The Shell and the Shadow on Sullivan's Island

The morning sun had just begun to stretch its golden streamers across the Atlantic, casting long shadows over the damp sand. The tide was low, and the beach lay quiet, save for the rhythmic hush of waves folding into themselves. A young woman wandered barefoot along the shoreline, her family still asleep in the cottage tucked behind the dunes. She moved slowly, stooping now and then to collect seashells—small, imperfect things that caught the light in curious ways.

She paused to examine one: a pale pink spiral with a smooth, iridescent interior and a jagged, barnacled edge. Turning it in her palm, she felt the contrast between its polished heart and weathered skin. That was when she noticed him.

A man stood several yards away, fully clothed in dark attire that seemed out of place against the brightness of the beach. He faced the ocean, unmoving, as if listening to something beneath the waves. His silhouette was stark—long coat, long hair, and a stillness that felt deliberate.

She looked back down at the shell, hoping to avoid eye contact. But when she glanced up again, he had moved closer. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make her pulse quicken. She pretended to study the shell more intently, but then he spoke.

“Would you like to know more about that one?” His voice was soft, almost melodic, and it caught her off guard.

She looked up timidly. His eyes were dark—so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them—and his hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders. Despite her initial unease, something in his presence calmed her. He spoke again, and the tension in her chest began to dissolve.

He described the shell in poetic detail: its pink hue, the way its interior shimmered like mother-of-pearl, the roughness of its outer ridges shaped by years of tumbling in the surf. He spoke of its origins, its journey, its silent history. She listened, entranced, as if the shell were a relic from another world and he its interpreter.

She bent to pick up another shell, eager to hear more. But when she rose, he was gone. She scanned the beach. No footprints. No movement. Only the dunes stood behind her, silent and still. Perhaps he had wandered back over them. Perhaps he had never been there at all. Clutching her small trove of shells, she walked back to the cottage, the encounter lingering in her thoughts like a half-remembered dream.

That evening, her family dined at Poe's Tavern—a cozy place with creaky floors and the scent of salt and old wood. As they waited for dessert, she wandered toward the fireplace, drawn by a painting that hung above it. The image was dark, brooding: a man in black, his eyes deep and penetrating, his expression unreadable. Her breath caught. It was him.

She stared, heart thudding, then turned to the nearest server. “Excuse me,” she said, pointing to the painting. “Do you know who that is?”

The server glanced up, then smiled politely. “Oh yes, dear. That’s Edgar Allan Poe.”

The young woman blinked. “Poe?”

“Yes. He spent time in Charleston, you know. Some say he still does.”

The server chuckled and walked away, but the young woman remained rooted to the spot, staring into the painted eyes that had once watched the waves beside her.

The Ghost Light of the James F. Dean Theatre

The James F. Dean Theatre had its quirks—creaking steps, misaligned doors, a draft that whispered down the back stairs. It was the kind of place where shadows lingered a little too long, and the hush between scenes felt thick with memory. On show nights, the old brick walls seemed to breathe with anticipation, as if the building itself leaned in to listen.

Outside, the newly installed marquee brightly lit the front entrance. Inside, the rejuvenated community theater glowed with promise. Prop lighting radiantly illuminated the beautifully prepared set—an assemblage of weathered timber fashioned into a rustic old fishing pier, overshadowed by moss-laden trees and unforgotten recollections.

It was during Catfish Moon, a play about friendship and forgiveness, that the theater revealed one of its quirkiest secrets. I was offered an invitation to work backstage with the prop manager. We sat tucked behind the wings at a table full of props—fishing poles, tackle boxes, dried swamp grass, and a single lamp to light our corner.

As the play unfolded—three old friends on a dock, casting lines into memory—the lamp inexplicably flickered on and off. Not just once. Not just twice. It pulsed like a heartbeat, on and off, throughout the play’s run. Sometimes it glowed steadily during a monologue, then blinked out as if punctuating a line. We checked the cord. We checked the bulb. We even switched it off. Still, for no reason, it would turn on and off. While we sat at the table, I’d say, “I wonder if the light is going to turn off,” and as soon as I said it, it did.

The actors never noticed. The audience didn’t see. But backstage, we watched in silence, the hairs on our arms rising with each flicker. Between cues, we whispered theories. Faulty wiring. A short in the circuit.

