least two people have died in auto accidents chasing down the light. Some say it’s nothing more than swamp gas. Others say it’s not bright enough to be swamp gas and it moves too quickly and with a purpose. Scientific studies were made on it in the seventies with no definitive conclusion, though one idea which seems to pull more weight than others is that it’s an optical illusion created by the distant lights of headlamps further down the road. Which perhaps is what led to the story that it’s the ghost of several children who were killed when the bus they were riding in slammed into the hanging tree.

Proponents of the supernatural claim it is the ghost of the unfortunate slaves hung from the tree, as it’s been said to hover among its branches. Some say it’s the ghost of a union officer who lost his head in the war. Another story is that it’s the soul of a departed confederate soldier. The unfortunate fellow was on patrol one evening, when surprised by union soliders, one of whom sliced his head off and tossed it in the bay, and that now he roams the countryside, looking for his lost head. Though let’s be realistic here … one doesn’t simply slice the head off another person, without expending a lot of force, and having exceptionally good aim. There’s an awful lot of bone to get through. And it’s unlikely that two soldiers trying to infiltrate behind enemy lines would take the time to saw, hack or otherwise pry the skull off a body. It’s not only time consuming, but from what I hear, incredibly messy.

Though it brings to mind the story of the another famous, headless soldier, up north in Sleepy Hollow, New York. Sleepy Hollow is of course known for more ghostly encounters than the headless Hessian. And so is St. Helena Island.

Chapel of ease on St. Helena Island, Beaufort County, South Carolina. Click here to view larger or order art prints from the low country of South Carolina

Just a bit before you reach the hanging tree, off to the left you find the ruins of an old church, what is known in the area as a chapel of ease. A chapel of ease was built to serve the plantation population of an area, too far away from a parish church to attend Sunday services. In the case of this particular chapel of ease on St. Helena Island, building was commenced about 1740, using tabby construction methods.
Tabby, for those of you unfamiliar with the method, refers not to a cat, but the building material. Tabby is a form of concrete made from lime, sand and oyster shells. The area was once heavily populated by native Americans, who ate oysters by the boatload it appears, leaving their shells heaped in great piles around the island. Oyster shells don’t decompose very rapidly at all, and it’s not uncommon to find piles thousands of years old throughout the world. It’s believed that this method of constructions dates from the Spanish period, as in Spain you find a very similar building method, which was brought there by the invading Moors from North Africa.

Which is interesting when you think of it. This particular chapel, intended to make life more comfortable for white slaveholders and their workers, was built using a technique from Spain, when it was conquered by the Africans. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?

Tabby construction of the chapel of ease on St. Helena Island, Beaufort County, South Carolina. Click here to view larger or order art prints from the low country of South Carolina

At any rate, it was once known as the White Church, as the combination of oyster shells and lime caused the structure to appear to glow when it was still in its glory. Its glory days are long past, having been heavily damaged from a forest fire late in the 19th century.

Walking around and inside the ruins today, you find the atmosphere heavy with humidity, and hushed with the passing of time. To say the effect is gloomy would be too obvious. Edgar Allan Poe might have said that a stifling air of decay hangs like a decrepit mantle upon the place. Creepy is another word that comes to mind.

The St. Helena Chapel of Ease was ideally situated for the planters of the island, and by 1812, it had been granted the designation of parish church. Then on November 4 of 1861 Sunday services were interrupted by a messenger who brought news of the impending invasion of nearby Beaufort by Union troops to a Captain William Oliver Perry Fripp. Fripp’s ancestors had been instrumented in the building and upkeep of the chapel, as John Fripp III has left 500 pounds for the purpose in 1780. A year earlier, Edgar Fripp and his wife Eliza had taken their place in a mausoleum built for them in the adjacent graveyard back in 1852. Built by Charleston stone-cutter W.T. White, it remains on the property today, and still shows itself to be in quite good condition. According to a diary written by Thomas B. Chaplin on April 13, 1852, “Said vault was a fine affair and did not have to wait very long for it’s occupants, Edgar & wife. The Yankees broke it open during the war hoping for treasure. It is now somewhat out of order.”

The Vault of Edgar and Eliza Fripp, Chapel of ease on St. Helena Island, Beaufort County, South Carolina. Click here to view larger or order art prints from the low country of South Carolina

To this day, the vault remains out of order. The planters left the island with the arrival of Union forces in 1861, and the church never regained its stature. Stories relate that union soldiers used it for services during the war, as well as northerners who came to the area, i.e. carpetbaggers, after the war to educate and train the former slave population.

The door of Fripp’s vault was ruined by the soldiers, and at some point it was decided to brick up the entrance. According to the story, workmen did a journeyman’s job of sealing the vault, only to return the following day to find the bricks removed and neatly stacked beside the mausoleum. Convinced that the supernatural was afoot, in part aided by police assurances that no one had been in the area the previous night long enough to complete such a task, the job remained unfinished. Today the vault is empty, the door half-sealed by bricks, and one finds the experience of looking into its vacant maw more than a bit unsettling.

Others report hearing whispered prayers and singing emanating from the interior of the chapel. Still other claim to have heard names being shouted in the silent burial ground, or the surrounding forest.

My personal favorite involves a lady shrouded in white, walking amongst the tombstones, a child in her arms, like a southern gothic Lucy Harker from Bram Stoker’s Dracula, carrying the child to her crypt for a midnight snack.

That such stories about on St. Helena’s Island, and around the Chapel of Ease is no surprise. With such a mingled heritage and bloodline, and about five centuries of history to feed it, perhaps it’s surprising that the ghosts don’t outnumber the living in the thick air of the South Carolina sea islands.

