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.

___Story based on article Stranger on the Beach: One Vacationer Encounters a Famous Sullivan’s Island Specter

The Incredible Story of Ruth Lowndes and Francis Simmons--A Charleston Story Captive in the Realm of the Unexplained

Charleston is one of the oldest cities on the east coast. For that matter, it is one of the oldest of colonial America with a history as deep as its harbor waters and filled with stories as plentiful as the shrimp it pulls from its surrounding waters. Stories both true and fiction. Some, like its famous Nitrotini, an intoxicating concoction of both.

The article included with this writing is a narrative of just one of those many stories. It is a true story. The characters are real Charlestonians, the places are either still standing or long gone with only traces of remnants remaining to speak of its once upon a time existence.

The article was written by Margaret Rhett Taylor for the State Magazine, January 29, 1956. She teasingly begins with the words: "Tis a strange tale, this legend of old Charleston. The facts are all true, but the secret of what madness possessed these two has never been revealed. It will no doubt now forever remain a mystery. And yet--as I tell it to you it is so simple, so human, and so very pathetic." With those eloquent words, she arouses in you a craving to read on.

Margaret Rhett Taylor continued, "It happened at a time when a man's word must be better than his bond, when a promise, no matter how foolish must be kept, when he would fight and die for a point of honor--or of pride. This was eighteenth century Charleston."

The two main characters are a well-bread Charleston lady with unfulfilled expectations and a Southern gentleman who would become a victim of an honor system void of mercy, both imprisoned by social norms of the cruelest nature. This is their journey into the dark side of self-serving love.

The article continued, "The wedding was always an occasion for celebration and the mansion of the honorable Rawlins Lowndes." Rawlins Lowndes, an American lawyer, politician, and president/governor of South Carolina in the 1700s, had a daughter named Ruth. The wedding was to be her betrothal to Francis Simmons, a John's Island planter.

The wedding day had arrived, decorations were in place. "The family of the bride, however, waited anxiously with forced smiles--waited and worried, for they knew only yesterday the bride and groom had had a bitter quarrel--that he departed in anger. Not a word had come from him since--but then it was customary for the bride to remain in retirement on her wedding day. Only--how could one know what might happen...Would he come--? Would there be a marriage at all--? What shocking scorn were they going to have to face? The piano played softly and to their great relief Mr. Simmons entered."

The pretty petite Ruth, pale but serene, descended the stairs. The bridegroom took her hand and stood beside her and in clear steady voices they spoke their sacred vows. They were pronounced man and wife. Though unperceived by most, something was amiss. The bridegroom had not kissed his bride.

A brilliant reception followed. All of Charleston society congratulated them with a hand shake and wished them well. At the end, the bridegroom escorted the bride to their brand new coach. They sat next to one another in quiet intimacy, the bride filled with hopeful expectation. 

The coachman pulled up to the gates of the new house bought and furnished by the bridegroom. Not a word spoken between them the whole time, eye contact avoided. Francis led Ruth to the door. He finally spoke, "I hope you will find everything to your liking, Madam. Goodnight." With her head held high and filled with pride, she answered with cool indifference, "I shall indeed. Goodnight to you, Sir." Turning, she walked swiftly through the door and up the stairs without a backward glance.

Ruth now was alone--married--and abandoned on her wedding night. What a diabolical revenge for a few bitter words. What unkindness. What cruelty. She looked with dismay upon her future. Publically abandoned, she would never forgive him. She hated him, she longed for him. But, she was raised to be a lady. She was the daughter of a proud Charleston family. The morning found her calm and resolved.

The years passed. Francis would come to pay formal calls or to preside at Ruth's dinners and receptions, exiting with the last guests. He found little satisfaction in the situation, always having to leave the beautiful home he built and furnished. So, in 1800, he purchased a very important piece of property from Mr. Izard at 14 Legare Street for 1200 pounds. He tore down the existing dwelling, and in its place, he built one of the most magnificent residences in the city. And so, Ruth lived alone in her home. Francis lived alone in his home. 

14 Legare Street

Just two words could have altered their ensuing fates, forgive me. The couple painfully but honorably stayed true to their vows. However, their marriage from beginning to death do us part remained unconsummated. As to the altercation that determined their futures, they never spoke of it to anyone. No explanation has ever been given. Thus, a troublesome void remained.