On closing night, just before the final scene—when the characters reconcile under a moonlit sky—the lamp flared bright, then dimmed to a soft glow. It stayed lit until the final bow. Then, as the applause faded, it blinked once and went dark.

We left the light on the table after strike. It remained a mystery, and this story, unexplainably true.

Some say every theater has its ghost. Maybe James F. Dean's just wanted to see Catfish Moon one last time.

James F. Dean Theatre now showing Murder on the Orient Express.

The Strange Story of John Street--Home to the Charleston Music Hall

I tried to figure out where John Street in Charleston got its name, and wow—it's not straightforward. From what I could dig up, it might trace back to Hector Berenger de Beaufain, a French Huguenot who played a big role in Charleston’s early days. He was the Collector of Customs and helped shape the city’s infrastructure, including founding the Charleston Library Society. He was noted for his benevolence towards all people. His contributions and legacy are honored in the name of the street, which reflects the historical significance of the area.

But here’s the weird part: how does John come out of Hector Berenger de Beaufain? That connection feels like a stretch. Was “John” a nickname? A middle name lost to history? Or maybe someone else entirely got the honor and the Beaufain link is just a coincidence?

There’s a Beaufain Street, which makes perfect sense. But John? I don’t get it. It feels like there’s a missing chapter—some twist in the naming story that didn’t make it into the records. Maybe it was political, or maybe someone just liked the name John better. Who knows? I’m sure there’s more to it, but for now, it’s one of those Charleston mysteries that refuses to give up its secrets.

John Street stretches from Elizabeth to King, its sidewalks echoing the footsteps of centuries. Among its oldest residents stands the Charleston Music Hall, a building whose bones remember steam and soot long before it knew song.

It began in 1850, not as a theater, but as a train station—The Tower Depot, a Gothic Revival marvel designed by Charleston architect Edward C. Jones. He gave it the silhouette of a medieval castle, complete with turrets, pointed arch niches, and simulated arrow slots, as if yeomen might still be quartered in the tower, ready to defend it from assault. Yet beneath the romantic flourishes lay Renaissance symmetry and industrial purpose. The entrance was wide enough to admit a train. And it did.

The depot was part of a sprawling complex known as Camden Depot, stretching from Line to Hutson Street between King and Meeting. Freight depots, warehouses, and repair shops buzzed with the rhythm of the South Carolina Railroad. But the Tower Depot’s tenure was brief. By 1853, the passenger station had closed, its grand ambitions derailed.

After the Civil War, the building changed hands. On February 6, 1878, the Charleston Bagging Manufacturing Company took ownership. Then came the earthquake of 1886. The three-story tower collapsed, and most of the structure was torn down. What remained was used for storage—silent, utilitarian, forgotten.

The Bagging Company folded during the Great Depression. The building passed to the Chicco family and sat vacant for sixty years, its windows dark, its doors sealed against time. Yet the architecture endured. The turrets, the sunken panels, the heavy doors—they waited.

In 1994, the Bennett-Hofford Company stepped in. Restoration began, not just of brick and mortar, but of purpose. By 1995, the Charleston Music Hall reopened, reborn as a venue for performance and memory. The renovation honored its Gothic soul while adapting it for modern acoustics, flexible seating, and the pulse of live art.

Today, the Music Hall is a cultural anchor in downtown Charleston. Indie bands, classical ensembles, comedians, and filmmakers all find a stage beneath its vaulted ceilings. David Byrne and Joan Baez have performed here. In 2003, bluegrass legend Ricky Scaggs recorded a Grammy-winning live album within its walls.

Restaurant alley next to Music Hall and Rue de Jean

Surrounded by hotels and restaurants, the hall hums with life. But if you listen closely, beneath the applause and laughter, you might still hear the echo of a train whistle—or the creak of a turret door swinging open to the past.

Charleston Music Hall Event Schedule

A Charleston Luxury Boutique Hotel with a Ghost Adventure--20 South Battery

20 South Battery sits in one of the most visited areas of Charleston. Hundreds of picture-taking tourists stroll past its black wrought-iron fences and broad porches daily. Caravans of horse-drawn carriages filled with visitors pause in front of it every day, while animated guides mesmerize them with stories that explain the mystique and grandeur oozing from its windows and doors. Cataclysms of the destructive kind have befallen it. Owners have showered it with renovations. Its place of abidance is its name: 20 South Battery.

