Three Ghost Stories from Summerville (SC) High School


Presenting three ghost stories written by students at Summerville High School in Summerville, South Carolina. Scroll down the page to read them all!

The first ghost story is “The Labrador” – a tale of a mysterious white dog guarding the spot of his master’s death. Written by Bethany Polutta.

On November 7, 1960, a traveling salesman came to Goshen Hill for a few days, selling his wares from door to door. He was a friendly man with a warm grin and a joke for everyone. He was accompanied by a large white dog that rode on the wagon beside him; companion, friend, and guardian of his wares.

The salesman and dog were making their way out of town when a murder was discovered in one of the places in which they had sported their wares. Suspicion blossomed at once against the stranger—certainly no one of the townsfolk was capable of committing such a crime!—and a lynch mob chased the salesman out of town and strung him up on a tree beside the road.

The white dog howled and barked and roared as the mob carried his master away. More than one man was bitten as the salesman, still screaming out his innocence, was silenced forever. One fellow finally shot his gun at the white dog, wounding it enough to send it whimpering away. It soon became obvious to everyone in town that they’d hung the wrong man. The corpse, dangling obscenely from the tree on Old Buncombe Road, was a grisly reminder of the community crime. They would have cut down the salesman and given him a decent burial, but the white dog stood guard over his master’s corpse day after day, savagely threatening anyone who came near the hanging tree. So the salesman’s body withered and rotted underneath the tree beside the road, filling the air with a terrible stench as it desiccated in the summer heat. It was many weeks before body and dog disappeared from the Old Buncombe Road.

A few months later, a man who’d participated in the salesman’s lynching happened to be walking down Old Buncome Road at night. As he drew near the hanging tree, his nose wrinkled in disgust as a whiff of rotten flesh swept past his face and his stomach roiled. He staggered backward, his arm over his nose, wondering what was causing the terrible stench. Then he spotted the hanging tree, and saw upon it a glowing, desiccated corpse dangling obscenely by the neck from one of its branches. And beneath the ghostly figure stood a huge, white dog with glowing red eyes.

The dog growled menacingly when he saw the man on the road, and the man stumbled backward over the rut in the center of the road and then started to run. With an ear-shattering series of barks, the white dog pursued the fleeing man with supernatural speed. The man whipped this way and that, spinning around, leaping into the woods to dodge around trees, trying to avoid the huge dog snapping at his heels. If he fell, the dog would be at his throat immediately.

The man crashed headlong into a tree and flung himself upward. Below him, the ghost dog leapt, and sharp teeth closed on the man’s hand. Pain ripped through him, and he climbed higher, trying to shake off the glowing beast. “Let go!” he screamed, kicking at it again. Suddenly, the white dog turned to mist before his eyes and swirled away. Realizing that the white dog might reappear at any moment, the man seized his chance. He slithered down the tree and ran all the way home. His wife sent a neighbor to fetch the doctor, who stitched up his hand as best he could. The white dog had nearly severed the palm, and the nerves were so badly damaged that he was crippled in that hand for the rest of his life.

The man later learned that every person who had participated in the lynching of the salesman was attacked by the ghost of the white dog. Many—like himself—were crippled in some way. As for the fellow who’d shot and injured the white dog—well, his four-year-old son disappeared and was never seen again.


The second story is “The Impossible” – a ghost story of twins who connect with their dead birth mother from beyond the grave. Written by Makevia Capers.

Beaufort, South Carolina 1994, February 20th, was when Mrs. Cynthia Blake passed away. She was twenty-two with twins named Kaden and Jaden. She passed giving birth to them, her heart wasn’t strong enough, so it gave out on her, and I guess it was her time to go. She wrote in her will she knew she was going to die; she said her friend up stairs showed it to her in a dream, so she wanted me to keep Kaden and Jaden. As I read her will, tears started pouring down my face; I wasn’t only crying because she passed, I was crying because the two handsome boys will never know who their real mother is and how intelligent she was. They will never know what a real mother’s love felt like because I was only sixteen; I was still a child myself.

March 23, 2002, I was sitting in the kitchen, and I heard laughing and playing coming from upstairs. It was an unfamiliar sound added; it didn’t sound like the footsteps of children; it sounded like the footsteps of an adult. I then yelled Kaden, Jaden; then there was a slight pause and they both yelled, “Yes mam” like they were up to something. As I was walking up the stairs the playing and laughing continued as I got to the door, I could no longer hear the third footstep that sounded like an adult footstep. As I opened the door, the two were sitting on the floor looking at me.

“Why are you guys playing so hard?” I asked.

Kaden starting smiling and pointed to the closet door, “It was Mama,” he said.

Looking around I laughed and replied, “But, I am your mama sweetheart.”

He stared at me like he was waiting on me to drop dead and said, “NO! My biological mother.”

That hurt me at heart because I was the only mother he ever knew, but I just kept a smile on my face and said, “Oh really, what is your other mother’s name?”

Then he said the name that was actually his biological mother Cynthia Blake. When he said the name the room began to get chilly, and I felt as if someone was in the room besides my boys and me. I walked out the room trying to ignore the fact that my nine-year old sons know the name of their biological mother, and I have never spoken of her since February 20th, 1994.

March 24, 2002, at one o’clock in the morning I was still up because I still wasn’t over what Kaden and Jaden had told me the night before. The name Cynthia Blake just kept giving me the chills, so I decided to go down stairs and take some medicine to put me to sleep; as I was walking down stairs there were two hard knocks on the door. I opened the door and there was nothing, but the smell of cookies, and the funny part was I wasn’t baking any cookies, so I thought to myself, could what Kaden and Jaden told me be true? I brushed it off; no, it couldn’t be; that’s impossible. I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face, then I heard what sounded like Jaden screaming, “NO MAMA, PLEASE, DON’T.” I ran into the room to him sitting up in his bed crying. I asked him what was wrong and his reply was, “Mama said I couldn’t tell, or she would hurt you.” I hugged him and told him it was a bad dream. That night I thought I heard the television switching channels. I didn’t get up to check because the things my sons where telling me was starting to get to me, but then I felt someone lying next to me breathing on the back of my neck, breath ice-cold as snow. I turned over to make sure it wasn’t the air vent, and I wasn’t tripping, but then my face started to get cold too and my lips were feeling as if they were getting blisters from the cold air, but I just continued to lay there still until my body actually fell asleep.