History hates a void. Historians want answers. The void of this story lies somewhere between certainty and uncertainty, a captive in the realm of the unexplained. The reason why has been often speculated, but never verified. Attempts have been made to fill the void between certainty and uncertainty. What inconceivably dreadful words passed between them that fateful day? Words that ended up sucking the life out of two promising futures, leaving only a heartless vacuum in its place. One explanation has prevailed. I begin with the tale. 

Francis passionately wooed Ruth, telling her often how much he loved her. Unfortunately, she made the unwitting mistake of introducing Francis to her closest friend, Sabina Smith. He fell in love with Sabina immediately.

In a desperate move to counteract this unintended turn in fortune, Ruth conceived a plan incorporating deception. She told Francis Sabina was planning on announcing her engagement to another gentleman by the name of Dick Johnston. Heartbroken, Francis stepped aside.

Francis showed a handkerchief with his initials on it during a visit to Ruth sometime later and said, "Wouldn't you like to have such beautiful initials?" Ruth took that as a proposal. Next, Rawlins Lowndes called Francis to his home to discuss the proposal. Assuming Sabina would never be his wife, Francis accepted and made arrangements for his marriage to Ruth.

The wedding was now one day away, and Francis was walking down Church Street, which took him passed the Smith house and a happenchance rendezvous with Sabina. Ruth's deception comes to light during their resulting conversation. Sabina told Francis she never intended on marrying Dick Johnston. She entertained the hope that one day she might be his bride. Now those hopes were dashed, for tomorrow was his wedding day.

Outraged by what he now knew was a lie, Francis confronted Ruth Lowndes. The argument was the talk of Charleston. He expressed his contempt for her while she sobbed and pretended not to know what he meant. Raised an honorable southern gentleman, he resentfully honored his word and stuck to the agreement, thus losing Sabina forever. Bitter about the trickery, he told Ruth she would be his wife in name only.

And so, the void was filled and a Charleston ghost story was born. The townhouse in this story is long gone, but people believe the long, narrow alley on Tradd Street with an entrance marked by tall, brick columns is haunted. It is said, during the late hours of the night, the pounding of horse's hoofs and the rumbling of coach wheels can be heard passing on this section of the street and down the dark alley. The carriage is carrying one occupant, Ruth Lowndes Simmons. The narrow pathway is called Simmons' Alley.

Charleston's long history provides the ideal plots for stories like this one, and its streets and alleys offer the perfect backdrop. You can choose from a variety of tours offered by the numerous hosts located throughout the historic Charleston Peninsula. Before or after your selected tour, be sure to make a stop at the Market Pavilion Hotel on E Bay Street and order the ghostly drink called the Nitrotini. And quite possible, you may someday see William Shatner speak of this famous Charleston tragedy on the Unexplained.

Once Upon a Time on Tradd Street

Summerville--A Haunting Tale Amidst An Earth Shattering Cataclysm

Branchville Station

The day’s overwhelming humidity continued to linger even at this late hour. Deep in thought, I reflected on some troubling peculiarities of the day. There has been a strange quiet, not about the people I brushed shoulders with, but more so concerning the animals. The usual chatter of the local birds has been eerily absent. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing any birds, and the carriage horses were a bit skittish, as was the dog in the train depot.

The train whistle's blast signaled the final warning for departure. Its penetrating sound averted my thoughts back to the present moment. A billowing puff of hot steam filled the air. The locomotive jerked into motion. The train eased away from the loading platform. The final leg of my journal was underway.

I looked at my pocket watch, 8:50 pm. My destination is Charleston, estimated arrival time near 10:30 pm. I have been looking forward to my stay at the luxurious Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer/publisher, I had certain advantages when it came to reading material. With a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's writings in my possession, I settled back into my seat as we steamed away from Branchville. In my research on Poe, I had learned he was stationed on a barrier island near Charleston called Sullivan's. I planned on visiting some of the places associated with the writer, which included Fort Moultrie and the war-damaged plantations on the oak-lined Ashley River Rd, Runnymede in particular--a favorite haunt of Poe.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. The moonlight sifting through their branches cast a soft dancing glow onto the lower growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to venture into. The rapidly increasing clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me the train had reached full throttle. Some passengers had retired into a nap while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover to the dossier sitting on my lap. I began reading The Gold-Bug, and for an unknown length of time, slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly and abruptly, a thunderous explosion shook me, followed by an uncharacteristic feeling of weightlessness and the realization I was levitating above my seat only to come crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. A scenario repeated countless more times.