As you view the house today, standing on the fringes of White Point Gardens, it is difficult to imagine that when first built, it had a front-row view of Charleston Harbor. The year was 1843. The builder was broker Samuel N. Stevens. The main home and carriage house reflected the prosperity prevalent in South Carolina during that era.

During the Civil War, the house survived the longest bombardment of a civilian population in the history of warfare. Though severely battered, the structure remained intact. Colonel Lathers of the Union Army purchased the property in 1870. He hired John Henry Devereaux, a well-known Charleston architect, to renovate the house in the New York fashion of the time. A mansard roof was added, which housed a library. A new ballroom was also constructed. William Cohen Bryant, one of the most famous American poets ever, stayed there in 1872.

Then...

The Simonds family purchased and lived in the house until 1912. In the 1920s, the rear outbuilding was converted into a “motor court” by the Pringle family, and the once-private residence became a more recognizable place of hospitality. Its newly rentable rooms, for the most part, catered to a patronage of rowdy, carousing sailors of the United States Navy—and, during the 1960s, to college students.

Then...

Famous Charlestonian Drayton Hastie and his wife purchased 20 South Battery in the 1980s and restored it as a Charleston Historic District hotel. The main house became the Hasties’ private residence, and they opened the rooms in the carriage house to guests. The well-known Battery Carriage House Inn came to host a clientele of more than just paying guests. Over the ensuing years, the inn would become known as the most haunted hotel in downtown Charleston.

Reportedly, it’s home to several ghosts. While the owners have never seen the otherworldly inhabitants themselves, guests and employees have had some odd encounters. Curiosity seekers brought all kinds of equipment—light meters, heat sensors, and cameras—hoping to catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary.

Room 3 is known for a couple’s cellphone waking them with a loud, inexplicable noise, despite being powered off. They also witnessed glowing shapes floating about the room during their stay. Room 8 is considered the most ominous. One visitor was awakened by a disturbance and confronted by a headless torso. He reached out to touch the lumbering spirit, only to recoil when it let out an animalistic growl—odd, considering it had no head, and thus no mouth.

Illustration

Room 10 is occupied by the Gentleman Ghost, known for graciously sharing his room with any and all comers. He is described as a grayish shadow, of average height and build, who glides about the room with a certain stylish flair. He’s even been known to recline in bed with patrons—minus any hanky-panky.

Hurricane Hugo struck on September 21, 1989, producing the highest storm tides ever recorded on the East Coast and causing catastrophic damage to homes along the water—20 South Battery included. Yet the house endured, continuing to be a favorite haunting stop for walking tours and horse-drawn carriages. The stories persisted, and its haunted reputation only grew.

Now...

Dr. Jack Schaeffer purchased the inn in 2018 with passion and a clear intent to restore and maintain its historical integrity. The property has undergone extensive preservation efforts—a labor of love that revitalized it to its former grandeur. On September 10, 2020, Dr. Schaeffer and his staff unveiled the 20 South Battery Hotel to their first guests.

The luxury boutique hotel houses unique and rare antiques from around the world and across various time periods, some dating back to the 1500s. The Grand Ballroom features gold leaf trim surrounding a metal-tile ceiling with a skylight and crystal chandeliers. The Grand Parlor showcases bright red antique furniture that contrasts strikingly with the white walls. A spiral staircase ascends all four stories of the home. One of the oldest pieces in the house is the decorative handrail. The original Italian mosaic tile flooring was restored piece by piece. Crown molding and marble fireplaces are unique to each space. Metal-tile ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and antique sconces are also common elements throughout the home.

The Concierge Level in the mansion features the Lathers, Pringles, and Simonds Suites. The Stevens Suite is located on the ground floor and faces White Point Gardens. The Devereux Suite occupies the former cistern and wine cellar. The Blacklock-Ravenel King Room is located on the first floor. The Battery Carriage House offers suites on the first floor and rooms on the second. Originally built as a private residence for $4,500, the property was listed by Handsome Properties in 2017 for $4,250,000. It is worth far more today.

Dr. Jack Schaeffer has clearly embraced the stories that have become part of his beautiful hotel. He seems to know them well, as seen in the following video by CountOn2.

Just how the apparitions feel about their upgraded surroundings, you will have to reserve one of the rooms and ask them. The headless torso may be speechless for obvious reasons.