March 25, 2002, that morning I got up hoping the television would be off because that would have meant that everything I thought I heard and felt would have just been all in my head; sadly, I got up to the television on, so I knew that I wasn’t going crazy. I went down stairs as usual to do my daily routine, check the weather and get the boys up and ready for school. I walked outside, and it was pitch black outside and cold as if we were living in Antarctica. I went to go look at the thermometer, it read below twenty degrees. I thought to myself below twenty in July with no sun, and it was almost twelve in the afternoon; that was the strangest thing that I have ever seen. An hour after I came from outside it started thundering, lighting, and raining; so, I decided that was not the type of weather I wanted to send my children into, so I decided that they would stay home with me. We all piled into my bed reading, and all of a sudden the power went off. Five seconds after the power went off, I heard rattling coming from the kitchen. I told the boys to stay there I was going to check; I grabbed the quickest thing that I could use for a weapon. As I was walking down stairs I could hear something coming up behind me; when I turn around it was Jaden and Kaden. “Didn’t I tell you guys to stay in the room?” I said.

“Yes m’am, but we were scared,” they replied.

We continued to walk down the stairs until Kaden kept yelling “Mama is it you?”

I interrupted and said, “Didn’t I tell you I was your…” and before I could finish my sentence a long scream came from out of nowhere.

Jaden started calling again, “Mama, did you come for us?” and then everything in the house started shaking. We finally got down stairs and there was a light; it wasn’t an ordinary old kitchen light; it was a light like a train was going to run us over, only we didn’t live by any tracks, and I saw doctors and two little baby boys. I went up to go hold them, but it was like they were heliographed; then I heard doctors yelling like they were rushing to do something, and right then and there I knew it was Kaden and Jaden’s biological mother Cynthia Blake. The light that I saw got even brighter, so I closed my eyes and when I opened them nothing was there not even Kaden and Jaden; I yelled around the house for them, but there was nothing not a sinker from their laughs, not a thump from their little feet, nothing.


The third ghost story is “The Black Dog,” about a mysterious ghost dog taking revenge on the truck driver who killed him. Written by Brian Latham.

Have you ever heard of the story of the Black Dog? If not, then here is some spooky themes and stories about the Black Dog. The story behind the Black Dog starts off as a normal scary or tragic story. From what I have heard from my family, it started out a normal night with a normal Black Dog walking into the street, trying to get to the other side to the woods. When suddenly, out of nowhere a driver behind the wheel of a truck came around the corner. The driver had not sleep in hours and started to get tired, and when he turned around the corner he passed out in the drivers set and hit the dog; the hit from the car killed the dog immediately. After that, when people start driving and start to get sleepy the Black Dog jumps up on the side of the car, barking and trying to get revenge on the person who ran him over many of years ago.

Not lots of people see the Black Dog when they are tired because they probably are not tired enough to be able to see it. You probably have not heard of the Black Dog before because there is not really any stories to tell because there is not really any sightings of him. Some of the people in my family have seen this beast saying he is almost as big as their entire car causing them to crash or be driven off the road by the ginormous beast. My family members who have seen him say if he was not a spirit dog, that to be face-to –face with this monster would kill by the sight or even the smell that comes off the spirit. Also, they said if I was to come face-to-face with it, I would be torn to shreds. My dad told me his story, when he came in contact with the beast, separated by a thin piece of glass that kept him away from tearing him to pieces. I would never want to come into to contact with this beast.

When my dad got home one day he seemed startled as he had just seen a ghost. He sat in his favorite chair and said to me, “Brian, I never want you to ever be a truck driver.”

I asked, “Why don’t you want me to be a truck driver?” At first he was hesitated from telling me but then he said, “Because of the Black Dog.”

I thought hard to think about the Black Dog, but I just thought of a dog that’s fur was black, and I asked, “Are you talking about a black dog that scared you when you were driving?”

He gave me a look as if I just said something stupid, but then it seemed, by the look of his face, that he realized that no one told me about the Black Dog. He stared at me and asked me, “Would you like to learn about the Black Dog, so that you can understand a little better?”

I immediately said, “yes I want to know everything about the Black Dog and do not to leave anything out about the Black Dog.”

He told me everything about how the Black Dog died, and why it tried to run people off the road and take revenge on his killer who fell asleep behind the wheel.

I said to my dad, “That’s kind of overboard, don’t you think?” He looked at me and the last thing he told me was that some people report seeing a huge kind of black mist around the car accident and that some people believe that it is the Black Dog to see if it was his killer.

When he was finished about the history of the Black Dog, he told me what happened to him and how he said it made me even more afraid of the Black Dog. He told me this: “I was driving last night, and I haven’t slept in a while, and I was getting extremely tired. I was thinking of pulling over to the side of the road to take an hour or two long nap to get some rest. Instead I decided to drive for about one more hour, and then I would get some rest. I started to get near the end of the hour of driving and decided it was time to pull over to a truck stop. Before I came to my stop to get some rest, the Black Dog jumped up, and hit the truck and the Black Dog did not take his eyes off me; and I was for sure I would be in an accident and pretty darn sure that the Black Dog was going to be having me for supper that night. The only thing going through my head at this point was that stare of his eyes that were blood-shot red.