The piercing screams of helpless passengers bouncing around uncontrollably in their seats filled the compartment. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the jolting up and down, back and forth turbulence. Outside my window, I caught a glimpse of water spewing from the ground skyward. The car’s forward progress sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was attempting to slow the train but to no avail. There was no shortage of prayers. Then, as quickly as the upheaval started, it ended.

Despite the chaotic mayhem, the train miraculously remained on the tracks. The startled passengers took stock of their physical condition. Aside from bumps and bruises, it appeared everyone was okay. Again, the car jerked, unnerving the already traumatized group of travelers. Only this time, the train was in the normal process of slowing and crept to a stop. I pulled out my pocket watch only to find the glass shattered and the hands pointing at 9:50 pm. I gathered up the scattered pages of the dossier strewn about and stepped off the train.

An unearthly orange glow possessed the night sky. Fires were burning, and uprooted trees littered the ground. In front of the smoking engine, brightly burning flares illuminated the surroundings. We had stopped just short of what looked like a depot. I straightened my disheveled wardrobe and walked to the locomotive’s front. The engineer was conversing with an unfamiliar person. Steadying my rattled composure, I introduced myself. I asked what happened and our present location. The person introduced himself as the stationmaster. His name was Frank Doar. He went on to relate this most unusual story as we walked towards the depot.

Frank recounted, “It was 9:45 pm. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. Awaiting its arrival, I was peacefully sitting in my chair, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was suddenly startled by an elderly black man who appeared out of nowhere on the depot platform. He was filthy, sweaty, breathless, and agitated. The agitated old fellow excitedly told me he had just run several miles up the rail line from where the tracks were severely bent and that I should release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the impending danger.

I knew everybody who worked the line and thought I knew everybody in the community, but I never saw this man before tonight. The moonlight glistened off his sweaty hair, giving the top of his head a halo effect. I would have ordinarily been apprehensive about such a demand. However, on this occasion, I sensed the stranger to be sincere. At his urging, I quickly deployed the torpedoes. As I finished putting out the devices, I turned to speak to the old man, but he was gone. It was as if he vanished into thin air.

I removed my pocket watch and glanced at it. The old man’s visit, the warning, and the emergency preparations had taken only five minutes. It was 9:50 pm. At that very moment, an eerie hissing sound enveloped the town, followed by a massive explosion. The ground began to shake violently. I could hear the walls and chimneys of nearby buildings collapsing and the swaying trees being torn out of the earth by their roots. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.” His account beguiled me.

Everyone disembarked the train and walked to the station. We waited for further information on how we were going to get to our final destinations. We puzzled over the story Frank Doar told us. In time, the stationmaster received a message. Farther up the rail line from Summerville towards Ten Mile Hill and the Woodstock Station, the violent upheaval twisted the tracks into an S curve. A train that left Summerville for Charleston moments before the violent upheaval struck derailed on the damaged tracks. The engineer on the train was critically injured, and a crew member was killed.

The flares Frank Doar deployed saved our commuter train from the same fate. However, the mystery question remained; how did the elderly black man know about the impending danger before the earthquake occurred? He had vanished and nowhere found. No one was ever able to thank the old man.

As for Frank Doar, even though he was the one who deployed the flares that saved the train, he refused to take any credit for being a hero. He faithfully believed the old man was an angel. At least, that is the story Frank told.

Although this story is fictional, verified events and eyewitness accounts are the basis for its authenticity. The haunting tale experienced by Frank Doar is as much a part of Summerville’s history as the earthquake. Bruce Orr made it famous in his book "Haunted Summerville, South Carolina." I hope you enjoyed this retelling with my own added personal touch.

The Great Charleston Earthquake:

Charleston earthquake damage

The Charleston Earthquake of 1886 was the most damaging quake to hit the Southeastern United States. It occurred at 9:50 pm. on August 31, 1886, and lasted just under a minute. The earthquake caused severe damage in Charleston, South Carolina, damaging 2,000 buildings and causing $6 million worth of damages. About 110 lives were lost.