Gothic Travel Rating: A bit of traffic on the highway will intrude on the quiet and solitude, but a visit to the Chapel of Ease exudes southern gothic moodiness. The possible presence of alligators and snakes will certainly keep you on your toes as well. Maybe not the most frightening place in the area, but it’s hard to beat it for mood. The police might frown on you parking there at night, but have a friend drop you off and come back later. I dare you. Easily five crypt possibilities here.

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If you go: S.C. Sec. Rd. 45, St. Helena Island

Coordinates:	32°22′31″N80°34′36″W

Charleston’s Old Jail, where Lavina Fisher and her husband John were held and executed. Click here to view larger or order art prints from Charleston, South Carolina

Though she’s been dead for almost 200 years, Charleston is in love Lavina Fisher. Or rather the legend of Lavina Fisher.

According to legend, Lavina had a way with men, particularly her husband John. John and Lavina ran the Six Mile House, located as stated, six miles north of Charleston. Travelers heading in and out of Charleston would stop over for refreshments or a room for the evening. Lavina loved to bring the men into her parlor for tea and conversation. The particularly tasty ones – as Lavina had a taste for gold – were the rich ones, who got an extra dose for their tea. A lethal one.

As the poison would take hold, Lavina and John would help the suddenly weary traveler to a bed in the back. Once he was out, John would spring a lever, a trapdoor was sprung and the bed, occupant and all would fall into a pit below the house. If the poison and the fall didn’t kill him, John would finish him off, relieve the corpse of all valuables, put the bed back and dispose of the body.

One evening a fellow by the name of John Peoples stopped over. Lavina took him to her parlor and offered him tea. Peoples didn’t particularly care for tea, but was a kind soul, so when Lavina had her back turned, he poured the contents of the cup into a nearby plant. Over the course of the conversation, Lavina started giving Peoples the willies. The presence and quirky behavior of John didn’t particularly help. Wanting to get away from the couple, John Peoples feigned tiredness, made his excuses and found his way to his bedroom.

Glad to be out of the company of the Fishers, John found he wasn’t tired enough for bed, so set himself up in a chair by the door. As he sat there, the bed collapsed, falling into the pit. Startled, he leapt from the chair and threw open the door of his bedroom to summon help. Standing there was a very confused looking John Fisher, with Lavina behind him, startled to see Peoples so active. Freaked, John Peoples slammed the door closed and bolted out the window, where he ran all the way to Charleston and reported what had happened to the police. Who of course investigated, noticed several reports of missing travelers along that stretch of road, and located the bodies of numerous victims.

And I might add, making Lavina Fisher the first female serial killer in United States history.

See? A great story – one that gentile Charleston can trot out to tourists, particularly when escorting them around the gloomy and fascinating Unitarian Cemetery, where her ghost has been reported.

But too good to be true. What really happened is this …

Charleston police had a number of reports about robberies out along the highway by Six Mile House. Charleston lived and breathed commerce, and the highways were of vital importance. So they took highway robbery seriously. The noose.

First the police went to Five Mile House, obviously located one mile from John and Lavina’s inn. They burned that, then came to Six Mile House and evicted the Fishers. In their place, they left a fellow by the name of Dave Ross. The next day a gang shows up at the inn, who drag Ross outside where he sees Lavina. Oh how sweet she must have looked, and Ross looked to her for help. Lavina instead choked Ross, then rammed his face through a window.

A couple hours later, the gang accosted the aforementioned John Peoples on the road and relieved him of about $40. Peoples went to the police and reported the crime, which along with the testimony of Ross was enough to get Lavina and John Fisher hauled before the authorities. Charged with highway robbery, they were sentenced to be hung and sent to Charleston’s Old Jail.

Since they were married, they were kept in the upper floors in a room together, from which they nearly escaped. John in fact, made it outside of the jail, but Lavina couldn’t get out, so the loyal John allowed himself to be recaptured.

In South Carolina at the time, married women automatically escaped the death penalty, and Lavina had hoped to escape the gallows by that. The judge squashed that plan however, telling her that they’d hang her husband first, which would make her a widow and eligible to hang.

John mounted the gallows peacefully enough, but his loyalty to Lavina broke when he suddenly proclaimed his innocence, then just as suddenly asked for forgiveness for his crimes and that was it for John.

It’s said that Lavina wore a wedding dress to her hanging, hoping her beauty and the pitifulness of her state would cause some man in the crowd to swoon, and marry her at the last moment. Evidently, when she realized that wasn’t going to happen, her mood soured. They had to drag her up on the gallows, kicking and screaming. According on one historian at the time:

“She stamped in rage and swore with all the vehemence of her amazing vocabulary, calling down damnation … The crowd stood shocked into silence, while she cut short one curse with another and ended with a volley of shrieks.”

“If you have a message you want to send to hell, give it to me—I’ll carry it, Lavina said,” and a legend was born.

And no, it’s not Lavina Fisher who is seen roaming the tombstones at Charleston’s Unitarian Church. Her and her husband were buried in potter’s field near the Old Jail. Which by the way, is another place where Lavina’s spirit is thought to haunt. Lavina’s ghost, and several other odd experiences have been reported in her cell at the Old Jail, including sightings of her apparition from outside, through the window.

A lot of strange things are seen on the streets of Charleston. With the Spanish moss hanging from the oaks, and the humidity of the summer thickening the air, it’s the story that counts most, to while away the praline sweet minutes.

