Ghosts of Berkeley County, South Carolina

by Bruce Orr

  The driver advised the men to sit tight and hang on. He was going to get the wagon across the bridge, but first he had to do some negotiating with the horse. He got down off the wagon, very cautiously went to the edge of the road and cut a long switch from a nearby tree. He then returned and climbed back into the wagon. He took off his hat, placed it under his rear and sat down on it. He then turned his attention to the horse and urged it forward.

  Again it only took a few steps. Then he hit it with the switch. The horse bolted forward as if it had been bitten by a snake. It headed straight for the bridge. As soon as the horse reached the bridge, there was a loud cry from the woods beside the bog; “Dickey wants a ride!” it shrieked.

  The horse snorted in fear as it hit the bridge. Immediately a large ball of fire flew up from the bog. As soon as the horse’s hoof touched the first wooden plank of the bridge, the ball of fire flew up on to the bridge and into the back of the wagon. It landed directly across from my grandfather. “Dickey wants a ride!” it shrieked again and again.

  The men wanted to leap from the wagon, but there was nowhere to go. They were in the middle of the bridge with the bog on each side with a shrieking ball of fire sitting next to them. “Dickey wants a ride!” it continued to shriek.

  The horse burst into an all-out run for its life. What was actually mere minutes seemed like an eternity to the men, but the end of the bridge was drawing closer. As soon as the horse’s hoof struck dirt, the ball of fire flew up into the air and out of the wagon. As it departed it screamed, “Dickey wants a ride, and Dickey got a ride too!” and it laughed maniacally—“hee, hee, hee, hee!”—as it flew back into the swamp and disappeared.

  My granddaddy’s story was retold by my grandma, my uncle and my momma for years, and it was always one of my favorites growing up. They told how granddaddy explained that the ball of fire, as he described it, was bright and intense but gave off no heat. I used to laugh at the thought of a ball of light sitting across from my granddaddy and what old Daniel Roberts must have been thinking. I used to think it was funny until I found out firsthand what he probably felt as I ran through the woods on the other end of Berkeley County one night many years later.

  SHEEP ISLAND ROAD AND THE SUMMERVILLE LIGHT

  Ever since man invented the train, there has always been a connection between railroad accidents, disasters and the paranormal. Often a location of such a disaster will develop a paranormal phenomenon. These oddities can manifest themselves in the form of balls of light and are referred to as “spook lights,” or simply “lights.”

  The lights appear in locations such as Paulding, Michigan; Surrency, Georgia; Gurdon, Arkansas; and Wilmington, North Carolina, to name just a few. In fact, President Grover Cleveland had an encounter with the Wilmington light in 1894 while traveling by presidential train. This light is commonly known as the Maco Light and is named after the station where it is located. It is said to have come into existence after the tragic death of a conductor named Joe Baldwin in 1867.

  Summerville, South Carolina, has its own spook light. Between Highway 17A and Highway 176 is what remains of a cut-through road known as Sheep Island Road. It is also unofficially known as Summerville Light Road, or simply Light Road. This road, or the nearly five-mile-long dirt section of it, is the location of Summerville’s most famous—or infamous—ghost tale.

  In the 1800s, Sheep Island Road was not a deserted dirt road but rather an area where train tracks existed and ran into the growing town of Summerville. One of the local train’s conductors had a very faithful wife who would meet him in that area every night. She would stand beside the tracks, lantern in hand, and wait for the train’s approach. Upon seeing the lantern, the train would make a special stop just to let him off to join her. The couple would then walk home arm in arm every night.

  Sheep Island Road, the location of the Summerville Light. Courtesy of KOP Shots.

  One night, the train ran behind schedule. The anxious wife waited and waited, and as more time passed, she grew greatly concerned. Finally, she saw the light of the train in the distance. She raised her lantern high and frantically swung it back and forth. The train finally slowed to a stop, and she ran to the engine. The engineer had a somber look on his face beneath the lantern’s glow. As the other workers gathered around, they informed her that there had been an accident. Her husband had lost his grip, slipped from the train and had been run over. The wife screamed in horror and disbelief and demanded to see the body. The workers had to physically restrain her as the emotional engineer advised her that it would be best if she did not. He told her that when her husband fell under the train, he had been decapitated by the wheels. The wife screamed at the horrifying news and fainted. Some crew members remained with her as the train continued into town. A wagon was sent back, and the traumatized woman was placed in the back and transported home. Once there, she had to be carried inside. Friends and family could do very little to console the poor widow. The town physician and even the couple’s pastor were unable to help the grieving woman.

  The wife never recovered from the shock and never came to grips with the harsh reality that her husband was not coming home. Eventually, she began to take her lantern and walk along the tracks every night to greet her husband. Initially, the train would stop out of courtesy and compassion, but eventually it became too painful for the crew to have to convince her every night that her husband was dead.

  After a while, the train would just pass her and continue on into Summerville as she frantically waved her lantern for it to stop.

  Eventually, the old widow died, but her dedication and love for her husband never ceased. Oftentimes, the train would see the light, only to get close enough to realize that no on was there. Eventually, the train stopped traveling the tracks and they were removed, but the conductor’s wife’s nightly visits continue to this day. You can still see the light from her lantern as she walks the road where the tracks once ran, waiting for her husband’s return.

