Edingsville Beach: The Lost Riviera of the Charleston Lowcountry

Edingsville Beach across from Botany Bay

As the legend tells, in the hazy cast of a summer’s blood moon—when the ocean air hangs heavy with salty mist—you may glimpse the glazed shadow of dim lunar light dancing its somber waltz across the windowpanes of the once‑upon‑a‑time sea‑island planters’ homes. They stood an oyster toss from Botany Bay, along a stretch of deserted island sand where the Atlantic still broods. And if you listen carefully to the tempestuous breeze sweeping over the beach and through the scattered relics washed ashore by the agitated surf, you may hear faint laughter, decadent chatter, and the ghostly echoes of those who passed their idle summer months here, fleeing the malarial heat of inland Edisto. But do not linger. For out of the translucent shadows, you may find yourself conscripted by an illusory woman walking the shoreline—mournfully searching for a husband long overdue from a distant land.

Today, this hauntingly seductive shoreline is a windswept, sea‑shelled ribbon of solitary sand between Edisto Beach and Botany Bay Beach. You would be looking from Botany Bay for a glimpse, because there is no public access. The beach lies behind a salt marsh and is reached only by a private causeway used by residents of Jeremy Cay—a gated community tucked at the end of Edingsville Beach Road. That moss‑draped, oak‑lined road is the very same path once traveled by the aristocratic planter families of Edisto as they made their summer pilgrimage to their beachside resort, then known as Edingsville. And that is where the story begins.

Edingsville Beach Road

As the eighteenth century gave way to the nineteenth, Edisto’s planters were becoming the wealthiest agricultural elite in the South. Their prosperity rested on Sea Island cotton—silky, lustrous, and coveted worldwide for its extra‑long fibers. The crop’s extraordinary value created an aristocracy fortified by bloodlines, marriage alliances, and staggering wealth.

They built grand plantation houses, purchased elegant townhomes in Charleston, and entertained lavishly. But summer brought oppressive heat, swarms of mosquitoes, and the dreaded “country fever”—malaria. Seeking refuge, they discovered that the barrier‑island beaches offered cooling ocean breezes that kept the scourge at bay. With that revelation, Edingsville Beach was born.

Edingsville Beach lots and owners

The island was accessible only by water until around 1800, when Benjamin Edings constructed a causeway from Edisto Island and began selling or leasing beachfront lots to planter families. By 1820, Edingsville Beach had blossomed into a refined resort of sixty stately, two‑story brick houses wrapped in terraces with sweeping views. Each home boasted gardens, carriage houses, and servant quarters. They stood in two rows—one facing the ocean, the other the marsh. Two churches tended to their spiritual needs, while an academy kept the boys educated. Locals called it the “Riviera of the Lowcountry.”

Every May, the largest concentration of plantation nobility between Charleston and Savannah packed their furnishings, servants, and children into wagons and carriages and made the sandy trek to their oceanfront haven. Summers unfolded in a whirl of elegant parties, boat races, horse races, elaborate banquets, and leisurely dips in the Atlantic. They stayed until the first frost of autumn. It was a life of ease, privilege, and indulgence—until destiny intervened.

An illustration of Edingsville Beach

Long before the Civil War’s first mortars lit the skies over Fort Sumter, Edingsville Beach's protective dunes began to surrender to the Atlantic’s relentless appetite. Around twenty houses were claimed by the surf. Then came the war, followed by the boll‑weevil infestations of 1917, which decimated the Sea Island cotton industry. The royal crop of the sea islands vanished almost overnight—never to return.

After the war, the ocean that once brought relief became Edingsville Beach's undoing. A series of hurricanes beginning in 1874 gnawed away at the golden‑era resort. The final blow came with the hurricane of 1893, which erased all physical evidence of its splendor, leaving only a tabby‑brick fireplace and scattered fragments. Even today, the occasional piece of china or brick appears on the beach, delivered by a passing wave—a fleeting reminder of the vanished aristocracy.