Considerable damage occurred in Summerville and as far away as Tybee Island, Georgia (over 60 miles away. Structural damage was reported several hundred miles from Charleston (including central Alabama, central Ohio, eastern Kentucky, southern Virginia, and western West Virginia). It was felt as far away as Boston to the north, Chicago, and Milwaukee to the Northwest, as far west as New Orleans, as far south as Cuba, and as far east as Bermuda.

In Horse Creek, Aiken County, a train pulling stock cars plunged off the tracks into 40 feet of water. The fireman was killed, and four horses drowned. Other animals kicked holes in the stock cars and swam to safety. In Ravenel, Charleston County, the ground broke open for 2.5 miles. A jet of water cut off a man trying to reach his grandchildren. In Columbia, Richland County, the Congaree River rose with 10-foot waves.

The Charleston Hotel survived the Earthquake, but not unscathed. The center portion of the parapet of the hotel's block-long Corinthian colonnade had been hurdled to the sidewalk during the massive upheaval reportedly crushing two ornate gas lamps that flanked the entrance door.

Summerville house

Summerville train depot

Eye witness accounts:

"The first awareness I experienced was the noise that developed over my head and can only be described as sounding like a huge herd of rats was thundering across the overhead ceiling. In a panic I rushed outside and felt an awful and profound shaking of the house, and was frozen in fear that the earth was going to open and swallow us all up. All I could reason was that God had set his mind that the judgment day was at hand. I looked up and expected to see the heavens fall, and then the second shock came and I was just barely conscious that I was falling, and felt a tremendous pain in my back from falling debris. Shock wave after wave hit and I became nauseous and thought I was going to die."--Virginia Ingraham Burr

"The waves seemed to come from both the southwest and crossed the street at the intersection where they collided. This is where I was standing and they were lifting me up and down by at least two feet. I was paying very careful attention and being as observant as I could under these conditions, and noted that I was at the intersection of Tradd Street between Logan and Greenhill."--Hossein Hayati and Ronald Andrus

The Ghostly Tales Of Charleston's Mills House Inn--Which One?

To say some of Charleston's oldest hotels have tales of the ghostly kind connected with them would be an understatement. After all, the Holy City is one of the oldest metropolitans in the country with a well heeled and notorious history. Why would Mills House Inn be an exception. Both employees and former guests describe seeing Confederate soldiers running up and down the halls searching for water to put out the fires ignited by the Great Fire of 1861, and to top it off, one of the apparitions seen was said to resemble one of the South's most beloved generals, Robert E. Lee.

According to Mills House Inn's documented history, these spectral manifestations make perfect sense. In 1861, Gen. Robert E. Lee came to Charleston to tour the city's harbor defenses. On his visit, he checked into the Mills House. While there, a fire erupted on Hasell Street at the Russell and Co.'s Sash and Blind factory and rapidly spread to Institute Hall and the Circular Church on Meeting Street, nearly a half-dozen blocks south of Hasell Street. Robert E Lee and his staff had climbed to the roof to witness the devastating inferno. When they returned to the hotel's parlor, they found a group of ladies and their babies preparing to leave. Lee took one baby and another officer took the other, and they hastily exited through the cellar into the smoky chaos outside. Back in Mills House, the staff valiantly fought the fire by using wet blankets to smother the sparks and embers that blew onto the roof and window ledges, saving the building from annihilation.

After the fire and Civil War 1865

Herein resides a proposed paradox. The Mills House Inn gracing the corner of Meeting and Queen Streets today was constructed in 1968 and registered its first guests on October 9, 1970, over a 109 years after the devastating fire of 1861. The last buyers and owners of the original Mills House of 1861, Charleston Associates, Richard H. Jenrette, Charles D. Ravenel, and Charles H. P. Duell, planned on renovating the seriously dilapidated building, but efforts proved impractical and decided to demolish it and replace it. The new Mills House Inn would replicate the old with one notable difference, it would have seven stories instead of the original's five. So you see, if we are to believe these ghostly sightings, the Confederate soldiers would be running up and down hallways not familiar to them (maybe that's why they can't find the water) and Robert E. Lee would be in a place he never stayed at.