Enjoy the Ghostbuster Package-Prepare for a Ghostly Adventure at 20 South Battery and Charleston! Built in 1843, 20 South Battery has seen its share of reported friendly ghost encounters. This experience is for you if "You ain't afraid of no ghost!"

PACKAGE INCLUDES: Ghosts of Charleston" Souvenir Book; written by Julian Buxton at Buxton Books. 20 South Battery's own Rooms 8 and 10 are spoken about in this book!

2 Tickets to a Walking Ghost Tour with their friends at Buxton Books.

The Cascade Mountains and the Iron Goat Trail in Stevens Pass near Seattle--A Great Hike

Just outside Seattle rises the iconic Mount Rainier, dominating the city’s panorama. To its south stands Mount St. Helens. These two peaks are part of the Cascade Range and the Ring of Fire, which stretches from British Columbia to California. The range earned its name from European explorers, inspired by its many waterfalls. Together, volcanic activity and abundant forests make the Cascades a dramatic landscape of fire and ice—an ideal setting for challenging hiking trails.

One such trail is the Iron Goat Trail, located in Stevens Pass near Gold Bar. Its name comes from the Great Northern Railway’s corporate symbol: a mountain goat standing on a rock. Built along the former railway grade, the Iron Goat Trail officially opened to hikers on October 2, 1993. There are three trailheads: the Scenic, the Martin Creek, and the Wellington. We chose the Martin Creek. The Martin Creek Trailhead consists of an Upper Grade Trail and a Lower Grade Trail totaling 6 miles, both with a gentle 2.2 percent incline. The trail marks the site of one of America’s most tragic train disasters—the 1910 Wellington Disaster.

In the early 1900s, the Great Northern Railway constructed a system of tunnels and massive concrete snow sheds through the mountains of Stevens Pass, connecting the route to Seattle. In the winter of 1910, Washington State’s Cascade Mountain Range was struck by an unusually long blizzard. Previous clear-cutting and forest fires had stripped the slopes above the tracks, creating ideal conditions for an avalanche.

On March 1, 1910, following the nine-day blizzard, rain and an electrical storm besieged the Seattle Express No. 25 and the Fast Mail No. 27 trains, which had been forced to stop en route to Seattle. The winds, thunder, and lightning threatened the stability of the varied layers of snow on the mountainside. Either thunder or lightning triggered a break in the integrity of the heavy top slab of snow; as the weaker layers below gave way, the enormous slab began to slide down the slope, carrying everything in its path. The avalanche hurled both trains 150 feet down into the Tye River Valley, where the cars were buried in snow and debris. Ninety-six people died—thirty-five passengers and sixty-one railroad employees.

The Iron Goat Trail commemorates the construction of the railway and memorializes the disaster that occurred on its mountainside. Retaining walls, culverts, bridges, and waterbars were built, along with spur trails connecting the upper and lower paths, making this history accessible to intrepid hikers and their cameras. You can walk alongside the aging, massive two-mile-long concrete walls where thick-timbered snow sheds once covered the tracks, shielding trains from falling rocks and debris. Connecting these sections of wall, long tunnels were blasted through the mountain to allow trains to pass. You can stand at the tunnel openings, feel the exiting cool air, peer into the darkness, and wonder what remains inside. For your safety, however, entering the tunnels is strongly discouraged—bears and pumas inhabit the mountains.

The scenery along the Iron Goat Trail is stunning, the history intriguing, and the hike challenging—especially the spur near the Windy Mountain Tunnel, where the trail narrows and steep drop-offs demand caution. As you walk, stay alert: remnants of the avalanche, old buildings, and fragments of train cars lie hidden among the rocks and underbrush that has grown since 1910. A parking area with facilities and a museum marks the beginning of your journey. Enjoy the rugged beauty of Stevens Pass and the majestic Cascades near Seattle.

Iron Goat Trail - Martin Creek Trailhead

Directions:

Take Highway 2 toward Stevens Pass, to milepost 55. Turn left onto the Old Cascade Highway. At the junction with FR 6710, take a sharp left onto FR 6710. In 1.4 miles reach the trailhead.

Point Sur Lightstation--A Mystical Sentinel Located High on a Big Sur Rock

Lighthouses are mystical sentinels, charged with a singular purpose: to guide passing ships through treacherous waters into safe harbors. They stand in solitude, often perched on remote cliffs amid hostile environments. They emanate a haunting splendor and evoke fascination through the many stories told by the men and women who lived the keeper’s life.