Charleston’s Unitarian Church Cemetery, where Lavina’s ghost is said to walk. Click here to view larger or order art prints from Charleston, South Carolina

Burrell’s Woods, Carmi, Illinois. Click here to view larger or order art prints from Carmi, Illinois

“I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no? They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! –

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

From the Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe

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Burrell’s Woods lies on the outskirts of Carmi, Illinois, a small collection of wooded hills, creeks, picnic shelters and playground equipment. Today it’s been modernized, the road is better paved, there’s a campground and a small lake, complete with fountain. But growing up in the late sixties, it still had a bit of wild about it.

As you near the turnoff you pass Maple Ridge Cemetery. A rolling field of tombstones, with the oldest dating from the 19th century, it’s a field of the dead that immediately captures the imagination.

The most striking of the tombstones there is of one William Rebstock, also known as Hoppy. Hoppy was born July 11, 1878, and died November 12, 1952. As his headstone says, “here lies a man who lived and died for his country, relatives and friends.” Not much was known about Stumpy by those of us growing up back then. It was rumored that his nickname, Hoppy, came from a wooden leg. Others said he was born with one leg shorter than the other. It was also said that the life-size, realistic statue of Hoppy that sits atop the marble pedestal had to be sent back to the carver, as he had fixed Hoppy’s mangled leg, and his family insisted that it be deformed as it had been in life.

It was said that once a year or so, Hoppy came down from his pedestal and walked around the neighborhood. This was a story further reinforced one day when people driving by Maple Ridge noticed that Hoppy wasn’t up there. Further investigation found Hoppy at Burrell’s Woods. Of course the old-timers in our community, and the police as well, put his disappearance down to some local kids. But lifting a life-sized concrete statue from a pedestal four foot tall is a mean feat, even for the hardiest of corn-fed, midwestern youth. So those of us who were inclined to look for the supernatural whenever possible, had our doubts.

William “Hoppy” Rebstock. Click here to view larger or order art prints from Carmi, Illinois

Each year Jefferson Elementary School, which I attended piled all the students and most of teachers into busses and hauled us out to Burrell’s Woods, for the Spring Picnic. In today’s law-suit prone world, we’d never have had the freedom we had then. We hit the trails, waded through the creeks, did battle with water moccasins, and generally ran wild for the afternoon. Eventually we found ourselves taking the dare of the older students, and headed up to the cemetery on top of the hill.

It wasn’t a large cemetery by any standards, no more than a dozen tombstones. Most of them were ancient, weather-beaten and illegible. But in the center stood one, much larger and somewhat newer. It was rumored that if you pressed your ear next to the stone and held it there, you would hear the heartbeat of the tenant below, who had been buried alive.

And each year a couple of brave kids would press their ear against it and shout “I hear it, I hear it,” though none of us ever believed them. It was only when one of our ranks would react with shock and horror, that the truth of it hit home, and we all fled back down the hill, oblivious to the taunts and laughter of the older boys who stayed back at the tombstone, waiting for the next group of kids who would inevitably come up to take their turn.

I never seemed to get my chance. Eventually the routine would get old and the older boys would come down the hill, and the younger ones would never go up there alone. And then it was time to pack the troop of muddy and exhausted kids back into the busses for the ride home.

Then one Sunday, my family attended a picnic at Burrell’s Woods. For some reason, I was the only kid there, and I tried my best to stay occupied. But the creek was up, and with my mother there I was forbidden to get in the water. My thoughts kept turning to the hill with the cemetery on top, and the beating heart of the man who was buried there.

Eventually I could stand it no longer. Hanging out with adults who were getting loaded on beer and playing pinochle wasn’t my idea of a good time, so I started up the hill.

It’s a steep climb, and even if you’re in shape, as most nine year olds were at the time, you find yourself winded, your heart pounding in your ears. My palms were sweating as I approached the stone, and I knelt tentatively beside it. The sun had been bearing down, I was hot, sweaty and the first brush of the cool stone took me by surprise and I jumped back. Then I slowly pressed my ear flat against the marble.

Initially, all I could hear was my own breathing, and then faintly I heard it. It was the beating of a heart, quiet yes, but getting louder all the time, and beating faster, faster and my eyes widened with terror and I ran from the place, back down the hill and into the sanctuary of the adults gathered under the picnic shelter.

Eventually we younger kids became the older kids at the picnic, and we were let in on the secret. As the younger kids pressed their ear against the stone, one of the older kids would beat out the heartbeat with the heel of their hand on the opposite side. And for most of us, that was the end of the story.

But for me, the story didn’t end there. When I went there alone, there was no one else to beat out the cadence on the other side. And yes, I know, that the heartbeat I heard was probably my own. But I didn’t believe it then, and it was years before I dared go up there alone once again. Even today, when I find myself at Burrell’s Woods on a hot summer day, I’ll find myself in the cemetery, and feel the chills spread over me, as I press my ear against it the stone and wait.

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Giles Corey married three times, the last time when he was pushing eighty years old. When his second wife died in Salem Village, Massachusetts, he married a third time, to a lady by the name of Martha, who had two grown boys.

Martha was swept up in the Salem witch craze of 1692, and when she was imprisoned that winter, he asked to join her in jail. Which was quite a thing to offer, as conditions in the jail were incredibly harsh. The sheriff turned down his request, but what he refused, the gaggle of girls hurling accusations right and left were happy to accommodate.

According to one of the accusers, nineteen year old Mercy Lewis “I saw the Apparition of Giles Corey come and afflict me urging me to write in his book and so he continued most dreadfully to hurt me by times beating me & almost breaking my back tell the day of his examination being the 19th of April and then also during the time of his examination he did affect and tortor me most greviously: and also several times sense urging me vehemently to write in his book and I veryly believe in my heart that Giles Corey is a dreadful wizard for sense he had been in prison he or his appearance has come and most greviously tormented me.”