Today's 7 story Mills House Inn

The history of old Mills House and its property has twists and turns as numerous as the estuary waterways of the Charleston Lowcountry. Part of the Archdale Square, names like Grimke house, St. Mary's Hotel and The Planter's Hotel preceded it. During the early 1840s, the United States Courthouse had offices there and from 1848-1852, there was the Mansion House hotel. The property was owned by the Grimke family until 1827, the year Plowden Weston purchased it. In 1836, Weston's sons sold the Mansion House hotel to wholesale grain merchant, Otis Mills, who continued acquiring neighboring parcels all through the 1940's. With these purchases, Otis Mills now owned a 130'x275' lot on the southwest corner of Meeting and Queen Streets, large enough to carry out his ultimate plan--build a five story hotel bearing his name.

In 1853, the original Mills House was built. Designed by architect John E. Earle and built by contractors James P. Earle and R. Earle at an estimated cost of $200,000, it had an iron balcony across the facade, ornate terra-cotta cornices above the windows, and an arcaded entryway. Much of the architectural trim was imported. The ironwork, marble mantels, and chandeliers were from Philadelphia, stoves and furnaces from New York, and furniture from Boston. However, the stone and marble work for pavement and exterior steps were locally supplied by W. B. White. The hotel boasted a dining saloon, a gentlemen's dining room, a second-floor ladies "ordinary" with tables for 160, and 180 guest rooms. Gas lighting illuminated every room and on each floor were eight "bathing rooms" for ladies; similar rooms for gentlemen were found on the first floor. Water for the baths, steam heating system, and in-house laundry were supplied by wells and cisterns on the property.


Mills House and brick house next to Hibernian Hall 1864

Thomas S. Nickerson, an experienced hotelier, leased the completed Mills House from Otis Mills. Their five-year agreement covered the hotel and outbuildings; Nickerson paid separately for the furnishings, wine, liquor, and other supplies. In mid-1857, Otis Mills negotiated a new three-year contract with Joseph Purcell for $7,500 annually, half of what Nickerson had committed to. Purcell had use of the Mills House and outbuildings, as well as the brick house next to Hibernian Hall, which was fitted up and used as a bar room and billiard saloon. He paid another $17,000 for all the furniture on the premises. It turned out Purcell and Nickerson possibly had a previous working relationship despite their separate agreements with Mills. In 1862, after the 1861 fire, the two were joint proprietors of the Mills House. In 1863, Mills sold the Mills House to Joseph Purcell and T. D. Wagener for $13,500 Confederate dollars. The hotel was sold at auction in 1873 and in 1874, George W. Williams sold it to John Hanckel, Robert Douglass, Eri H. Jackson, and Merritt P. Pickett.

1902

Next, Rosa Lawton Douglas, the niece of James Island dairy farmer, St. John Alison Lawton, set her sights on the Mills House with an idea to take it in a different direction. Soon after purchasing it in 1901, Lawton and architect Rutledge Holmes solicited contractors' bids for remodeling the building into an apartment house. The plans were not executed. Mrs. Douglas sold the property to Cecilia Lawton, her grandmother. The elderly Mrs. Lawton, owner of Battery Dairy--a successful downtown bottler and distributor of the family's milk, renamed the Mills House after her son. The new name was St. John Hotel. President Theodore Roosevelt visited the South Carolina and West-Indian Exposition in 1902 and stayed at the St. John Hotel. She sold the property in 1907 and it remained in the next buyer's family for decades.

Despite Charleston's growing tourism industry, the St. John Hotel suffered from competition. New arrivals on the scene, the Francis Marion and Fort Sumter hotels, opened in 1924. Surviving into the 1960s, eventual lack of revenue needed for modernization and routine upkeep doomed it. The dilapidated structure was sold at public auction to the Charleston associates mentioned earlier--the builders of today's Mills House Inn and the place of the ghostly sightings. One element familiar to the confused phantoms would be the original iron balcony. It was salvaged for reinstallation.

The Mills House story, the old and the new, is another fragment in the Charleston narrative past and present. Stand on any tourist filled street corner from the Battery to King Street and you will hear this narrative espoused enthusiastically to visiting listeners by those who live off its elegance and enchantments. As to my proposed hypothesis, I am not intentionally or unkindly trying to cast any dispersions on the claims made by employees and former guests as to what they have seen in the softly lit hallways of the Mills House Inn. After all, seeing is believing, so it is said. In conclusion, as is often the case, the legend is but a shadow of the reality and occasionally, the realty is but a shadow of the legend. Either way, if the stories are a fanciful way of remembering the actual history, success has been achieved.