And as for the illusory woman who wanders the shoreline under the blood moon—her name is Mary Clark. She was the daughter of one of Edingsville Beach's wealthy planters, spending her summers in their waterfront home. Her story, like the resort itself, is a blend of history and haunting legend—an echo of a world swept away by time, tide, and the unforgiving Atlantic.

Edingsville Beach's Mary Clark: Love and Loss

The Lovers, the Pirates, and the Vanished Gardens of Pierates Cruze on Mount Pleasant

Mount Pleasant’s history is full of quiet corners and whispered stories, but few are as haunting—or as strangely persistent—as the tale that drifts through the moss‑draped oaks of the Old Village. It is a story of forbidden love, feuding families, and a pirate’s treachery, woven into the early fabric of the Lowcountry like a local echo of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. And like all enduring legends, it leaves just enough truth behind to make you wonder.

The legend begins in the early 1700s, when two prominent landowners—each holding vast acreage across the Cooper River in the area once known as North Point—found themselves locked in a bitter feud. Their children, a young man and woman whose names have been lost to time, met in secret beneath an oak grove overlooking Charleston Harbor. For months they carried on their clandestine romance, slipping away from their families’ watchful eyes. When the lovers secretly married, the discovery ignited the feud into open fury. Fearing retribution, the couple fled to Sullivan’s Island and joined a band of pirates. It was a desperate choice—and a fatal one.

According to the tale, the pirate captain soon became infatuated with the young bride. He ordered his crew to kill her husband, hoping to claim her for himself. Believing her lover dead, she fled to the grove where their romance had begun. The captain followed. Overcome with despair, she plunged a knife into her own chest. Moments later, her husband—having escaped the murderous plot—arrived and confronted the captain. The duel ended with the young man dying in his wife’s arms. Their grieving fathers, the story says, erected a stone pillar in their memory.

The story obviously mentions no names. However, after examining Mount Pleasant's history and matching various components of the story to specific names and places, I propose the following conclusion: George Haddrell and William Hort fit the bill of the feuding landowners and parents of the two doomed lovers of this tragic tale.

Haddrell, a major figure in the town’s early development, owned roughly 500 acres stretching from Shem Creek toward what is now Highway 703. Hort, an early settler from Barbados, held waterfront land beginning near today’s Alhambra Hall and extending to Cove Inlet. In 1775, Hort recorded in his diary that his daughter, Elizabeth Haddrell Hort, was born in a house owned by none other than George Haddrell.

Elizabeth carried both surnames—Haddrell and Hort—just as the legend describes. And the lovers’ secret meeting place? A grove of oaks on Hort’s land that locals later called Hort’s Grove. A stone marker known as Hort’s Pillar once stood near the present‑day neighborhood of Pierates Cruze.

Even the pirate connection has historical footing. Charleston was a favored haunt of notorious captains like Charles Vane and Calico Jack Rackham, both active in the region during the era the story suggests. Whether either man played a role in the tragedy is impossible to know, but the timing—and the temperament—fit.

Fast‑forward two centuries. On the very land once owned by William Hort, a new chapter unfolded—one that would give the area its most unusual name. In the late 1920s, Massachusetts transplants Dana and Laird Osgood purchased a five‑acre parcel overlooking the harbor. They built a home encircled by a moat and imitation drawbridge, giving the property a whimsical, pirate‑themed character. The name they chose for their estate—Pierates Cruze—was a playful twist on “pirates’ cruise,” a nod to Charleston’s swashbuckling past.