Giles Corey found himself accused of being a diabolical warlock of the highest order, and it wasn’t long before he found himself chained in the Salem dungeon as well.

A wizard Giles was not. Diabolical is another matter. By a cruel twist of fate, the easiest way to survive accusations of witchcraft was to plead guilty, and manage somehow to live through your imprisonment. Pleading innocent was the fastest route to the gallows. Giles chose neither and refused to plead.

A conviction of witchcraft meant, in addition to the possibility of swinging, forfeiture of property. Giles wanted his property to go to his step-sons at his death. According to legend, Giles was a stubborn man.

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Refusal to plead left you open to “peine forte et dure”, a particularly gruesome form of torture. A pit was dug adjacent to the jail, and Giles was led there, stripped naked and forced to lie in the pit. A wooden door was laid across his body. Then six strong men took heavy rocks and laid them upon the door. As time went on, more weight was added, with the desired effect that to avoid being crushed to death, the accused would enter a plea.

Giles refused, instead egging them on with cries of “more weight.” Which might have been less of a taunt, and more of an attempt to speed up the process, knowing full well that if he survived this he’d probably still end up on the gallows. For two days he held on, twice receiving bread and water to keep his strength up. For to fall asleep or pass out meant you would die quickly of asphyxiation. Eventually the weight was so unbearable that Giles’ tongue protruded from his mouth. The sheriff, finding the scene appalling, pushed the elderly man’s tongue back in with the tip of his cane.

According to legend, near the end, Giles erupted with “damn you sheriff! I curse you and Salem!” Finally, with a cry of “more weight,” Giles gave up and died without ever entering a plea. And his land went to Martha’s sons. Martha was hung a short time later on Gallow’s Hill.

The Salem dungeon was torn down to make room for a new jail in 1812, which today is being refurbished as condominiums. Part of the site is now where the New England Telephone building stands. Behind the city jail lies the Howard Street Burying Ground, which would have originally been just a field, and the location where Giles was believed to have been crushed to death.

According to Nathanial Hawthorne, a Salem resident for parts of his life, and who wrote somewhat extensively on the town, “at stated period, the ghost of Giles Corey the wizard appeared on the spot where he suffered, as the precursor of some calamity that was impending over the community, which the wizard came to announce.” One would assume, after his treatment in Salem, announce rather gleefully. The ghost was spotted in 1914 shortly before the great fire of Salem, which started on Gallow’s Hill and destroyed a third of the city.

It has been said that Giles’ curse toward the sheriff has been effected as well. Some have waken to a strange presence in their bedroom, with a suffocating weight on their chest. An unusually high number have died from heart attacks or been taken from office due to heart problems.

It’s long been thought that the Howard Street Burying Ground is haunted, as well as the new city jail. According to Doug Antreassian, founded of Mass. Hysteria, who offers haunted hearse tours of Salem, “There have been innumerable sightings of ghosts in the old jail, many of them ongoing … Several individuals have seen lights in the abandoned building. Unearthly screams are sometimes heard from within the actual granite walls.”

In any place of justice that old, the possibilities of spirits must be very strong. The history of law enforcement, and jail conditions in the 19th century were particularly brutal. And who knows what spirit or spirits it is that walks among the ancient tombstones there. Perhaps it’s Giles, still smarting from the brutality and horror of a death, so primitive it’s hard to imagine.

Howard Street is narrow, lined with 19th century homes, and the darkness seeps out from the burial ground, giving a chilling atmosphere. I stood there for some time, thinking of Giles, thinking of all the unfortunates who once lay in chains in the dungeon which stood just beyond. I saw nothing but darkness and the silhouettes of tombstones. No spirits, no screams wafting in the winter night. But though Salem is bright and lively, this neighborhood still feels somber, and somewhat discarded and lost. Perhaps the curse of the man whom Salem could not break is working still.

Gothic Travel Rating: Like most graveyards, Salem’s Howard Street Burying Ground is more intense at night. Interesting in the daylight certainly, but like many urban burying grounds, it’s too noisy, particularly as it is located at the conflux of two of Salem’s major traffic arteries. Ah, but at night it’s a different story. Running the length across from the entrance is the old Salem jail, a sprawling complex reputed to be quite haunted itself. Of course, you’re not allowed inside the graveyard in the evening, but even from the fence it’s a startling site. Visit after the town has quieted down, ponder the fate of poor Mr. Corey, watch for the lights flickering in the old jail, walk the perimeter and you’re at the location of the original jail, where the victim’s of the Salem witch hunt were interred, and spent their remaining days before setting off for the gallows. It takes some imagination, but for me it’s one of the best places in Salem to feel the torturous weight of the past. Four crypts in my opinion.

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Annie lost her children in a fire on the north side of Carmi, Illinois quite some time ago. Ever since she wandered the dark alleys at night, looking for her lost children. She wore black, still in mourning, her face beyond pale and ghastly blue in the moonlight. Sometimes you could hear her shuffling along, her feet kicking through the gravel. Other times she was said to hide in the shadows, waiting for a child to come by, whereupon she would rush out, clawing and grasping at the unfortunate child, screeching “my children, my children.”

Some said that if you found yourself in her clutches, she would drag you into her house, where unknown horrors awaited. Others said the walls of her house were lined with a ghastly wallpaper, made from the skin of the children who had wandered too close.

I first heard of Black Annie from my mother, who got the tale from her grandmother and aunt. The desired effect of telling this story to a young child, was to keep them from wandering dark alleys at night. There comes the time in every little boy’s life when he earns the freedom to go out after dark. And stories like these travel with you out there, a mother’s warning when she can’t be there to keep an eye on you.