Over the weekend after my dad got home, I was allowed to spend the night at my cousins’ house, and I told him about the Black Dog. As scary as it seemed to both of us, we decided to get my cousins’ go-cart with homemade doors on it, and when we got really tired, we went to see if we could see the Black Dog. I drove the go-cart because my cousin was way too short to reach the peddles, but I was the right height for the job. We got on the road and started to drive down the road and began to attempt to see the Black Dog; and on top of that, I was trying so hard not to go to sleep. We pulled over to the side of the road and closed our eyes for about ten seconds before we woke up to see the Black Dog. Somehow it seemed as if the beast had seen me before, and then I realized about my nickname that I was given. Little Keith was my nickname because I looked lots like my dad and then it hit me knowing that it thinks that I am my dad. It gave me a stare that made me feel as if I was being turned to stone by Medusa. It began to attempt to break the doors off. I took off and turned around facing the huge beast. I reacted and by hitting the gas pedal and headed straight for the Black Dog, and he did the same charging towards us. My cousin kept yelling, “Stop Brian, Stop!” I refused and hit the pedal to the floor board of the go-cart. When we were at least five to six feet away from the beast, it disappeared right into thin air. My cousin still believes it was not after us, but I think that it was because of the adrenaline that we had been going so fast that we were not tired anymore, and we became aware, alert, and awake. To this day, I have not seen the Black Dog, and I don’t plan on seeing him again for the rest of my life. This is my story and my experience with the legendary Black Dog.


You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Large or small, any amount helps!


The Remains of a Clock


Creepy haunted house story from Alabama, written by Irran Butler.

I don’t believe in ghosts. I am, however, a witness to something that defies my reasoning when it comes to that sort of thing. When I was eighteen years old, a friend and I decided to venture out to an old house that was said to be haunted. Neither of us really expected we would find anything, but we figured it would be a good story to tell others, after embellishments were added of course. So, off we went in search of whatever we might find.

Following the directions we had received from another ghost hunter friend of ours, we located the house quite easily. It sat half hidden by kudzu at the end of a short narrow driveway that was itself almost covered by that same eager vine. We parked just feet from the front porch and retrieved our flashlights from the back seat, preparing to enter the decaying remains of a rather small house. Whenever I have given any thought to a haunted house, I have always assumed it to be a rambling structure with plenty of rooms for resident ghosts and ample opportunity to get lost within it’s gloomy, dark and dusty bowels. This particular house was far removed from such. It was your run-of-the-mill four-room farm dwelling… not fancy, but sturdy even in it’s neglected state. There were few panes of glass in the windows and the front door was missing. I could stand in front of the house and see through the front door, all the way out the back door; a distance of less than thirty feet. It didn’t seem large enough for a ghost to inhabit comfortably.

Twilight was just settling over us as we entered the abandoned dwelling. This gave us ample ambient light to see within the four tiny rooms. The living room and the kitchen shared a back-to-back fireplace, which I thought to be unusual. I had never seen this arrangement before and I had been in dozens of old abandoned houses on ghost hunts throughout my high school years. The living room side had a mantle over the fireplace, which still gave rest to several aged items including the remains of an old windup clock. We’ve all seen clocks like this at our grandparent’s house; sitting there with it’s pendulum swing back and forth… with it’s constant and creepy ticking. … I remember my parents saying that they enjoyed hearing that creepy monotonous sound, but I never really acquired a taste for it myself, in fact I found it very unsettling.

Bracket Clock

Having toured the four rooms, we decided to step outside and wait for darkness to envelope us, thus making it more likely that we would see a ghost… at least that was our thinking. We talked for some time about ghosts and what exactly we were looking for at this particular place. At that moment we suddenly realized that our other friend had not told us what it was that we were supposed to encounter. As we talked on, darkness overtook us. About then, we experienced one of those odd moments of near complete silence that we have all experienced, when everyone stops talking and any other sounds stop suddenly, generally highlighting that one person saying something that he didn’t especially want everyone to hear. You know what I mean. At that moment, I very definitely heard the ticking of a clock. Both my friend and I turned and looked back at the front door of the house… then at each other. We had both heard the same sound. I spoke up, “Did you hear that?”. I knew what it sounded like, but every cell in my brain was telling me that it was not possible for the clock we had just seen to make the sound we had just heard… and were still hearing. We both expressed our amazement, but that quickly changed to skepticism. There had to be an explanation for the sound. I stuck my watch to my ear… that wasn’t it. The sound was completely different.

We then turned our attention to the car. Everybody knows that a hot car engine makes a ticking sound as it cools off. After we carefully investigated the car, it was very obvious to us that the ticking was coming from inside the house. Only a few feet from the open front doorway, we could hear the ticking very clearly. We shined our flashlights on the door of the house and knew we had to go back in there if we wanted to know for sure the source of the ticking. I first walked back and forth in the yard shining my light on the walls of the living room trying to see the mantle where the clock sat. I could see part of it but not the part where the clock was. The ticking persisted.

My friend said, “Well, let’s do it.” And we stepped up on the porch. The sound of our footsteps on the planks in the porch floor momentarily drowned out the ticking. We both stopped at the doorway and peeked around the facing into the room. The ticking stopped. Shining our lights on the mantle, we saw the remains of the clock… it was completely nonfunctional and was definitely not ticking. It could not possibly be the source of the sound we had heard. We both expressed how weird this was and decided to walk through the other rooms, just to be sure we hadn’t missed something the first time. There were a few pieces of broken down furniture and miscellaneous debris, but absolutely nothing that resembled a clock, other than the one on the mantle.

We walked out the doorway and stepped off the porch. Our footsteps, in the gravel, as we walked to the car were the only sounds we noticed, until we stopped just before getting in. There it was again… that creepy ticking. I can think of nothing else that makes the same sound as one of those old windup clocks. This was, without doubt that exact sound. Shaking our heads we got in and as we turned the car around to leave, we both heard a single ringing sound of a windup clock striking the half-hour. If the only clock we had seen was not capable of ticking, it certainly would not be able to strike the half-hour. I looked at my watch and it was nine-thirty on the dot.

We had a bona-fide paranormal experience to pass on to our friends and families and could hardly wait to do just that. Over the next few days we spread our story freely and were really quite surprised at the dull impression it seemed to make on everyone that we told it to. I guess that a haunted clock just doesn’t pack the punch that a flaming headless woman in a blood-soaked white gown appearing in front of you does. I’ve never seen such a woman, but… I have heard the clock.