  Many folks claim to have encountered the eerie lights of Sheep Island Road, including Sandra Baxley, a local reporter who documented her experience in the News and Courier in 1970. The light sent her and her traveling companion into hysterics before it disappeared. Many others have reported their encounters in local newspapers for decades, and still others have taken to the Internet to tell of their experiences. Some claim that the light has produced dents and scratches on their vehicles, while others claim that their vehicles stall. Some have reported interference with electrical equipment, causing malfunctions, while others claim that the light causes metal objects to heat up to an uncomfortable temperature, including jewelry and even the rivets on jeans.

  This area, now blocked off from travel and posted with “no trespass” signs, was once a favorite parking spot for young men to take their dates for a little secluded romance. More often than not, the young couples encountered more than they had bargained for. Many a car from many eras has raced along that road to escape the light. In fact, I know of one young rookie deputy in the early 1980s who had an encounter with the light and left the area very quickly—backward.

  In 1986, I was a young deputy fresh out of the academy and eager to save the world. I was assigned to the South District of Berkeley County, an area that included Sheep Island Road.

  One squad meeting, our sergeant, Johnny Richardson, was giving assignments. As we were departing for our 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. shift, Johnny stopped me and told me that I needed to patrol back along Sheep Island Road because the sheriff’s office had been getting complaints of teens partying in the area. He further advised me not to stay too long in one area, not to flash any lights and not to go too far down the dusty old dirt road because I would not be able to turn around if the light chased me.

  “Light?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell me you have never heard of the Summerville Light,” he responded. I have heard of many tales, but frankly, that bit of Lowcountry lore was not one filed away in my cranial library. He pr
oceeded to tell me the story I have just retold.

  After preliminary preparation for a long night shift, I gassed up the old Ford Crown Victoria cruiser and headed out. I made my nightly stop at the convenience store and grabbed a cup of coffee (no doughnut) and headed for Sheep Island Road. The road has a long paved portion that passes over Interstate 26. There were concerns that the partying would get too carried away and that the participants would decide to start throwing objects off the overpass and down on the interstate for fun.

  I patrolled along the paved portion as instructed. Johnny had told me to not, under any circumstances, go too far beyond the pavement or flash my headlights. He said that a favorite trick of the locals was to flash the headlights three times off and on, wait a few seconds and then flash them again. Then they would turn the car around and wait.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “When the light comes, it comes slowly, but the closer it gets, the faster it gets. When it gets close, folks take off and run like hell in their cars. That’s why you turn around. If you don’t, she will get you.”

  I just laughed, but now I found myself at the end of the pavement. My front wheels dropped off onto the dirt. Very slowly, my back tires did the same. I slowly crept a few hundred yards down the road and put the car in park. Can you guess what the young deputy in his starched uniform and shiny new badge did? Yep, I turned off my lights. Then I turned them on again. Then back off. Then back on. Back off—wait—back on and then off.

  I had done everything Sarge had told me not to do, except turn my car around. Sure enough, a red light began to glow down the road. As it got closer, it seemed to move faster. It turned white. I laughed and slowly opened my door. I knew beyond a doubt that Johnny was trying to scare me. He had told me the story, left way ahead of me and waited on me to show up. He knew I was a rookie, and he knew how I would react. All he had to do was wait on the flashing headlights, spook me with his flashlight and watch me run off in a hurry. He and the rest of the squad would have a good laugh at my expense.

  “Not tonight, Sarge,” I mumbled under my breath.

  I figured that the red light I initially saw was Johnny stepping on his brakes as he exited his cruiser. I also imagined that the white light that was now coming toward me was the light from his big metal Mag-Light flashlight. As the light approached, I quietly slipped out of my cruiser. As a safety feature, our interior lights had been disabled to allow such tactical deployment. It was designed to keep us from being illuminated as we got out of our vehicles on calls. At this point, I was more concerned with not being caught by another good guy than I was being shot by a bad guy. I slipped quietly around the rear of the car and over to the shoulder. I then crossed the ditch and began to walk slowly toward the light in a flanking maneuver. I had planned to pass the light, come in behind Johnny and use my own flashlight to scare him. I would be between Johnny and his car, and when he saw my light and panicked, Sarge would have to flee Light Road on foot. I was going to use my sergeant’s own joke against him! I snickered to myself at my ingenious plan.

  Unfortunately, it did not work. As I approached the light, I came to within about three car lengths directly parallel to it. I immediately realized that there was nothing holding the light! It was now an eerie greenish color, and it illuminated the road in a green haze. Johnny was not there. No one was there. As I felt my knees get weak, the light immediately shot straight up about forty feet in the air and flew off into the woods. The smart rookie had outsmarted himself.

  I screamed like a schoolgirl, turned, started to run and fell face first in the ditch. In a move that would have made any action hero envious, I continued moving forward on all fours and then pushed myself up to two feet and made it to the cruiser. As I cranked it up, I realized that Johnny had been right, not only about the light but also about the inability to turn around. I backed out as quickly as I could. I was so thankful that the academy had taught me how to back up rapidly and for long distances. As soon as I hit the pavement, I spun the car around, threw it in drive and was out of there!