And then there was also the thrill of just being scared out of your britches. My mother tells of trying to go to sleep at night as a little girl, with her aunt and grandmother sharing a bed across the room, the two of them happily chatting away about Black Annie, knowing full well the effect they were having.

The stories then spread among the little children, growing wilder as they did. Like the crazy man who lived in the old, derelict, weather-beaten two story house down the street. The man no one ever saw, just a single, bare light bulb illuminated through the window at night, occasionally casting his shadow as he moved around inside.

One day after school, we were talking about whether the stories about the man were true. One of my friends dared me to go up and knock on the door. I’m sure there were taunts, double dares and I had no choice but to do it. It was an old fashioned door as I recall, with a large window and no curtain, but dirty enough that you could barely see through it into the darkness beyond.

I was scared shitless.

But I knocked all the same. When no one answered, my knocks grew bolder. Then the other boys joined me and soon we were all knocking wildly on the door. No one was really paying attention, till I happened to look up and saw through the window, a rather large man wearing overalls with no shirt underneath, holding a shotgun and grinning like a maniac. Within seconds we were running like the wind. The bogeyman did exist.

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Or so we thought. Had we seen “To Kill A Mockingbird,” the southern gothic tale of childhood fears among other things, we might have known the story of Scout, Jem and Boo Radley – the bogeyman in the story who turns out to be not what he appeared to be.

People don’t think of the film as a horror movie. But that’s just because they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a kid, after dark, wandering the streets and going places they weren’t supposed to go. Today, a film like the 1963 terror The Haunting, based on the Shirley Jackson novel The Haunting of Hill House, doesn’t even cause a ripple when a child watches it. These stories require the imagination of the viewer, the ability to believe that there’s something unknown in the dark, something inhuman, or perhaps no longer completely human, waiting to take you away.

In Harper Lee’s novel, or the film version of Mockingbird, Boo Radley turns out to be sweet and gentle, and not the monster he appeared to be. Like Boo, our crazy man in the house down the street turned out to be someone quite different. The house where he lived was being used as a warehouse for a neighborhood grocery store. And the man, who was mentally challenged in one form or another was allowed to live there to keep an eye on the place. By all accounts, he was a very sweet person, and very gentle.

What of Black Annie? If we thought of it, we would have realized that the stories couldn’t be true, at least with Annie as a mortal woman, since my mother had heard tales of her when she was a little girl. A few years back, after recounting the story to a friend of mine, he sent me a link to the story of Black Annis.

Black Annis, or sometimes Black Agnes, a blue-faced witch or crone, lived in a cave in the Dane Hills in Leicestershire, England. At night she would roam the countryside, looking for children to gorge upon. Some said she would skin the children and hang the skins from an oak tree which stood outside her cave. Others claimed that the cave was lined with the skins of children. Still others claimed she wore the skins around her waist. Mothers would warn their children that if they didn’t behave, Black Annis would take them away.

The earliest references to Annis date to about the fifteenth century. Others tie her to older, Gaelic and Celtic legends. And according to some, Black Annis is based on a historical figure. Agnes Scott is thought to have been a Dominican Nun, who wore a traditional black habit, ran a leper colony, and lived in a cave away from the village, as she didn’t want to spread the disease. In this leper colony were a large number of children, many of whom she nursed back to health, or at least made their lives easier. In return, the children would give her tokens of appreciation, which she would then hang on the walls of her cave. Her cave was said to be covered with these tokens.

My guess is that like most legends, the truth and legend became intertwined and now there is no way to separate the threads. And who would want to? The stories five centuries ago were as effective in scaring children into better behavior, as they were when I was a child. Which is why when my family migrated from England generations ago, one of the treasured things they obvious brought with them, were the stories, such as the one about Black Annie.

In today’s rational world, there isn’t as much room for the supernatural in a child’s life, and to me that’s sad. Children today are told to beware of flesh and blood predators, which leave little room for the imagination, and are far too real. I believe children, as well as adults, need to believe in the existence of things they can’t understand. Things which can’t be killed, which wander the dark alleys and haunt us from beyond the grave. To fear something which is beyond our ability to fully comprehend, forces us to use our imagination. When you can do that, dark alleys, abandoned houses, the nighttime sky and the full moon open the mind. And inside, you find magic.

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Diphtheria, now almost non-existent in the United States was once among the most feared of diseases. What made it all the more dreadful, is that children were frequently its main victims. While no one was immune, it was the children who suffered the highest rates of fatality.

Edisto Island lies about an hour south of Charleston, South Carolina on the Atlantic Ocean. The mid-nineteenth century was a golden age for the plantation owners there, for its fabled sea island cotton was among the most valuable exports in the world. It was said that on Edisto, the crop was sold before it was even put in the ground.

Much of Edisto Island consists of wetlands, which is fortunate, as a person can bake in South Carolina during the scorching hot summers. Along the coast, a breeze might provide some relief, but once inland, the air can turn muggy, heavy and still, and in many ways, deadly.

Diphtheria is thought to thrive in dank, stagnant water, which is one reason cities and countries which fall to the ravages of natural disaster frequently experience epidemics. In the years leading up to the Civil War, not much was known about the disease, and in fact, it had only recently been named, though its horror had been known for several lifetimes.

There once was a family on Edisto Island, wealthy planters, living near the northern coast. There were at least two children, a son and daughter, some years older than her brother. There might have been others, lost to time, but it’s these two that factor into our story.