You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Large or small, any amount helps!


The Scent of Honeysuckle: Alabama Ghost Story


Creepy Alabama ghost story of a house haunted by a strange girl, and the ghostly scent of Southern honeysuckle. Written by Irran Butler.

Anyone who lives in the South is familiar with the scent of honeysuckle. It blooms in May and stays around until the weather gets so hot the blooms drop off. It fills the air with its sweet lingering fragrance and is welcomed by every nose.

The story I’m about to tell is strange and I have no ordinary explanation for the facts to which I will swear here and now. I have never believed in ghosts but always enjoyed going on ghost hunts with my friends from high school. We still occasionally go on a hunt even though we are several years out of high school. It’s still fun and we have a great time.

One night in early summer, a few years ago, my girlfriend, another couple and I were in route to a location that was reported to be haunted by the ghost of a young girl who died of a bee sting, some fifty years before. Admittedly, dying of a bee sting seems strange enough, but the rest of this story is even stranger.

We arrived at the abandoned house where the ghost was supposed to reside. The house was at that time located in the middle of a thirty-acre pasture adjacent to an old roadbed, which had been the main thoroughfare connecting this area of the county with the main county road leading to town. It was obvious that many things had changed over the years, but the remains of what used to be, were there to see, if one took the time to look. I don’t profess to be anything like psychically tuned, but a feeling of sadness was easy to perceive.

The story that brought us to this place, as told by the couple that was with us, goes like this:


The young girl who lived there loved the smell of honeysuckle and would pick a bouquet every day and bring it to the house where her mother would place it in a vase. One day the mother had put the honeysuckle in the vase and placed it on a table in the living room. The young girl was gently brushing her nose against the blooms and was stung by a bee hidden among the flowers. Unknown to either of them, the little girl was allergic to bee stings. She suffered briefly and died that same day. She is rumored to be buried very near the house in a small family graveyard. The story is that, when the honeysuckle is in bloom, the ghost of the little girl can be seen standing in the door of the house. Imagining the ghost of a young girl standing in the doorway of an old ramshackle house is disturbingly creepy, but subsequent events of that evening were even more so and differed substantially from the original story.

There was some joking about the story and naturally us guys began pretending to see things and tried to scare the girls with our fake sightings. The first thing we seriously noticed was the obvious outline of three grave markers silhouetted against the open pasture by the bright blue-silver moonlight. That actually reset the mood for the occasion; it wasn’t quite so funny after that. We noted that the old house was in poor condition as we walked around it looking through the windows and doors, none of which retained even a single pane of glass. One of the girls remarked that front of the house looked like a face with the windows resembling dark eyes on either side of the open door, which could be taken to be an open mouth. Once you noticed it, it was an eerie sight.

This old house was one of those that had never seen a drop of paint and was topped by a rusty tin roof. The chimney at one end of the house was made of fieldstone stacked with great care and it’s builders had used no mortar, typical of old farmhouses in this area. The house sat on a gently sloping hillside with the front of the house facing downhill toward the road. The front door was at a height of about two feet from the ground as the house rested on pillars of stacked fieldstones. Blackberry briars guarded the doorways effectively deterring any attempt to enter. The house didn’t have a front porch and the steps at the front door had collapsed years ago. We stood discussing the fact that we were just outside what we believed to be the living room where the bee had stung the little girl. After a brief time, one of the girls mentioned that she had smelled the scent of honeysuckle and, of course, we all began to sniff the air. Sure enough, we all smelled it. It got very quiet, with only the far away sound of a whippoorwill and then, from inside the house, there was the very definite sound of footsteps. Clearly the footsteps were coming toward the front door. We all backed away several steps as a knee-jerk reaction to a sound that wasn’t supposed to be there.

We stared in disbelief as the moonlight illuminated the figure of a grown woman in a long dress and a light colored apron standing at the front door. She was holding what appeared to be a vase of flowers. The moonlight was bright enough that we could see the expression on her face was that of a very unhappy woman. The girls both screamed and I came pretty close myself. The figure paid no attention to the screams of the girls or our presence at her front door. We watched as the woman threw the vase out into the yard. I saw the vase flying through the very bright moonlight and expected to hear the crash when it broke against the rocky ground. That sound never occurred and before my eyes the woman faded into the thick, warm, night air. With numbed amazement, I looked back at the spot where the vase should have landed and could see nothing that resembled it. I must admit that the hair was standing on the back of my neck and a weird paralysis in my legs held me fast in place. At this point after the woman had disappeared, the heavy scent of honeysuckle filled the air again. We all looked at each other and I am sure we were all thinking the same thing. The girls echoed it in unison, “Let’s go.” I am sure the four of us completely agreed with that sentiment, thus we moved toward where the car was parked, with some haste.

The car was parked about two hundred yards away on the side of a dirt road, but that walk (actually, more of a run) seemed much, much longer. We spooked a few cows in our hurried flight and quickly let ourselves through the pasture gate, to where the car waited. In the car, we had a loud and vigorous discussion about what had just happened as we hurriedly drove away. We all agreed that what we had seen had to be the little girl’s mother throwing out the flowers, which concealed the bee, which had killed her little girl. The woman’s apparition had every right to appear unhappy and it was very evident that her spirit remained unquiet and had been so for all the years since the girl’s death. She had likely reenacted this same futile act of throwing out the flowers, countless times… every year… when the honeysuckle is in bloom.

Now, every time I smell honeysuckle I relive that night when I looked into the face of a very real troubled spirit that was trapped in a fruitless cycle between the peace of the grave and the torment of living with the loss a child. …May she, one day, find peace.


From the Author:

“This story was set in Northeast Alabama (Etowah County). The house survived until about 2002. It has since been removed and the pasture where it was has been subdivided. No new houses have been built at this time.