The Osgoods didn’t stop at theatrics. During the 1930s, they transformed the grounds into seven elaborate gardens, each with its own personality: The Sea Garden, Wind’ll Blow, Little Wheel, Twyfy’s Garden, Eight Bells, Wiggins Walk, and Amalfi. Thousands of camellias and azaleas bloomed beneath the oaks. Spanish bayonet plants lined a harbor‑side walkway that ended at a Spanish mission‑style bell wall. Visitors paid $2 in winter and $1 in summer to wander the grounds, and advertisements invited them to “See the spires of Charleston against the sunset across the wine‑dark sea.” In 1947, the Massachusetts Horticultural Society awarded Mrs. Osgood its prestigious Gold Medal for her hybrid camellias. Pierates Cruze had become one of the Lowcountry’s most enchanting attractions.

By 1959, the gardens closed. The land was subdivided, with lots selling for $10,000 each. The original house and moat disappeared, and the gardens were lost to time—except for a few surviving columns from the Amalfi garden, still standing along the seawall like quiet sentinels of a vanished world. Hurricane Hugo destroyed the bell wall in 1989, but homeowners rebuilt it using the original bricks, replacing the bells with ship bells in homage to the estate’s playful past.

Today, Pierates Cruze is a peaceful residential enclave. Children ride bicycles beneath the oaks. Neighbors chat along the sidewalks. The pirate moat is gone, the gardens erased, the pillar vanished. And yet, something lingers. Perhaps it is the echo of the Osgoods’ whimsical vision. Perhaps it is the memory of the gardens that once drew visitors from across the country. Or perhaps it is something older—the whisper of a tragic love story carried on the harbor breeze.

The Nation's Longest Operating Liquor Store and an Entertaining Side Story: The Day the Parrot Outsmarted the Pirates

What most visitors don’t realize—while they’re lining up pastel façades in their camera lenses or setting up easels beneath the shade of palmettos—is that Rainbow Row has witnessed more than its share of mischief. One of the most beloved stories, still whispered by old‑timers in the French Quarter, involves a pirate, a parrot, and the very liquor shop that claims the title of the oldest in the nation.

According to local lore, sometime in the early 1700s, a member of Stede Bonnet’s crew—an overconfident fellow named Red Tom Mallory—stumbled out of the waterfront taverns in search of more rum. He was loud, unsteady, and accompanied by a parrot with a vocabulary so colorful it could make a sailor blush. The bird, named Captain Pickles, was said to have been trained to mimic Bonnet’s voice with uncanny accuracy.

Red Tom swaggered into the liquor shop demanding a private cask “on the authority of Captain Bonnet himself.” The shopkeeper, unimpressed and entirely sober, refused. But Captain Pickles, perched on Tom’s shoulder, suddenly squawked in a perfect imitation of Bonnet’s clipped Barbadian accent: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The shopkeeper froze. The voice was unmistakable. Bonnet had been in Charleston only days earlier, and no one wanted to risk crossing a pirate captain with a reputation for unpredictable moods. So, the cask was handed over.

Red Tom strutted out triumphantly—only to be immediately intercepted by the city watch. They had been tracking him since he’d knocked over a fishmonger’s stall earlier that morning. As the watchmen hauled him away, Captain Pickles flapped to a nearby balcony and began loudly repeating the phrase: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The parrot’s performance drew such a crowd that the watchmen lost their grip on Red Tom, who slipped away into the maze of alleys behind East Bay Street. Captain Pickles, however, remained on his balcony perch, where he was adopted by the family living there. For years afterward, the bird would shout pirate insults at unsuspecting passersby, startling tourists, merchants, and even a few dignitaries.

Some say the parrot lived to a venerable age, long enough to greet the first wave of artists who began painting Rainbow Row in the early 20th century. Others insist the whole tale is nonsense. But if you ask the right Charlestonian—preferably one who’s had a drink or two—they’ll tell you that on quiet mornings, when the tide is low and the breeze comes off the Cooper River just so, you can still hear a faint voice echoing between the pastel walls: “Give the man the rum!”

The Tavern at Rainbow Row dates as far back as 1686, according to documents and maps discovered in Scotland and the Netherlands. Quite possibly, Captain William Carse and the crew of the Magdalen from Edinburgh purchased liquor here in August of 1743 after unloading their cargo of salt, sailcloth, and, among other items, ninety‑six mashies (golf clubs) and four hundred thirty‑two featheries (golf balls) consigned to David Deas, a Scottish emigrant who had become a successful Charleston merchant.