The beautiful California coastline is dominated by towering cliffs and rocky shores. Navigating the Pacific Ocean’s treacherous surf along its jagged shoreline was a formidable challenge for mariners. Point Sur Lightstation in Big Sur is one of those mystical sentinels, commissioned to guide the state's merchant traffic safely to their destination.

Point Sur Lightstation is literally located on a solitary 361-foot volcanic rock connected to the Big Sur coast by a short strip of sandy land and rocks. Money was allocated for Point Sur in 1886 to build the light station. Three years later, on August 1, 1889, the light station keys were turned over to the first keeper. He and three assistants staffed the lighthouse and fog signal 24 hours a day.

The four keepers and their families lived an isolated life. The trail to Monterey was long and often treacherous, so trips were rare. The U.S. Lighthouse Service provided a horse and wagon to get mail and supplies from Pfeiffer's Resort. Each family was allotted a garden area for fresh vegetables. Bulk supplies such as coal, firewood, animal feed, and some food came on a lighthouse tender' about every four months. One function of these long, broad ships was to service remote light stations inaccessible by land.

Like most remote lightstations, Point Sur was very self-sufficient. As the years passed, life became increasingly less isolated at Point Sur, specially following the completion of Highway 1 in 1937. Two years later, the U.S. Coast Guard assumed responsibility for all aids-to-navigation. Lighthouse Service employees were absorbed into the new program and allowed to become either members of the U.S. Coast Guard or remain civil service employees.

In the 1960s, the U.S. Coast Guard began automating lightstations in an effort to make more efficient use of their personnel. In 1974, the last keeper left Point Sur. Today a U.S. Coast Guard crew services the lighthouse regularly.

The Point Sur Lightstation originally contained a first-order Fresnel lens. Light from Point Sur's Fresnel lens was visible for 23 nautical miles. The lens was in use until the 1970s when it was replaced by a modern aero beacon mounted on the roof of the fog signal room. The lens remained in the lighthouse tower until 1978, when it was disassembled and transported to the Allen Knight Maritime Museum of Monterey for display. The aero beacon was later moved into the lighthouse tower. The aero beacon was eventually replaced by an LED light presently mounted on the outside rail of the lighthouse and flashes every 15 seconds.

The tour operates on a first-come, first-served basis. Admission is $20 for adults. Visitors enter through a gate on Highway 1, opened by one of the tour guides. The view of the massive, distant rock crowned by the light station is spectacular. After passing through the gate, you drive down a long road flanked by a beach on one side and rocky terrain on the other, arriving at the base of the rock where you park your car. The guide begins the tour here and, following opening remarks, leads the group up the winding road that ascends the rock, stopping at select locations to discuss its construction and share stories of its formidable history.

On the ocean side of the rock, the road splits—one branch leading to the lightstation complex atop the summit, the other crossing a bridge to the lighthouse perched on the edge. The lighthouse was our first stop. As we stood beneath the towering beacon near its entrance, overlooking the ocean crashing far below against rocks teeming with barking seals, the guide described the light keeper’s duties and the operation of the Fresnel lens. We entered and ascended the circular staircase to the lantern room, where we gathered for more historical insight, then stepped onto the lantern deck outside for a sweeping 360-degree view from the top. After descending and exiting, we entered an adjoining building that housed a museum.

We then followed the guide up a long stairway to the summit, where we found a large barn, a building filled with carpenter tools and a blacksmith shop, a water tower, a garden area, and two houses—one for the keeper and his family, and the other, larger house for his three assistants and their families. We toured the keeper’s residence but did not enter the assistants’ quarters. The guide informed us that the assistants’ house was haunted, and that every Halloween it is decorated and opened to the public for a good scare. The lightstation is also one of the best places to view the whale migrations, which include the giant blue whale at 110 feet. After paying the $20 in the gift shop, we descended the long road back to our cars.

The tour’s history is intriguing, and the panoramic views from both the lighthouse and the summit complex are spectacular. The ascent up the 361-foot rock is challenging—best suited for the sure-footed and hearty—but well worth the effort. The guides are personable and informative. The tour lasts three hours and is packed with rich detail. The light station embodies everything one might expect from a California lighthouse. The gray, cement-blocked lighthouse structure exudes a mystical presence, and the surrounding complex carries a haunting allure.