The house was real, but my story… not so much. My friends and I did go there and my description of it and the general area are reasonably accurate, but we didn’t see a ghost or hear footsteps. The original story of the little girl’s ghost appearing in the doorway came from a story told many years ago by a relative who has since passed away… I decided to add a twist to it. To my knowledge, any version of this story has never been published, as I believe it was strictly a local yarn.

I have friends who swear to their encounters being very real, setting them apart from me, as I remain a nonbeliever in this sort of thing. I’ve tried and I want to believe because I do really enjoy the stories… and the thought of lingering spirits from the past hold a special place in my heart/mind, but it just hasn’t happened for me… yet.”

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Large or small, any amount helps!


Marigold Goes A Visiting: Georgia Ghost Story


What does a missing cow have to do with ghosts? Find out in this Georgia ghost story written by Julie Ann Wallo.

It was an unusually warm day for late October in the foothills of Georgia. Windows that would normally be shut tight as a drum, were open wide to invite the flow of warm fall air in before Jack Frost made his arrival… That is how it began…

“Mr. McGillicuddy! Mr. McGillicuddy! Your cow is out! Your cow is out!”

“Marigold? I knew I hadn’t seen her in a spell. I figured she was down at the creek or over eating acorns under the old oak tree”, said Mr. McGillicuddy. “You know she’s gentle as a kitten, Earl. She wouldn’t harm a fly.

Which way did she go? I’ll go fetch her home. I wonder how she got out.” Mr. McGillicuddy scratched his bald head.

“Well, sir”, Earl began, “if you don’t mind me saying, your fence is about as rickety as that ole’ barn of yours…”


“EARL! I don’t need any sass from a young whipper snapper like you! That barn is as sturdy as the house I live in!

“Yes, sir. I’d have to agree with you about that, sir.” Earl looked around at the dangling shutters barely clinging to the side of the house. The house leaned to the left. He was sure not to visit on a windy day for fear the house would blow away.

“So, which way did Marigold go, Earl?”

“She’s at the house, Mr. McGillicuddy . I’ll help you get her home, but first I need to find Reverend Mathis and set up some kind of arrangements.”

“Arrangements, Earl?”

“Yes, sirree. The Misses, she’s deader than
a doornail.”

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, sirree. Not a breath left in her, Mr. McGillicuddy.”

“Well, what happened, Earl?”

“Well, the wife’s been reading some of those danged ole’ scary books, the kind that keep you awake at night. And, ya’ know…she’s been a little hard of hearing since the termites ate the legs off the cupboard and all the cast iron skillets came crashing down like a mountain of rocks.” Earl answered.

“Yeah, yeah. But what does that have to do with anything, Earl? Sorry as I am about Mrs. Fletcher, I ain’t never heard of anyone passing away from a lack of hearing.”

“Oh, no sir. That’s not how it happened, sir.”

“Well, son, spit it out. What in the world happened?”

“Well, sir. You see…she was smack dab in the middle of one of those scary stories, the ones she gets from Mrs. Jones, that lives twenty-seven fence posts down towards the holler. The Misses, she
was all tied up in the words, gnawing on her fingernails, with her feet all drawn up in the chair. You know how them women folk get…”

“I recon I do. Yeah, so?”

Earl says, “And it’s been pert’ near warm for late October…”

“Yeah, Earl, go on…”

“So, she must have been at a really scary part, ya’ see. That’s when it happened. That cow of yours stuck her head in the window, and let out a long….slow….MOOOOOOOOO. Well, the wife, with her ears half cocked, done thought she’d run up on a ghost. When Marigold said, ‘MOOOOOOO’, the wife heard, ‘BOOOOOOOO’, and she killed right over like a fly smacked with a fly flapper!”


You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Large or small, any amount helps!


Into The Valley Of Darkness I Go: A Kentucky Ghost Story


Kentucky ghost story of one man’s terrifying Halloween drive into Spooknite Valley. Written by Benjamin A. Fouche.

To this day, I will never forget the horrifying experience I had. Nor will I ever stop dreaming of the darkness that lurks in that one Valley. Kentucky is a beautiful state; the gorgeous rolling mountains, the creeks that flow in the ravines between the hillsides and the colorful autumns. You would think it was a peaceful place – but no, not at all. Even in good old Kentucky there is a place where fear dwells, just waiting to frighten the curiosity seekers.

Spooknite Valley Road Kentucky Ghost Story

How do I know this you ask? Well, the madness all began years ago during the month of October. It was a cold and windy evening. The leaves crackled under my feet and the dark gray clouds swirled above orange and yellow mountains. I remember waking up that morning wanting an adventure and boy, did I get one that night. One I’ll always remember…

The golden sun was falling and the pale-yellow moon was rising. I was in my truck driving down a country road that was my customary route during peak-season. As I continued on, I began ascending what most folks call “Knoll Mountain.” The leaves from the trees that hung above the road were falling as I drove by. I remember looking down the beautiful hollows below the road full of red, yellow and orange leaves. So on I went, driving up that steep mountain. Eventually I began to descend down the hillside and into an area folks call the “Crow Creek Crossroads.” The crossroads split into four different roads: Peek Drive, Henry Road, Ground Hog Road and Darkened Drive. All the folks around here travel on each road – that is, except for Darkened Drive. The name certainly fits it, but there’s just something else about that one road. People around here have claimed hearing strange noises coming from the woods that follow along that road. They say at night you can hear ghoulish howling and the echoes of knocking. Of course, on an evening like this, I just couldn’t resist driving down that road.

So now here I am driving down that road everybody calls “haunted.” With darkness falling upon me, and being alone easily creates premonition. The trees were leafless as I drove by them and I could see the sun falling behind me in my rearview mirror. Sure, I wanted an adventure, but nothing like what was about to happen to me. Suddenly, I drove past a sign covered in Virginia creeper and a dark road leading into the woods. I stopped the truck and put it in reverse. As I slowly drove backwards I was looking into the woods. My heart honestly felt something calling me… calling me to go in. I backed up so that I could read the sign – it had two words that aroused my curiosity: “Spookinite Valley.” That road already had a frightening name, but the name on the sign was even more ominous. Soon enough, the sky was becoming a darker gray and the wind began to pick up. What was I thinking?