The Mills House Wyndham Grand Hotel
115 Meeting Street, Charleston, South Carolina
Phone: 843-577-2400
Room and rates

Summerville Ghost Stories And The Blue Bottle Tree Along with A Festival At The Ponds

blue bottle tree at W. Carolina and Tupper

In Summerville, there is an area where three roads converge unto South Main Street to make a single intersection of five points. The roads are W. Carolina Ave, E. Carolina Ave, and Tupper Lane. I have driven through this intersection many times and have often wondered about the significance of the strange potted ornament placed at the point where W. Carolina Ave and Tupper Lane come together. It was always just a brief curiosity because I never made any real effort to find out what the strange looking tree-like structure with blue bottles stuck on its branches was. Until recently, and only by accident, I stumbled upon the answer. I was researching ghost stories in the Summerville area. Not surprsing, it's called a blue bottle tree and quite common throughout the South.

Today, it is mainly nothing more than a decoration people put in their gardens and on their lawns, but in history the blue bottle tree is steeped in superstitions brought here by African slaves. The color blue was believed to ward off spirits, more specifically, the evil kind. The bottles on the bottle tree are thought to entice the evil spirits into climbing inside during the evening hours where they become trapped. Then, the morning sun comes up and the sunlight kills the spirits. Quite an ingenious idea, if you believe in such things. Also, a nifty way of making good use of empty wine bottles, if you like the idea of a blue bottle tree in your yard.

Old City Jail

Charleston is rich with a diverse collection of varying cultures each laced with their own blend of superstitions and beliefs, necessary ingredients for inventing interesting ornaments and compiling ghost stories to entertain the many tourists who come here to experience history at its best. Poogan's Porch tells stories of encounters with a ghost named Zoe St. Armand, a woman who once lived there. She is sometimes heard banging things around in the kitchen. Battery Carriage House Inn is known as “Charleston’s most haunted inn." It is home to the “gentleman ghost” and the headless torso. Want to reserve a room for the scare of it? The Dockstreet Theater has two ghosts wandering within its walls, a male ghost dressed in formal attire, thought to be Junious Brutus Booth, and an alleged prostitute. You will need tickets for this show. No tickets needed on Church Street, which is lined with plenty of graveyards, but a tour guide would be helpful. Last but not least, Lavinia Fisher awaits your presence at the Old City Jail. The stories are many and the tours are plenty. Check out Bulldog Tours.

Summerville has its share of ghost stories as well. One notable story is associated with The Ponds, a community located on Highway 17A where Dorchester Rd ends. The entrance is marked by a tower. The Ponds has a history dating back to 1682. Plenty of time for human activity and interaction needed to create stories of mystery tainted by an active imagination. The first owner of the land built a plantation called Westin Hall. His name was Andrew Percival. From 1723 to 1765, the Donning family of England had controlling interest in the plantation until they sold it.

Several families from that point in time owned it and for over a hundrerd years it was a rice plantation. John Shultz took ownership in 1818 and later his son. After returning from the Civil War, having served in the First South Carolina Mounted Militia, Frederick Schultz eventually sold it to Edward Lotz in 1881. Edward Lotz became a lumber dealer and made shingles out of the numerous cypress trees growing on the land. Edward Lotz is where the ghost story begins. Today, it seems he makes a nightly visit to the old farmhouse to make sure everything is well. Sorry, nothing ghastly or gruesome to report. It seems the lands history has been one of tranquility.

The Ponds is also a center for local area events and community activities. World-renowned arts shows, outdoor music festivals, and sporting events have unfolded on this one-time plantation. There is an outdoor amphitheater on the property located next to the lake. This Saturday, April 21st, the Southern Flame - The Southern Food Festival Under the Oaks kicks-off. The time is 11 am to 8 pm. It is $10 to park all day with food and berverage tickets available. There will be a BBQ Competition and a People’s Choice Southern Foods Competition. Live bluegrass and rock music will keep you dancing. Eddie Bush and The Mayhem are the featured group. Join the fun and stick around after dark to see if Edward Lotz likes what he sees.