Points of interest:

Notable shipwreck - Ventura 1875. Notable wreck - the dirigible U.S.S. Macon crashed and sank.

Admission:

Adults - $20, Ages 6-17 - $10, Ages 5 and under free.

Moonlight Tours - $30

Halloween Tour - October 18 and October 25, 2025 at 5:30pm

Tour Schedule:

Saturday and Sunday - 10am

Wednesday - 1pm

Information:

(831) 625-4419

Summerville, August 31, 1886--A Haunting Tale Amidst an Earth-Shattering Cataclysm

The day’s oppressive humidity lingered, even at this late hour. Lost in thought, I found myself reflecting on the troubling peculiarities that had unfolded. There was a strange quiet—not among the people I’d encountered, but in the behavior of the animals. The usual chatter of local birds had vanished. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing a single bird all day. The carriage horses had been unusually skittish, and even the dog at the train depot seemed unnerved.

A sharp blast from the train whistle jolted me from my reverie, signaling the final call for departure. A cloud of hot steam billowed into the air as the locomotive lurched forward, then gradually eased away from the platform. The final leg of my journey had begun.

I checked my pocket watch: 8:50 p.m. Charleston lay ahead, with an expected arrival around 10:30. I had been looking forward to my stay at the elegant Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer and publisher, I enjoyed certain privileges when it came to reading material. In my possession was a cherished collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. Settling into my seat as we pulled away from Branchville, I recalled that Poe had once been stationed on Sullivan’s Island, a barrier island near Charleston. I planned to visit several places tied to his legacy—Fort Moultrie, and the war-scarred plantations along the oak-lined Ashley River Road. Runnymede, in particular, had been a favorite haunt of his.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. Moonlight filtered through their branches, casting a soft, dancing glow onto the low-growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to immerse myself into. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me that the train had reached full throttle. Around me, some passengers had drifted into sleep, while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover of the dossier resting on my lap and began reading The Gold-Bug. For an unknown length of time, I slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the train, jolting me from my seat. For a brief, surreal moment, I felt weightless—levitating above the cushion—before crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. The violent motion repeated again and again, each impact more disorienting than the last.

Piercing screams erupted from the compartment as passengers were tossed about, helpless against the chaos. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the relentless jolts—up and down, back and forth—like a beast thrashing in its death throes. Through the window, I glimpsed a geyser of water erupting from the earth, shooting skyward. The train’s forward momentum sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was desperately trying to slow us, but the effort seemed futile. Prayers filled the air, whispered and shouted alike.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the upheaval ceased.

Miraculously, the train remained on the tracks. Dazed passengers began to assess their condition. Aside from bruises and shaken nerves, it appeared no one was seriously injured. Another sudden jolt startled the already traumatized group—but this time, it was the familiar lurch of a train decelerating. We crept to a halt.

I retrieved my pocket watch, its glass shattered, the hands frozen at 9:50 p.m. Around me, pages from Poe’s dossier lay scattered like fallen leaves. I gathered them up and stepped off the train.

An eerie orange glow bathed the night sky. Fires burned in the distance, and uprooted trees lay strewn across the landscape like discarded matchsticks. Ahead of the smoking engine, flares cast flickering light over the scene. We had stopped just short of what appeared to be a depot.

Straightening my disheveled clothing, I made my way to the front of the locomotive. The engineer was deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. Steadying my nerves, I approached and introduced myself. I asked what had happened—and where, exactly, we were.

The man turned to me and offered his name, “Frank Doar, the stationmaster.” As we walked toward the depot, he began to recount a most unusual story.

Frank began his account with a steady voice, though the memory clearly weighed on him.

“It was 9:45 p.m. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. I was sitting in my chair at the depot, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was startled by the sudden appearance of an elderly Black man on the platform. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere—filthy, drenched in sweat, breathless, and visibly agitated.

He told me, in a rush of words, that he’d run several miles up the rail line from a section where the tracks were severely bent. He urged me to release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the danger ahead.

Now, I know everyone who works this line, and I thought I knew everyone in the community—but I’d never seen this man before. The moonlight caught the sweat on his head, giving it a strange halo-like glow. Under normal circumstances, I might have been wary of such a demand. But something about him—his urgency, his eyes—made me trust him. Without hesitation, I deployed the torpedoes.