Through its three centuries of business, The Tavern has endured the test of time—sometimes unstoppable, sometimes hard‑pressed. It survived the Revolutionary War and the incessant pummeling from Federal cannons during the Civil War, not to mention numerous historic fires and the catastrophic earthquake of 1886 that brought down hundreds of Charleston’s buildings.

Thomas Coates apparently purchased or constructed this group of commercial buildings by 1806. It served as the meeting place of Charleston's Jacobin Club in the 1790s, a group largely made up of French immigrants who wholeheartedly embraced the spirit of the French Revolution. This group of commercial buildings was also known as Coates's Row.

The Tavern, 120 East Bay Street, has been known by more than a few names, including The Tavern on the Bluffs, Harris’s Tavern, the French Coffee House, and Mrs. Coates’s Tavern by the Bay. In 1903, it became a “Whiskey Store” during an era when it was illegal to buy a drink, even if it was served in a teacup. Disguised as a barbershop through Prohibition, it sold liquor from a back room. A latched door at the rear of the shop led to an underground tunnel that once moved moonshine to speakeasies—then known as “blind tigers.”

The Blind Tiger Pub building on Broad Street has such an underground tunnel, which can also be entered through a latched door at the back of the building. Those wanting a drink would have had to sneak one in one of the tunnel’s many dark nooks. Whether the two tunnels connected is open to question. At this point, I must insert a bit of caution: like many stories from Charleston’s past, you must measure its factuality with a grain of Carolina Gold. Following Repeal, the Tavern returned to legal status. It has been the nation’s oldest spirits store in continuous operation. Now that bit of information is as bona fide as its Bluffton Whiskey.

The original building is divided into three separate addresses. By law, spirits must be sold separately from wine and beer. The middle section, which sells wine and beer, is the most fascinating of the three. Its brick front exterior at 118 East Bay Street features an arched double door flanked by two arched windows, and, directly above it, a double‑window second‑floor extension—added by Coates in the early 1840s—all painted in dark green. Inside, the current owners have preserved the shop’s legacy by restoring its interior, showcasing original hardwood floors and brick walls alongside antique furnishings from around the world—a bookshelf from the Library of Congress and an artisan’s worktable from France. In one of the adjoining rooms is the mysterious latched door leading to the underground.

The third section of the building is unused—once a gallery. Future plans include opening the wall where the beer taps are currently located and converting the unused section into a drinking space with a garden patio outside.

The Tavern specializes in local and rare spirits, including a five‑grain bourbon made with a Carolina rice variety (Seashore Black Rye) once thought to be extinct, and Carolina Gold; a black tea liqueur produced by the only large‑scale tea plantation in the U.S. (the Charleston Tea Plantation); and a vodka distilled from rye grown on South Carolina’s Edisto Island. To acquaint visitors with the unfamiliar, the shop also offers weekly tastings.

The Tavern at Rainbow Row has been featured on Southern Charm, Moonshiners, History’s Most Haunted, and Atlas Obscura. With a multifaceted history and a singular focus, The Tavern has stayed true to its reason for being and has never stopped distributing booze. Now that makes for one happy sailor.

120 E Bay St, next door to the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon.

The Joggling Board: A Lowcountry Legend Born of Necessity, Folklore, and Charleston Charm

If you’ve spent any time wandering the piazzas of Charleston, South Carolina, you’ve likely noticed a curious piece of furniture: a long, springy plank—painted a deep Charleston green—resting on two arched rockers. Locals call it a joggling board, and it’s as much a part of Lowcountry identity as sweetgrass baskets, live oaks, and the scent of pluff mud drifting in on the tide.

But the joggling board isn’t just a decorative porch oddity. Its story stretches back more than two centuries, crossing oceans, plantations, and generations of Southern folklore.