It was summer, and when the symptoms first began, it’s likely nobody noticed. It could have been listlessness in the girl, which would likely have been attributed to the heat. The slaves which attended the family might have noticed that she was somewhat more pale than usual, but even that might be ignored. With the onset of a sore throat and fever, the more alert ones might have started suspecting something was quite wrong, and when she complained of difficulty in swallowing, it’s a safe bet that people feared the worse.

From there the disease progresses rapidly. A leathery, sheath like membrane forms in the throat, tonsils and nose, often leading to a distinctive swelling known as bull neck. Death comes from strangulation, as the sheath eventually makes breathing impossible. Which was the case with the plantation-owners daughter, who could do nothing but watch his daughter slowly suffocate.

In the mid nineteenth century, mortuary sciences were in their infancy. And on Edisto Island, they were non-existent. With temperatures frequently in the high nineties in the summer months, it was essential to get the dead into the ground, or the crypt, as soon as possible. Plantation houses were built to take advantage of prevailing winds, but even so, in mid-July, after even a few hours, decomposition begins to take hold.

In chasing down old tales such as these, there are usually very few facts to go on. It’s a lot like looking for the original source of the New Testement. It’s generally agreed that there was an original source, devoid of poetry, and perhaps nothing more than quotes attributed to Jesus, the long-sought Q.

In reconstructing Q, we look for similarities in the Gospels, which might have all come from an original source. It’s often the smallest details which give weight to this theory, and which might be the most credible evidence to the underlying truth of the Gospels.

With this story, one curious detail pops up over and over. The girl’s funeral and internment were delayed in order for a much-loved relative to arrive. This delay should have made the stench of the body unbearable, and there is little doubt that if there was a several day delay, the body would have been bloated and blackening. Nosegays were popular at funerals, not for the bright cheery mood brought on by flowers, but in order to hide the stench of the body.

But it’s also agreed that when the time came for the girl to be brought to the crypt, she was still as beautiful, and fresh smelling as she had been in life. Diphtheria was a frightening disease, and those whose job it was to carry the body into the crypt were nowhere to be found. So it came down to the father to carry his beloved daughter into the darkness and lay her on the stone slab inside. Or, depending on how full the crypt was, upon the decomposing remains of the girl’s ancestors.

The heavy marble door was closed, locked, and the procession made its way home, to rebuild their lives without the lovely flower which had brought happiness to the house.

In about a decade, the drums of war began to beat. The girl’s younger brother, now a young man, joined his regiment and went off to war. The family was proud of the young soldier, looking splendid as he rode off in his uniform. And like too many in that dreadful conflict, the next time the family saw the son, was in a pine box.

There was no thought of opening the coffin and viewing the horror that lie within. Instead, a quiet ceremony was held, and the coffin was brought to the crypt. The key turned in the lock, and with the help of a couple of strong men, the heavy stone door swung open to reveal another nightmare.

The door opened and a clattering of bones was heard, as the remains of the young soldier’s sister scattered on the ground. Here and there on her frame, leathery skin clung to bone, and the gown in which she was interred still clung to her in obscenely bright, white rags. Rather than being dead it seems, she had only been in a coma. And when she awoke from the coma, it was to discover she had been buried alive.

We can only imagine the horror she must have felt, waking from a deep sleep to total darkness, for inside the tomb there are no lights, no windows, except perhaps a small opening near the ceiling for ventilation. How horrifying it must have been to see with the first light peeking through, the decomposing bodies of her relatives. Or perhaps there was no window, no light to penetrate the tomb, and she only realized where she was when her hands touched the corpses in the darkness. Maybe the only light in the crypt came from the keyhole of the door, which must have drawn her to it in hopes of escape.

A tomb is impossible to open from the inside, except for the cases of the most paranoid, who feared being buried alive, and had an escape mechanism built-in. This crypt had none. When her family found her, the bones of the girl’s fingers were shattered and frayed, from frantically clawing at the door, and trying to dig through marble with her bare hands to escape.

It’s said that screams were heard in the days following the girl’s internment. But little attention was paid to them, as they sounded far off. And after all, it’s a graveyard. Southern graveyards are known for their ghosts.

The girl’s remains were once more laid out, and her brother placed inside the crypt. And once more the door swung closed and was locked. But shortly afterwards, the door was found ajar. Again it was closed. Then it was found wide open.

This went on for sometime, until a more permanent solution was found, which made it impossible to open the door. And yet, again it was found open. This time the tomb was sealed, and this time the door was found on the ground, off its hinges.

Never again did they try. Instead the remains were buried, and the door embedded in the floor of the crypt. Where it remains to this day. And for those who look closely, the scratch marks of the doomed young girl can still be seen.

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This story was related by a young man named Grason who led one of the Ghost and Graveyard walking tours in downtown Charleston. It seems to be based in part at least, on a story from the book “More Tales Of The South Carolina Low Country” by Nancy Rhyne. I also grabbed bits and pieces from personal versions which can be found online.

Grason related that he had visited the crypt himself and found scratchings on the floor. He also said that it was on private land and the owners didn’t like visitors. However, most accounts describe it being the crypt of L.B.Legare, in the graveyard of Edisto Presbyterian Church. The church dates from the early 1830s, and retains its original character, with the original pews, and the benches above reserved for slaves.

Still others claim the crypt was at Pon Pon Chapel, further west in Colleton county. There against the woods, in keeping with the story, one finds the remains of a crypt, of a family of Irish origin, which is now reduced to a few bricks and barely standing walls.

In the end it doesn’t matter which is the actual crypt. At least not for generations of children and adults who have spent time on Edisto Island, and stood outside the open door of the tomb and remembered the girl who was buried alive.