  I went straight home. I had to change uniforms before I got a call and someone saw me in the shape I was in. As I walked in, my wife asked me what happened. After I used the house phone to let dispatch know where I was going to be for about twenty minutes, I told her. She laughed and said I was crazy. She did not believe me, and at that point, I was not sure I believed myself. I jumped in the shower and washed off the large portion of Sheep Island Road that I had brought home with me. I swapped uniforms and cleaned the mud out of the car while waiting on calls. I never told anyone on that shift what had happened.

  Back home, the disbelief continued. That weekend, I took my wife’s brother, who was in the U.S. Navy, and a friend, who was in the Coast Guard, out to Sheep Island Road. Both did not believe me. I did the same thing, just as Johnny told me, and once again I deliberately did not turn around. Sure enough, the light came so close that it lit the interior of the car green. It was the size of a basketball and hung suspended in midair. As I listened to two grown men whimper, I was glad that the seats in the cruiser were vinyl, and I prayed that none of us would inadvertently test their waterproof capabilities. The light stopped about a car’s length away and burst into several hundred firefly-sized lights that then dissipated. We all started breathing again and went home. I never doubted Johnny ever again, and those two never doubted me again.

  Many years later, I was a lot less frightened of things. Twenty years of law enforcement makes you a little less jumpy. By this time, I had retired from law enforcement. I missed investigations and doing research, so I joined a Summerville-based paranormal group and started doing some research for them.

  I learned that Sheep Island Road had not been a passenger train line, as the group had been told. It had, however, been a tramline, and the tram was used in logging operations to haul felled trees into Summerville for use in creating lumber to build the town. In fact, the area is owned by Westvaco Forestry, and its offices are located a few miles down Highway 17A adjacent to a subdivision called Tramway (another indicator that the information was correct). I was not able to document any deaths along the tramline, but that does not mean there were none.

  One thing of extreme interest to the group that I did find involved signal lanterns. I learned that the signal used at that time to make a train move forward was to swing a lantern up and down in an arc. A person would swing the lantern out straight directly in front of him up to his shoulders and back down to his knees. From a distance, this looks like a white light flashing off and on—just like headlights flashing. I also learned that red lanterns were used to make trains stop, and green lanterns were used to advise a train to travel slowly. All three of the colors have been attributed to the Summerville Light. I saw all three colors on the two nights as it approached me.

  The group planned an investigation of Sheep Island Road, and I went with it for a rematch with the light. In order to keep vehicles off the road, the entrance had been blocked by a mound of dirt. Farther down, the road was impassable by vehicle due to large amounts of water. We all entered on foot.

  Pretty soon, a light began to glow at the end of the road. Cameras began flashing, and videos were started. I spoke up and said, “Who is going down the road to see what it is?” I got no response. “Who is going with me?” Finally, I got three volunteers: my friend Alessa, a kid on crutches and an old lady half dead with emphysema. We started out together, but I am the only one who completed the five-mile trek there and the five miles back. When I reported that it was headlights, I was met with snarls and growls. I had debunked their hunt.

  At the next meeting, I was preoccupied and did not attend. In my absence, I was voted out of the group. They were extremely upset that I had debunked their investigation while still maintaining my own claims of a past encounter. A friend who was in attendance told me that there had been an equal mixture of jealousy and fury. I received an e-mail advising me of the members’ decision and instructing me not to co
me back. I still laugh about that to this day.

  It is amazing how twenty years in the field of law enforcement had changed the rookie from an easily frightened Barney Fife to a seasoned and cynical Dirty Harry who would walk the entire length of the road and back, in the dark, armed only with a flashlight and a cellphone. I also know that what I encountered back in 1986 was not what I encountered with that group. I cannot say that what I encountered on Sheep Island Road in the ’80s was the ghost of the conductor’s wife, but it was definitely something that I cannot explain more than twenty-five years later.

  And yes, I definitely understood what my grandfather felt with his encounter with a “spook light” decades before I was even born.

  THE NAZARETH CEMETERY AND HEADLESS ANNIE

  Another interesting ghost tale from the Pinopolis area is that of Headless Annie. Just outside the gates at the Wampee Plantation entrance lies a little cemetery called the Old Nazareth Cemetery. According to one account, this is the home of that restless spirit. I was recently informed of this story by the father of someone very close to me, and as many times as I have been by that cemetery, I had never heard the story before.

  It seems that many years ago, Miss Annie was the wife of a very abusive man. He used to beat Annie unmercifully, and in fact, one night he actually came home in a drunken rage and accused her of cheating on him. Annie was supposedly a very beautiful woman, and to ensure that no one would ever be able to gaze upon her beautiful face again, he cut off Annie’s head. He then hid her head and it was never found. The man was charged with her murder, and Annie’s body was laid to rest in the cemetery…minus her head.

  According to legend, Headless Annie is trapped between life and death in the cemetery and is wandering for eternity, searching for the head her husband removed. The man never revealed where he hid it, and no one has ever found it—including Annie.