As I finished placing the last device, I turned to speak to him again. But he was gone. Vanished. As if he’d dissolved into the night air.”

Frank paused, then pulled out his pocket watch.

“The whole encounter—his arrival, the warning, the emergency preparations—had taken only five minutes. It was exactly 9:50 p.m. Just then, an eerie hissing sound swept through the town, followed by a deafening explosion. The ground shook violently. I heard walls and chimneys collapsing, trees groaning as they were ripped from the earth. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.”

His story left me spellbound.

Passengers had begun to disembark, gathering at the station in search of answers and a way to continue their journey. Whispers of Frank’s account passed from one traveler to another, each person trying to make sense of the mysterious warning.

Soon, a message arrived. Farther up the line, between Summerville and Ten Mile Hill near Woodstock Station, the quake had twisted the tracks into a serpentine curve. A train that had departed Summerville for Charleston derailed during the earthquake. The engineer was critically injured. A crew member had been killed.

The flares Frank deployed had saved our train from the same fate.

Yet one question lingered: how had the old man known? He had vanished without a trace. No one ever saw him again. No one ever got the chance to thank him.

As for Frank Doar, though he was the one who placed the flares and prevented disaster, he refused to take credit. He believed, with quiet conviction, that the old man was an angel.

At least, that was the story Frank told.

Visit Summerville

Somewhere in Time--A Stay at Summerville's Pine Forest Inn

Shrouded in a final blast of steam, the Summerville Short eased into the station—a small, elaborately decorated Victorian-style structure. Stepping onto the depot platform, I glanced at my pocket watch. The bright Lowcountry sun reflected off its glassy face. It was 2:05 p.m. 

"Right on time," I whispered.

A plume of black smoke billowed from the locomotive's smokebox and was quickly whisked away by the warm, early afternoon breeze.

Horse-drawn carriages awaited arriving passengers. I surveyed the depot area for my reserved transportation and spotted a group of coachmen. One among them held up a piece of paper with my name on it. I approached the smartly dressed gentleman and identified myself.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Summerville," he said.

His words were tainted with a quaint accent, quite different from what I was used to back in Ohio. He handed me a newspaper dated April 9, 1902. I stepped aboard the carriage. With a gentle tug on the reins by my experienced driver, the carriage eased forward.

The downtown district was crowded with people. Rumors that President Roosevelt and his entourage were in the Summerville area abounded—a bit of information I had overheard while on the train.

To the left of our advancing carriage was a fenced-in square, landscaped with rows of live oaks and a diamond-shaped walkway where children were at play.

On the opposite side of the square stood a row of wooden buildings, dominated by a nearly completed triple-arched façade bearing the designation Arcade Theater. To our right, a few gentlemen standing in front of a pharmacy hospitably tipped their hats as we passed.

Turning the corner at an intersection, I asked, "What is the name of this road?"

The coachman replied, "Main Street."

I followed with an additional question. "The tall building on the right with the bell tower—what purpose does it serve?"

"Town Hall, sir."

Leaving the town square behind, we passed a white directional sign covered with wooden pointers bearing the names of various inns and hotels located throughout Old Summerville. Then came several large homes bordered by white picket fences, each richly adorned with a profusion of magenta-colored flowers noticeably common to the area.

We entered a thick stand of tall pines intermingled with aged, moss-covered live oaks. Clusters of wisteria dangled freely from some of the branches. I inhaled a full breath of air—it was distinctly laced with the refreshing scent of pine.

Winding through the shaded canopy, it wasn't long before we came upon a broad, brick-paved drive flanked by huge white urns containing plantings of the same flowers growing throughout the town. We passed under a columned gateway surrounded by beautiful gardens—more wisteria and azaleas.

At the end of the driveway, rising four stories high into the needled branches of the tall pines, was the castellated center rotunda of the Pine Forest Inn—my accommodation for the next couple of days.

My carriage pulled up to the Inn's steps. Five horse riders sauntered past. I stepped off, paid the gentleman, and ascended the flight of stairs.

The front piazza was impressive. Wider in the middle, it extended out on each side of the rotunda the full length of the building and ended in a hexagonal shape at the corners. Patrons were scattered about the piazza on chairs, enjoying the southern exposure and their afternoon tea—likely made from tea leaves grown locally at the renowned Pinehurst Tea Plantation of Dr. Charles Shepard. I had read about it in a magazine on the train. A tour of the Pinehurst Tea Garden was scheduled for tomorrow.