Gothic Travel Rating: The Edisto Presbyterian Church sits not far from a place called the Serpentarium, so it’s a safe bet that slithering things will be nearby when visiting the Legare tomb. Just off the main road onto the island, there’ll usually be the sounds of traffic buzzing by. Luckily the tomb is behind the church, next to the woods, and particularly at twilight it’s a great place to get into your southern gothic mood. For those who believe it to be Pon Pon Chapel, it’s a bit more isolated, and probably a bit more romantic with the ruins and all. Not particularly frightening, at least any more so than any other graveyard, unless you count the reptile possibilities. A strong three crypt rating for either location.

The Charleston Ghost and Graveyard walking tours are informative, fun and relate some truly good ghost stories. Also a great way to see and get your bearings in downtown Charleston. Certainly one of the better of such tours I’ve been on. Four crypts. For more info: www.bulldogtours.com/

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It’s the fall of 1978, I’m a junior in high school in the middle of nowhere. I grew up there and know the landscape well.

My hometown had a shade under 6,000 people, and is surrounded by corn fields for several miles. It was small town life, like Norman Rockwell.

Or if you prefer, Cornwall Coome.

You can be forgiven for never having heard of the place. It was the fictional setting of Thomas Tyron’s book, Harvest Home. And you’re forgiven for not having heard of that either.

But if you were around in 1978, there’s a good chance you saw the mini series on tv.

In short, a couple from New York City moves to a small village in New England with their young daughter – Cornwall Coome, which is lost in time. They work their fields together and celebrate according to the cycles of the earth. And the highest celebration of all is Harvest Home. Of course, the locals are locked in time too, complete with ancient blood-letting rituals, and a truly chilling ending.

For two nights we sat transfixed to the screen. Following the last episode, I accompanied a friend of mine to put up his horses for the night, a few miles out in the country. It was dark and we were scared shitless.

In a small community, it’s possible to believe in secret societies, dark secrets which stretch back generations. And those two words that used to cover the whole genre, devil worshippers.

Little boys of my generation, and most generations probably, loved horror. Ghost stories, monster movies and of course, one of the most popular threads through horror was the devil worshipper. Or a coven of witches. As I said, living where I did, it was very easy to believe that groups like this could be living right beneath your nose.

To a 12 year old in 1973, Satan’s School for Girls, another tv movie, was scary as hell.

I got to thinking about that this week, first because I’ve been living back here for over a month now. And second, because I got an interesting email from a reader this week. It was from a woman who was wondering how to get rid of Satanists who seem to be following her, placing curses on her and doing all kinds of mischief.

My own belief about Satanists, is that if they are the official brand of Satanist, unless you’ve done something to them, they won’t mess with you. Satanism is to a large degree, about doing want you want, and sensory pleasures. Going to the trouble of pestering strangers can’t compete with orgies. Beyond those, you have people who have seen too many devil worshipping films and sides with the wrong side. I think one reason people form covens, cults, and others believe in them, is because they want to believe in them. And if you’re being harassed by your garden variety devil worshipper, it pays to remember that there are precious few incidents of black magic working, or even appearing to work.

Crowley gave a couple of demonstrations as I recall, though the one I read about was surprisingly low key. And then there’s the curse on Jayne Mansfield supposedly placed by the Church of Satan. But that could have just been bad driving or an unfortunate coincidence.

Or it could have been she believed she was cursed. The one certain way I believe that a curse will work on you, is if you believe in the curse. By the same token, if you’re looking for devil worshippers, or witches, you’re likely to see evidence everywhere. The best example of course, is Salem Village in 1692.

So it’s 1978, and in a small town like this, there’s little else to do but drive around the country at night. We were still in that strange age between childhood and adulthood. Still young enough to believe in Satanic cults, to want to believe in witches, and for many, the first time out on our own in real country darkness.

It also helped that quite often we were stoned.

Old houses, old barns, old bridges still lay scattered across the landscape. You would still see abandoned, Victorian era houses that you couldn’t help but think haunted.

And there was the music of the time. Guys gravitated to heavy metal. Black Sabbath was still big. Alice Cooper had a bit left in him. Blue Oyster Cult had been all over the radio with Don’t Fear the Reaper. Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow with Ronnie James Dio before he was just Dio, was introducing a new generation to heavy metal mysticism.

While on the endless cruise one evening, some kids from our school said they were accosted by devil worshippers. They had driven by a house earlier, and the yard was decorated with bizarre artwork, with a a large painting of Satan in a tree. When they drove back later, a well-known person in our hometown jumped out of the bushes in front of their car, in a black cape and top hat and tried to make them stop. They didn’t.

The second night a few of us drove by the house ourselves. The paintings were gone, but the house was old, dilapitated, and the mood tense. After driving by three or four times, a car whipped out of the driveway and chased us down. They trapped us in a cul-de-sac, but the driver of our car cut through the yard and to safety.

Well we were convinced. For a few days the talk of the town was of the devil worshippers. Over the weekend I talked about it with a fellow I worked for, who made a good point. “If there’s a god, there’s a devil, and people who worship him are something to be afraid of.”

And so we were. But then the next week at school, the sister of the accused devil worshipper started talking. I happened to share a class with her, and she said that they weren’t devil worshippers, and told me who else was hanging out in the house. And among those were some people I was familiar with, including my former art teacher and drum teacher. And suddenly I knew the truth. They weren’t devil worshippers. They were dadaists. Artists who create bizarre and sometimes jarring artwork, particularly if you don’t get the meaning, or lack a sense of humor.