The most widely accepted origin story begins in 1803 at Acton Plantation in Sumter County, just outside the Charleston region. The plantation house burned down in 1911. Mary (or Mrs. Benjamin) Huger moved in to help her brother, Cleland Kinlock, manage the house after the death of his wife. According to historical accounts, Mary suffered from painful rheumatism that kept her from enjoying carriage rides—her favorite pastime. In a letter to her family in East Lothian, Scotland, she lamented her limited mobility. Her Scottish relatives responded with an unusual solution: a model and plans for a flexible exercise bench designed to allow gentle bouncing and movement.

East Lothian, Gilmerton House

A carpenter at Acton Plantation built the first American joggling board based on those plans. The result was a long, pliant board—typically 12 to 16 feet—mounted on two wooden stands. The gentle “joggling” motion was believed to soothe stiff joints and provide low-impact exercise.

What began as a medical aid soon became a cultural fixture. By the mid-19th century, joggling boards had migrated from inland plantations to the piazzas of Charleston homes. Their distinctive look—long, narrow, and painted Charleston green—made them instantly recognizable. The color itself is a local signature: a near-black shade of green believed to withstand the Lowcountry sun and blend elegantly with historic architecture. One place to see a joggling board in Charleston is at the Edmondston-Alston House.

Edmondston House

Charlestonians embraced the joggling board not only for its gentle rocking motion but also for its social possibilities. The board’s flexibility allows two people seated at opposite ends to bounce toward one another—a feature that inspired one of the most enduring pieces of joggling board folklore.

Charleston legend holds that a joggling board is a “courting bench.” If two people sit at opposite ends, the board naturally dips and sways, drawing them closer together. Many Lowcountry families claim that “a home with a joggling board will never be without suitors,” and some even credit the bench with sparking marriages across generations.

Whether or not the board truly possesses matchmaking magic, it has become a symbol of hospitality, romance, and Southern charm.

Though joggling boards fell out of fashion in the early 20th century, Charleston artisans and preservationists helped revive the tradition. Companies like The Joggle Factory and the Old Charleston Joggling Board Company continue to handcraft boards using the same principles—flexible Southern pine, graceful rockers, and that iconic Charleston green paint.

Today, joggling boards appear on porches, in gardens, at wedding venues, and even on college campuses. They’ve become a beloved emblem of Lowcountry culture—functional, whimsical, and steeped in history.

Echoes Beneath the Vaulted Ceiling: The Story of Charleston’s Union Station

Fire is like a two-edged sword: it giveth and it taketh. It is both hospitable and hostile. It reclaims what has been taken and reshapes what has already been formed. It is a merciless entity, absent of malice. It does only what it is destined to do, bound by the laws of nature.

Fire has played a notable role in the evolution of Charleston’s cityscape—in the years 1698, 1740, 1778, 1812, and 1947. Like that two-edged sword, it has cleared the way for a more durable metropolitan landscape, but in doing so, it has consumed some of the city’s most celebrated architectural masterpieces.

In the heart of Charleston’s historic peninsula, where East Bay Street meets Columbus, once stood a monument to movement, ambition, and architectural grace: Union Station, a grand passenger terminal that served as the city’s rail gateway from 1907 to 1947. Though long vanished from the skyline, its memory lingers in the Lowcountry’s collective imagination—an echo of steam whistles, polished shoes on tiled floors, and lantern light flickering beneath vaulted ceilings.

Union Station was born of necessity and vision. In 1902, the South Carolina General Assembly chartered the Charleston Union Station Company, a joint venture by three major railroads—Atlantic Coast Line, Southern Railway, and Seaboard Air Line. Their goal: to consolidate passenger services into a single, elegant terminal worthy of Charleston’s stature.