Off down that dark road I went, venturing into what I had no idea, but it was going to be my worst nightmare. As I was driving down the road, out of the corner of my eye I spotted this tall hairy creature! I stopped the truck and began rubbing my eyes. Did I really just see that or was it my imagination? I remembered trying so hard to picture what I had just seen on the side of the road. When I turned around, the creature was long gone. I decided to continue on and forget about what I saw. Off I began, heading farther into the shadowy heart of Spookinite Valley. The trees I passed were so tall and gnarly. To the left of me was a mountain elevating upwards and it was thickly wooded; a perfect place for wild animals and maybe other strange creatures.

The sky was almost a pitch black and dark mist stretched over the pale-yellow moon. Let me tell you, the atmosphere there in Spookinite Valley is just perfect for Halloween. I continued on as my headlights shined a few yards up the winding road that ran along the mountainside. Without warning, my headlights showed me something I did NOT want to see. I immediately put the brakes on and there in front of me was a dark floating figure! The bottom of its ghostly cloak was ripped and swirling in the wind. I remember seeing these very bright orange-glowing eyes and I was frozen in absolute terror! The entity stared into my eyes and I couldn’t move! That exact moment in time seemed to go on forever, when suddenly; the specter vanished without a trace. At that point I knew there was something supernatural about this dark valley. First it was the creature at the side of the road and then this dark apparition. I knew I had to turn around – something inside me was telling me I needed to leave, but I also remember there was this unnatural feeling telling me to continue on down the road. The sinister feeling was stronger and so I reluctantly continued on in Spookinite Valley.

As the night wore on, a storm began to roll in. Flashes of lightning lit up the clouds far in the distance. I remember when my headlights shined on the edge of the road; I could see very large pumpkins. Some were a ghastly orange and some were a ghostly white. All of a sudden, to my left in between two mountains I saw this dark, old, tall house with four great columns in the moonlight. All of the windows were pitch black and it seemed to be abandoned. The front yard was covered in leaves and so was the driveway. The part about the house that didn’t make sense was that it still seemed pretty well kept up. The windows were wavy, but they still weren’t shattered. The two doors and columns were nicely painted, although there was a bit of weathering. The bricks seemed old and faded, yet there were not any cracks. The shutters weren’t even crooked. Someone had to be taking care of that house – but who?

I remember glancing up at the three windows at the top. I had a feeling that I would see someone peak down at me. Suddenly, I began to hear a ghoulish howl! It’s almost just like what the folks back home said. The storm was very near when I saw the leaves twirling violently in the front yard. When I looked back up at the house, I saw a man holding a candle in one of the windows. He looked directly at me with his skeletal face! Here I am, all alone in my truck in this valley with a spooky name. As he’s looking at me he began to grab his head and then pulled it right off! He then placed it on a plate, but I knew the eyes of his head were still staring at me. As with the hooded figure, I was frozen in fear. As my eyes are locked on him, he blows out the light. Finally, I shook the fear out of my head and out of nowhere came this carriage with absolutely no horses! I could hear the clopping noises you hear horses make as it was coming at me, down the driveway. At that point, my arms were trembling and a cold chill crawled down my spine. I quickly took off down the road, but the dark carriage followed me!

I was driving as fast as my truck would go, but the problem was that it was going to run out of fuel. Did I really need to waste my truck’s fuel on evading something that was probably just a ghost? The fear was all too much for me, but I decided to just go slower and it would probably vanish or something similar to that. Without warning, as I was looking in my rearview mirror, I saw this eerie man wearing a tall black hat on the seat of the carriage! Like the apparition in the window of that old mansion, he had skeletal like features. He had one green eye and one purple eye; both were glowing brightly through the darkness. Unfortunately, the ghostly carriage was getting closer to the tail end of my truck. I had no choice, but to drive as fast as I could – it was my only chance of escaping Spookinite Valley. Suddenly reality struck and I knew that my fuel tank was empty – my truck just stopped right there in the middle of the lonely road. The good news was that the carriage had vanished into the darkness of night like I was hoping.

I’ve camped plenty of times and I live out in the wilderness of Kentucky. So I’m used to being out in the woods by myself at night. The only obstacle was the fact that there were too many unexplainable “things” I encountered. I opened my glove compartment and took out my matches. I reached under the passenger seat and grabbed my old oil lantern. I lit up the lantern and began walking down the road. I remember one of the worst parts was remembering that home was back the way I had just come. I didn’t know how far the road continued on and where else it would lead me. The best way to get back home was to go the way I had just come from. Unfortunately, this meant I’d have to walk past “the house.” Without a choice, I walked along the moonlit road with a lantern in my hand. Suddenly, I noticed a dim light coming from the forest to what was now the right of me.

What can I say? I was desperate for help and thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to see whom it was. So I crept over to what I discovered was an old gravel parking lot. There was a path leading through the heavy woods and at the end was what seemed to be a Victorian era-style home. I also remember seeing a sign that said “The Inn.” I was thinking that the place must be an Inn that was occupied by actual “people.” So down the trail I ran, hoping the people could help me and explain to me what was going on. Suddenly, without warning, a huge hairy beast ran across the path and into the brush! I remember smelling something very similar to a skunk when I was trying to gather my thoughts together. I hurried to the old Inn and tried to open the door, but it was locked! “Let me in! Let me in! Hurry!” I yelled as I banged on the door. When I turned around, I could see the shadow of the creature stretching out from the forest! When I turned back to the door it slowly opened and there to greet me was an elderly man. “Please do come in – the storm is approaching us,” he said slowly.

I bolted right in the door scared stiff! He closed the door and locked it. He then turned to me and said, “Hello, welcome to our Inn. What brings you here and what were you so frightened about?”