Upon entering the impressive building, two smiling ladies curtsied as I passed. I acknowledged their genteel gesture with a smile and a tip of my hat.

The front entrance hall ran the full length of the rotunda. It was majestic. Arched walls set upon pillars divided the rotunda foyer from other sections. A grand staircase led to the upper floors, where thick wooden handrails wrapped around the open galleries. As I walked it, I estimated it to be forty-seven feet from front to back.

Large, oak-mantled fireplaces with marble hearths and exotic plants were placed strategically throughout the spacious lobby. Rocking chairs were scattered about. At the rear entrance, another long piazza served a huge three-sided courtyard.

I checked in at the desk. A double-chinned, spectacle-wearing hotel clerk greeted me with a smile and a Southern, “Good afternoon.” I informed him of my two-day reservation. After signing the necessary papers, he rattled off some of the amenities.

“There is an Amusement Hall with a bowling alley and billiard tables, two lawn tennis courts, croquet grounds, an 18-hole golf course, a swimming pool, and a livery with sixty horses.”

I touched the brim of my hat and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, then added, “Would you like some help with your bag, sir?”

I declined the offer. He then directed my attention to a tray at the end of the counter holding crystal glasses and a matching pitcher filled with an iced, amber-colored mixture.

“Help yourself to a glass of freshly brewed Summerville sweet tea, sir.”

I poured a glass and took a sip. “Interestingly tasty,” I corroborated.

I turned and boarded the electric elevator that serviced the three upper floors—each with its own lobby and its share of the 150 suites and singles. As we slowly ascended, I engaged the elevator operator in some small talk. He willingly and gladly complied, offering a few quick tips about Summerville.

I was assigned a single on the second floor at five dollars a night.

I entered the room. Large windows bathed the interior in warm sunlight and provided an excellent view of the grounds below. Steam  radiators lined the exterior walls. A painting of Drayton Hall hung above an elaborately carved mantle.

I placed my suitcase next to the open fireplace and set the empty crystal glass on a marble-topped table beside the room’s large cherry poster bed. The comfortably appointed room also included a private bath and an electric bell connected to the general office for personal service.

I emptied my suitcase and freshened up a bit before setting out to further familiarize myself with the Inn’s appointments.

After another short ride on the elevator, I returned to the main lobby. I curiously peeked into the adjacent dining room. Paneled in Southern curly pine, the complementary woodwork was elegant. Divided into three sections by wooden arches and comfortably filled with beautiful table settings, it seated 250 people. An American flag hung from the chandeliered ceiling.

It was near 3:35 p.m., according to a nearby grandfather clock. The brunch crowd had already dispersed to other suitable areas. The dining room staff was busy making preparations for the evening meal.

Other common rooms included a large main-floor parlor; ladies’ private parlors with toilet rooms; reception rooms; a library; reading room; sun parlor with exotic plants; wine and smoking rooms; and a Rocking Chair Room. Similar to the dining room, all were paneled with Southern curly pine.

Women sitting in the sun parlor engaged in chit-chat centered around their families and social events. Some rocked baby carriages with their feet while doing needlework. They all wore fancy hats and long, lacy dresses—the ankle reveal was socially frowned upon.

Gathered in the wine and smoking room, men in suits debated the latest news and talked about their golf game.

The Rocking Chair Room fascinated me the most. I could never resist the invitation of a rocking chair. I would venture to say there were about a hundred chairs—thirty, by my estimation, presently occupied. It was the right occasion for some self-indulgence. The seconds quietly ticked away with each back-and-forth motion. The seconds ticked into minutes. I pulled out my pocket watch. It was 4:45 p.m.

My restful thoughts turned to dinner. I contemplated the pleasure of indulging in the highly acclaimed, blue-ribbon cuisine the Inn was famous for. The first-class chefs were advertised as preparing their culinary delights with ingredients gathered from local gardens, along with meat and seafood delivered fresh by train from Charleston and New York markets.

After dinner, perhaps I would share a glass of wine with Florence Nightingale Graham in the wine room, shoot some billiards with Dr. Shepard, or discuss literature with Edna St. Vincent Millay in the library. Tomorrow, attend a fox hunt on Ingleside with Teddy Roosevelt.

After all, this was the illustrious Pine Forest Inn of Summerville—where the imagination had no boundaries.

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