Construction began in 1905, and by November 1907, the station opened its doors. With its classical architecture, arched windows, and ornate murals, Union Station was more than a transit point—it was a civic landmark. Travelers arriving from Savannah, Richmond, or Washington stepped into a space that felt both grand and intimate, where the rhythms of rail travel met the rituals of Southern hospitality.

Illustration of Union Station

Though few photographs survive, contemporary accounts describe a station of impressive scale and detail. The checkerboard tile floors, hanging lanterns, and decorative columns created a sense of ceremony. Ceiling murals were a defining feature of the station’s interior, contributing to its classical and civic grandeur. These murals likely included scenes of ships, harbors, and historical vignettes, consistent with Charleston’s identity as a port city and its colonial and Revolutionary War legacy. The murals were described as elaborate and atmospheric, helping elevate the station from a mere transit hub to a place of cultural and architectural significance.

The station was a stage for everyday drama: soldiers departing for war, families reuniting, porters wheeling trunks beneath the gaze of stationmasters in brass-buttoned coats. It was a place where time paused between arrivals and departures, and where Charleston’s social tapestry—black and white, rich and poor—briefly converged.

On a cold morning in January 1947, Union Station was destroyed by fire. The Charleston Fire Department responded quickly, but the station’s wooden framing and open interior spaces allowed the flames to spread rapidly. Despite efforts to contain the blaze, the entire structure was engulfed and ultimately destroyed in hours. Archival records from the Charleston County Public Library’s Fire Department collection document the event as one of the city’s most significant structural losses of the mid-20th century. No definitive cause for the blaze was ever confirmed in public records. The building's destruction marked the end of an era.

Following the fire, rail services were rerouted. The Charleston Union Station Company, which had operated the facility, gradually dissolved its operations. A collection of 183 scanned documents, including letters and newspaper clippings from 1947 to 1954, is preserved in the Southern Railway Historical Association archives, offering firsthand accounts of the fire’s impact.

Charleston never rebuilt a central passenger terminal of comparable grandeur. Instead, rail travel gradually shifted northward. Amtrak eventually established its presence in North Charleston, and by the 21st century, the original site of Union Station had faded into obscurity—its footprint absorbed by urban development, its memory preserved only in archives and anecdotes.

Union Station was more than a building—it was a portal. It connected Charleston to the wider world and offered a glimpse of modernity wrapped in classical beauty. Its destruction left a void not just in infrastructure, but in the city’s architectural soul.

Today, as Charleston balances preservation with progress, Union Station reminds us of what once was: a place where movement met meaning, and where the hum of locomotives underscored the quiet heroism of everyday life.

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.

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

Step Back to Charleston's Colonial Days during and after the Revolutionary War--The Heyward-Washington House

The Heyward-Washington House became Charleston's first historic house museum in 1930 after being acquired by the Charleston Museum in 1929. It was recognized as a National Historic Landmark in 1978. Two of the Heyward-Washington House's dramatic features are exclusive to Charleston house tours. It is located far from the madding crowd of tourism just south of Broad Street in a quiet section of the Lower Peninsula on Church Street.

Thomas Heyward Jr was one of four South Carolina signers of the Declaration of Independence and an artillery officer with the South Carolina militia in the Revolutionary War. He built his Georgian-style double house in 1772. However, he was captured by the British in 1780 when they took possession of the city and returned in 1781 by way of an exchange. In May of 1891, the city rented the house for George Washington's use during the President's week-long Charleston stay. Thus, it is recognized as the Heyward-Washington House, even though it was purchased from Heyward by John F. Grimke in 1794.

A black sign bearing its name marks the address. Standing at its large, Colonial-style pediment front door, a note requests you to knock. The host welcomes you to step into its large center hall which leads to the room where you either pay for the tour ($15) or present your pre-paid voucher. The tour is a self-guided audio presentation, and you can begin anywhere you want. The audio tour includes a recognition of the contributions of Lowcountry women and the enslaved.