“There’s a creature out there! It crossed my path! Literally!” I said to him.

“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry.” he said to me. When I got a better look at him, I could see his eyes were hollow, but there was a yellow glow coming from them.

“Um, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what’s wrong with your eyes?” I asked in a scared voice.

The old man chuckled and then said, “I get that a lot from guests. Never mind my eyes, what brings you here?” he asks me eyeing the lantern in my hand.

“Well, you see, I was just exploring this road because of the name that was on the sign. You might not believe me, but I’ve seen terrifying things here in this valley!” I told him about all the weird encounters and explained how my truck ran out of fuel.

He understood and spoke to me. “Yes, do you want to know something truly scary? Spookinite Valley is labeled haunted and even worse; the Inn you and I are in is indeed haunted. I’ve taken care of this place for a long, long time and I always encountered spirits. The house you drove by has been long abandoned and nobody should’ve been in there. Mysterious creatures also lurk the mountains around us – I know that for a fact. I don’t doubt for a minute that what you just saw outside this Inn was one of those creatures,” he told me quietly.

“Do you have any fuel for my truck?” I asked him nervously.

“I’m afraid not. Oh, the storm is already upon us.” He told me this as rain began pounding on the roof. “You may stay here for the night; tomorrow I shall help you find fuel for your vehicle.”

The night I was about to experience was the most horrifying night in my entire life. He took me upstairs and down a hallway to a room. I’d be staying in that room for the night. My strange host gave me the key to my room and told me something that made me feel even uneasier than before. “Just remember to check your windows and make sure they’re locked. We’ve had some guests that have complained about something entering their room through the window late at night. I shall also warn you that the spirits that roam this Inn can unlock your doors from the outside. Don’t panic if this happens; for they are just curious spirits.”

I thanked him and locked the door. To be quite honest I was a little more terrified of him, rather than the “ghosts” he mentioned to me about. As I went over to check the windows, with a flash of lightning I saw this horrible face stare directly at me through the window! I fell to the floor in shock. After a while, I picked myself up off the old wooden floor and locked the window. I also closed the draperies. I threw myself in bed and turned off the old hurricane lamp…

I suddenly awoke to the noises of scraping – it was coming from the wall behind me. I sat myself up and put my ear up to the wall. The scraping noises were definitely coming from the room behind me and all I could tell myself was that it was a ghost; what else could it be? I dozed off into my sleep, when once again I was awoken by a noise. Although, this time, it wasn’t a scraping noise, but rather several voices:

“I’m going to see if our guest is asleep.”

“Alright, but what if he isn’t? What if he sees you?”

I remember the third voice was the most ominous, deep, otherworldly voice I’d ever heard. “Please, please, both of you stop worrying. If the guest sees you it doesn’t matter. What matters is that his fear rushes out, just as we want it to. In order for IT to happen, we must keep up this fear; understand?”

“Yes Master. Certainly.”

I was petrified in fear! What was I supposed to do now? At this point on, I knew my feeling about the Host was right. He was just all a part of the little set up. How could I not have known by just looking at his appearance? I was fooled and now I had to escape somehow. I quietly got up and the doorknob was wiggling. I quickly walked up to the window and opened it. I climbed out of the window and down to the ground. I could hear the door open above me, so I had to sneak away as quickly as possible before who knew what was going to happen. I tiptoed beside the Inn’s wall, making sure nobody was following me. The rain was splattering on me and the wind shook the trees beside the Inn. Through the darkened clouds flashed lightning and shortly after that, I could hear the booming rumbles of thunder. I was cold, I was wet, I was in the storm, but I still was safe away from those creeps that ran the Inn. I was back on the road once again, only wanting to get back home. It was going to be a long walk home, but I had to do what I had to do.

As I was walking on the opposite side of where the mountains followed along the road, I could hear continuous knocking, echoing through the forest. I can only imagine what the creatures in the forest looked like – the scary part about the knocking was that it actually began echoing in my head. KNOCK – KNOCK – KNOCK … Despite the knocking sounds, I was more concerned about the strange beings at the Inn stalking me. I remember looking behind me at least every few minutes. Continuing on, the heavy rain gradually became lighter until the storm was gone. The wind was still strong, but at least the heavy rain and loud thunder was over.

Soon, I began to pass the old house. I stopped myself from continuing on – did I really want to pass it by foot? It was already horrifying enough passing it in a truck, but with no vehicle to escape and the only transportation to rely on being my feet, did I really need to? I pondered for minutes wondering whether I should go around it through the forest or just make a run for it. Finally after a few more minutes, I decided to go around it through the woods. I would have a better chance of whomever dwells in the haunted home not seeing me. So into the woods I crept, quietly…

The leaves were now wet from the rain, so I wouldn’t have to worry about making a whole lot of noise. The only thing that comforted me was telling myself that the old man at the Inn was lying about “creature lurking in the mountains.” Then, my conscience started questioning me – what about the knocking? What about the creature that was to the side of the road? What about the beast at the entrance to the Inn? What can I say, I couldn’t lie to myself. Now, I was trying to be even quieter seeing the back of the house through the trees. Hopefully whoever was in there couldn’t see me. Without warning, a monstrous creature came lunging at me! I screamed as loud as I could at that moment and scampered through the woods in a state of panic! I could hear its footsteps behind me. So many thoughts were rushing through my head at that exact moment. Where was I supposed to go? Would the creature capture me or would I escape? Where would be the closest place for hiding? I turned towards the house while I was running and my first instinct was to hide in the house. I ran right around it to the front door. To my surprise it was unlocked, so in I sprinted. Right before the creature could get in, I slammed the door shut! It echoed throughout the entire house and this scared me even more so. I felt a little protected in the old mansion, after all, the odd old man said this house was abandoned. Although I had seen an apparition in the top window, at least it was just a ghost. Well, at least that’s what I told myself.