Eventually the police shut down the circus by arresting the accused devil worshipper for possession of marijuana, and the house was abandoned. And sure, they were trying to keep people off that road. Particularly when they were getting thirty or forty people driving by each night.

And the magic was sucked out of the situation by the truth. Just like a curse is lifted when you stop believing in it.

But all these years later, I still want to believe. I still want to see witches in the fields under the full moon. I still want to believe there’s a secret pagan sect in the corn fields surrounding the town. I want to believe that someplace there’s still an isolated little town, where the people still believe in the old ways. And I want to be the outsider that moves in.

Till then I’m driving around the country, trying to get the feeling back. The years pile up behind you and your forget how to believe. Even if the houses are gone, the barns have fallen in, the country is still there. And the darkness.

Gothic Travel Guide: City dwellers are out of luck with this one. To do it right you need real country dark, where the glow of lights from town doesn’t obscure the stars. Corn standing in the fields help, as does a full moon. You need a deserted area, with little to no traffic. You’ll know it when you find it. And if you know of a deserted country graveyard, so much the better.

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The Pierce Tomb, Newburyport, Essex County, Massachusetts. To view more photos of historical attractions from Newbury and Newburyport, Massachusetts, or to order fine artprints, click here

I love the dead before they’re cold,
Their blueing flesh for me to hold.
Cadaver eyes upon me see nothing.
I love the dead before they rise,
No farewells, no goodbyes.
I never even knew your now-rotting face.
While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave.
I have other uses for you, Darling.

Alice Cooper wrote that, and most people will generally agree that it’s rather twisted. But in truth, Alice turned out to be a pretty normal guy, more or less, and the song is fictional. The mysteries of the dead, the decay of the corpse, has long been a source for gruesome fiction.

The following story, however, is quite true.

The final resting place of a certain Pierce family can be found on the slopes of Old Burial Hill in Newburyport, Massachusetts. The tomb is imposing – ornamental but still disciplined, as fitting a respectable New England family. Inside, if the records are correct, you’ll find a drowning victim, a Civil War veteran and his family – three of which died of tuberculosis. Many of us wander graveyards in the day, and during the night as well, and Old Burial Hill is a great one for wandering. There’s nothing strange about that. Well, perhaps a little strange, but a little strange is to be commended.

But who among us would actually make our way inside the tomb at night? Have drinking bouts with the corpses? Don the dead one’s clothing?

The Pierce Crypt has suffered such indignities and more, and on several occasions. In truth, nobody seems to know exactly how many break-ins have occurred, but it’s thought to be five or more.

The first was in 1925, when teenage boys slipped inside, dangling on ropes lowered from above, unwrapped the corpses from their winding sheets, then poked the corpses, now nearly mummified, with sticks. They then propped the bodies so that they appeared to be attending a candle-lit seance. For the finale of the adventure, they put on the clothes of the rotting corpses and paraded around Frog Pond, which lies below Old Burial Hill.

Old Burial Hill, Newburyport, Massachusetts with Frog Pond below. To view more photos of historical attractions from Newbury and Newburyport, Massachusetts, or to order fine artprints, click here

Curiously named Frog Pond, was formed during the last ice age, when a large chunk of ice embedded itself into the Massachusetts earth. As the ice melted, a deep pond was formed. There are rumors of brick tunnels beneath the pond, running to the sea, which were used possibly for the Underground Railroad during the Civil War, and possibly for smuggling. It is also reputed to be haunted.

But I digress.

The oddly attired teens attracted the attention of the local constables, confessed everything, the clothes were returned to their deceased owners, who were then once more neatly packed away, the tomb sealed and everything forgotten. There is no record what was done with the vandals.

Then in 1985, the tomb became a party house for a group of ten teens, part of a loose club. The tomb was broken into, corpses were once more unpacked and made honorary members of the club. Alcohol was poured down the throats of the decomposed corpses. Stories of more, unspeakable acts popped up as well, and the local police turned to the newspaper for assistance. A story was printed, revealing the fact that some of the occupants had died of tuberculosis, and whoever had been in contact with them should be tested immediately.

Which worked of course, as quite often vandals are – well, stupid.

In 2005, it happened again. This time, allegedly a single perp who was already doing community service broke into the tomb, severed the head and part of the collar bone off one skeleton with a rock, plopped the head on his shoulder and went back outside to freak out his coworkers. Which seemed to work, as they all fled with the possible exception of one, who took a snapshot of the fellow with the mummified skull on his shoulder. He then cavorted around the graveyard with the skull and bones. The photo found its way into the hands of the police, the peculiar fellow was arrested, pled guilty and got two and a half years in the big house.

The door to the tomb is now thoroughly bricked up.

The Pierce Tomb is said to be haunted, and it’s certainly conceivable, at least by those who spend a lot of time watching horror films, that the dead called to these seemingly witless young men. But more likely, people just sometimes do bizarre acts for no apparent reason. You’ve got to admit though, it is odd that one tomb would attract so much bizarre attention, over a span of 80 years at that.

Anyway, the Pierce Tomb is quiet. For now.

Gothic Travel Guide: Newburyport is a gorgeous village, great for a stroll in the day or night. Old Burial Hill is an amazing cemetery to wander as well. Of course it’s large enough to sneak in without being spotted, as this article proves. Below the hill lies Frog Pond, also thought to be haunted. There are no big scares here, just a sense of morbid curiosity perhaps, as well as historical interest. Still it’s worth a look and a walk, if nothing else than to study tombstones. Certainly enough for a three crypt rating.

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To read a travelogue on Newbury and Newburyport, Massachusetts and their historic attractions and early American history from The History Trekker, click here