You will see a superb collection of historic Charleston-made furniture as you leisurely stroll from room to room including the priceless Holmes Bookcase, considered one of the finest examples of American-made colonial furniture. The audio device details how each room had a specific use to the family combined with a story from the life of the Heyward family in that particular room. Recovered artifacts are displayed throughout. No surprise, in one of the rooms, you will see a portrait of its famous guest, George Washington, hanging above its fireplace.

The highlight of the tour, in my opinion, is when you step out the back entrance. It is here you will see the two dramatic features exclusive to Charleston house tours--the only 1740s kitchen building open to the public in Charleston as well as formal gardens featuring plants commonly used in the South Carolina Lowcountry in the late 18th century. The carriage house and kitchen building flanked each side with the spacious, beautifully landscaped garden extending beyond to the estate's farthest edges. I was surprised how far back it went. It was interesting to see the wide variety of utensils used in the kitchens and what meals were prepared for Thomas Heyward and guests. There is still an active archeological dig underway in the gardens.

The Heyward-Washington House offers an interesting and informative step back to Charleston's colonial days during and after the Revolutionary War for $15. However, several options are available for purchase. You can combine this tour with tickets to the Charleston Museum for $22 or combine it with tickets to the Museum and a tour of the Joseph Manigault House for $30. Tickets are valid for one year after purchase date. For the options, go to Charleston Museum.

87 Church St, Charleston, SC

Monday-Saturday: 10 am -5:00 pm (last audio tour at 4:15 pm)

Sunday: 12:00 - 5:00 pm (last audio tour at 4:15 pm)

Roll the Dice, Make a bet, It is One of Summerville's Distinctive Properties

It is a bit on the difficult side to believe quiet, peaceful, charming Summerville had a "red-light district" in its past. Back in the day, the eatery now known as the Montreux Bar and Grill was a boardinghouse and restaurant operated by a person by the name of Miss Lucia. It was said to have been part of "the red-light district." This would seem to be an apparent contradiction of order, especially when you consider during the time Confederate troops were stationed in the town, they were jailed for bad conduct towards resident females, and rightly so. Different times. Different decades.

On top of houses of ill repute, it also had a gambling casino that was associated with the illustrious Pine Forest Inn--something that would be considered illegal in South Carolina today. Unlike many other states, the state of South Carolina is by far the strictest state when it comes to gambling with no casinos in its major cities. The only legal gambling is on a casino cruise. There is one in Little River called The Big "M" Casino.

Summerville's once upon a time Pine Forest Inn casino was located at 100 Marion Avenue. It is difficult to find any substantial information about the casino itself, but there is great deal of detail available about the house it was located in, and its history is fascinating.

It is believed by residents to have been built somewhere between 1890 and 1900 by Thomas Hopkins and referred to as "Hopkins Villa." The Summerville Scene in April of 1975 called it "the cut-down house." The reason being the original house was built on columns five and a half feet off the ground. When Ralph Sullivan purchased it from Urban M. Kennedy in 1951, he lowered it to the height the present house is at, but he also did something else that would be considered a stunning feat. He moved the complete house from its original location, which was closer to the road, without disturbing the structure, interior, chimneys, and porches. On top of that, he turned it so the main entrance faced Marion Avenue, where it is today. That was some about face. However that was not the only about face it made.

Somewhere between its construction and the 1930's was its gambling days with the Pine Forest Inn. Hopkins left the property to a religious group called the Order of Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy in 1904, who lived there for a number of years but left the property and returned again in the 1930s. Whether it was a casino during that period of time or while Hopkins owned it before he left it to the religious group is a question to be answered with further research. Regardless, that was some about face from vices to virtue.

Today, 100 Marion Avenue is surrounded by white fences and tall bushes. You can get a tempting peek at its main, front entrance through a small gated-opening at the middle of the property. It is a distinctive estate with an arching driveway and expansive porches. It is a fascinating part of Summerville's grand history. Roll the dice, make a bet, it is a history that included what would be considered illegal today.

Visit Summerville

Summerville Dream