I was in what appeared to be the foyer of the house – from where I stood, there were three doorways – one straight-ahead, one to the left and one to the right. Which doorway did I decide to enter you ask? Well, I just had to pick the door that was straight ahead. I pushed a large cobweb to the side of me as I entered. I must admit, it was pretty typical, especially for a “haunted manor.” Adventure is what I was looking for and so here I was, right in the middle of it. There was a fire burning in the fireplace and many old chairs were lined up against the wall. That place must’ve been filled with guests at some point, long ago. I wish I would’ve come to common sense at the moment of being in that room, but unfortunately I didn’t. I was too tired, too cold and very afraid. I rested on a chair next to the fireplace and fell fast asleep…

Like earlier at the Inn, I was awakened by the sound of something. Or should I say “someone.” I heard several footsteps upstairs and many voices. The voices however were NOT coming from people. Why was I too foolish to have known; if there is a fire burning, then there are creatures lurking. I had to leave the house –the creature outside had to have been long gone. I quickly walked back into the foyer to find the doors locked! Somebody locked them while I was asleep. Maybe they knew I was there. Maybe they were watching me as I helplessly tried to unlock the two great big doors. I immediately stopped trying to open them when I was aware of the loud noises I was creating. Like how I escaped the Inn, I had to find a window to open. There were two windows in this room, so I tried to open both, but they were jammed. How could this be, what could I have done to deserve this unfortunate night? I was about to go into a doorway on the left, when I heard footsteps echoing from it. I quickly walked over to the room on the right and saw that there was a staircase straight in front of me and a doorway to what was now the right of me. Since the voices and footsteps were coming from upstairs, I decided to check the windows in that room, so I tiptoed into the room. I didn’t want whoever was on the same floor as me to hear my boots against the hard wood floor. Even then, the old wood floor still creaked and I had to be extra careful not to completely step on one that would squeak loudly.

From what I remember, the room I had entered was the master bedroom of the house. There was a large canopy bed with red velvet curtains, a cobweb covered bookshelf, a velvet chair and a very dusty mirror. I heard not one sound in the room; the silence was foreboding. There were two windows in this room. One was overlooking the front yard and the other window to the left, was facing towards the side of the house. I quietly struggled to open the window to my left, but it was locked. I noiselessly tried to open the window facing the front yard, but it too was jammed. To my right, was a doorway leading back into the foyer. Across from it was another doorway, but that would lead to where the footsteps where echoing from. What other choice did I have? There were too many voices coming from upstairs, so I slowly snuck into the other doorway in the foyer. This room appeared to be a kitchen; there was a stone oven, several cabinets, and a table in the middle of the room. The floor was made of stone thankfully (is this upstairs or downstairs?), so nobody in the old, dark house could hear the floor creak. This room was also very similar to the Master Bedroom – the windows and walls were in the exact same “L” shape. I had trouble once again opening both windows. This left me no choice, but to go into another mysterious doorway, which was now straight ahead of me.

This room was what seemed to be another staircase. At that moment, I then realized the two halves of the first floor were identical; the living room and foyer were the only two rooms separating them. My only option now was to try and climb out the windows at both staircases. I ran up the other staircase I had just discovered, to find the window locked; once again, this was not a surprise. I doubted the other staircase window would be unlocked, but I had to try. Through another doorway, I crossed through the living room and into the first set of stairs I had discovered. I quietly began stepping up the stairs, so that the voices I heard wouldn’t hear me. The window was indeed locked, where was I supposed to go now? I felt hopeless at this point, but I unexpectedly had an idea! I could find an object in the house and shatter the window’s glass! So, back down the stairs I went, into the living room. I picked up the fireplace poker and oh, did I ever feel such hope and joy. I struck the window with the end of the fireplace poker and it shattered! As I dropped it down and was about to crawl through the window, the glass rebuilt itself! I fell back in disbelief and I remember shaking my head back and forth repeating the word “no.” How could this be? How could the window simply repair the shattered glass by itself? It was pure magic.

I knew at this point that, if one window did this, all of the windows would. I had no choice, but to look around upstairs and see where the voices were coming from. Were they ghosts or were they more horrific creatures? I didn’t care anymore; I was so frustrated, that nothing mattered to me more than escaping this house. I had to confront whatever was upstairs. I ran up the stairs, regardless of my loud stomping. I found myself at the end of a hallway. It looked as if the hall turned to the left and continued on. I don’t quite remember – I just wanted to leave and went in the other direction. Down the hallway I ran and with a sharp turn, into another one. However, this Hallway was different – there was another staircase and this one seemed to lead to the third story. The voices were also much louder now and I could hear them echo from up the stairs. I was so furious; I just wanted to come face to face to whoever was up there. I began stomping up the stairs, when the voices quieted down, until there was once again a menacing silence. I continued up and saw that there was a trapdoor above me. I roughly pushed it open and entered the room…

I couldn’t believe it! I dropped my jaw! I must’ve turned white! I couldn’t move! I was stuck in a moment of terror! There in front of me, was a long table going down the middle of the room. There were many chairs around the table and in those chairs were these, these… As I’m telling you this story, I’m trembling. H-Horrible creatures! At the very end of the table was the hooded apparition himself, only this time, I could see his face. His face was rough-looking pumpkin with a Jack O’ Lantern style face. A dim yellow light glowed from the center of his eyes. All of the creatures froze too and it was their eyes on mine. The phantom at the end of the table put his long dark index finger over his ominous mouth and said “Shhhhhhh…” I tried to scream, but my voice was caught in the moment of fearfulness. They all began laughing slowly at me – they knew I was helpless…

I woke up gasping for air! I was in my bedroom, I was in my cabin, and I was home! It was another beautiful morning in Kentucky. Oh, how I was so relieved it was only a nightmare – yet it seemed all too real. I remember feeling the coldness from the wind. I remember feeling the wetness from the storm. I remember feeling the uneasiness. What had really happen? It was over, and that’s what mattered. To this day, every evening when I’m rocking myself in the rocking chair on my front porch, I ask myself three simple words, “Was it real?”


You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Large or small, any amount helps!