Always Carry a Tomato in Your Pocket Book

Road tripping southern style- Southern Appalachian style, actually. Back in the 1970s, families traveled together- generally crammed into one huge car. In the days before minivans and SUVs, we kids even sat on each others’ laps at times.  A seatbelt was an object that served no purpose other than to absorb summer heat and then burn your thigh as you slowly melted into those bumpy plastic seat covers. I remember a few times I rode in back of a station wagon, rolling side to side on hairpin curves as we made our way down some long-forgotten two-lane road to visit distant relatives or on some other glorious adventure that got us off the mountain for a while.

Fast food might as well have not existed back in those days. McDonald’s was a very rare treat. I still remember the few times I ate there with my mama, sitting outside at a round concrete table, shaded by a huge, round metal umbrella-thing that appeared to be the yellow and red cap of some psychedelic mushroom. We sat in the Georgia sun among the other mushroom tables, our paper-wrapped cheeseburgers a delicacy to be savored.These trips were rare. Not because of the money spent– we really weren’t hurting financially. It was because eating lunch at a fast food place was disdained among Appalachian culture as a pure waste. Decent people did not blow their money on a road stand hamburger. This was pure foolishness. Good people ate at home or, if necessity demanded, at one of the many roadside picnic areas that dotted the landscape at that time.

You remember those places. They sat back under the pines just around every curve on every highway and backroad across the American south. Round or rectangular concrete tables and benches heavy enough to withstand tornado winds. No kidding- watch any tornado footage you can find. You see trees, transfer trucks, houses all being tossed around like children’s toys in a trailer bedroom. But do you ever see any of those old-school picnic tables flying in that footage? Nope. I rest my case. Those tables sat there in the shade, surrounded by kudzu. If we were lucky, there would be a small creek to play in. Sometimes there was a look-off or maybe a small walking trail. We often met other families that had also stopped off for lunch on their way to or from small towns and communities scattered about the south.

Mama had this old, straw picnic basket. It was oval with a hinged lid, deep enough to carry enough food for a trip to the Smokies or that holy grail of southern road trips- Panama City Beach. It held an entire loaf of bread, paper plates, plastic cutlery, chips, peanut butter, homemade jelly (we didn’t know you could even buy that stuff in a store back then), homemade pickles, tiny cardboard containers of salt and pepper…and anything else she and MawMaw thought we might need. Cold items were kept in an old cooler waiting by the picnic basket in a trunk large enough to store three dead bodies (not that we did).

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, 1969

Sure enough, as we all pulled in and began unpacking, MawMaw would reach into her pocketbook and say, “I brought a tomato!”  (That word is pronounced “Tuh- MAY-tuh”, by the way. There is no long o sound anywhere in the word. If you put an “o” in tomato, you automatically brand yourself as an outsider, unworthy of consideration. Folks will listen to you politely then cast sidelong glances at each other when you aren’t watching. Nothing you say will be taken seriously. Watch those long o’s.) Mawmaw grew her own tomatoes in the family garden. (Don’t get me started on that subject). The tomatoes she carried held no resemblance whatsoever to the mealy pinkish objects found on grocery store shelves today. These tomatoes were bright red, meaty and round- and I detested them on sight. The grown-ups slathered loads of JFG mayonnaise onto slices of light bread, added a slice or two of the aforementioned tomato, and topped it off with copious amounts of salt and pepper. This sandwich, by the way, is one of the signature delicacies of American South.

I pulled the crusts off my cheese sandwich and bargained for more chips while MawMaw shook her head at my pitiful lunch. A kid that didn’t eat tomatoes- it just wasn’t normal. In all likelihood, this was an early symptom of some abnormal defect that would one day lead to my drooling in public while I peddled crafts made from yarn and bottle caps. No telling where it might lead.

Looking back, these impromptu picnics were such a common part of my childhood that I gave them little consideration. They were simply a part of daily life. We carried these same picnic lunches on trips to Canyonland Park and Lake Winnie as well as on day-long shopping trips. Mama and MawMaw would no more have considered buying food at these places than they would have considered wearing pants to church.

When my Mama called to make a vacation reservation, the first thing she asked about the room as, “Does it have a kitchenette?”. We stayed at small, family-run motels and motor courts- another rapidly disappearing remnant of the southern way of life. The aforementioned picnic basket held court upon a table in some time roadside room, holding whatever food and snacks we might need. Local restaurants and snack bars were studiously ignored as the frivolous things they were. If we kids ever questioned it, I don’t remember. We were too busy jumping in the waves of the Gulf of Mexico or running about the family campsite in the Great Smokies having fun. We were surrounded by family- Mawmaw, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Life was good and we were loved. We didn’t know life could be any other way back then.

MawMaw holding a Coca Cola and a (most likely) tomato sandwich, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, 1969

Today, a picnic is as much a novelty to my child as those McDonalds trips of long ago were to me. We buckle into our SUV and purchase our road trip meals from the window of some Taco Bell that we pass along the way. However, at least once on each trip into the Great Smokies National Park, we pull over into some picnic area. I unload that same picnic basket my Mama carried back in the day. (If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.) My daughter pulls the crust from her sandwich as I, more likely than not, pull out a tomato.

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Interview tomorrow on Shadows Radio!

I will be interviewed live tomorrow night (Monday, February 6) at 9 PM EST on Shadows Radio! Please tune in and check it out! I’m very excited!

I will also be at Dogwood Books in Rome, Georgia Saturday, February 11 from 1:00-3:00 selling and signing copies of Haunted Northwest Georgia.

Please join me!

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Haunted Northwest Georgia- the Book is Here!

My new book is now available! What a great gift for the paranormal enthusiasts and history buffs on your Christmas list! Get your copy today from Schiffer Publishing or from !


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Ghosts- Have They Become Invisible?

When I started writing Haunted Northwest Georgia, it came from a long-time desire to compile some of the personal ghost stories I’d been hearing over the years. Once I got started, and word got aroud, the stories snowballed. I was getting emails, messages on my Ghosts of Northwest Georgia Facebook page…you name it. I then added Shadows in the Pines to Facebook to cover stories from around the south, as the other page had a niche right here in Northwest Georgia. The stories came in, I met some fascinating people, and once the book was in the works and headed for the presses, I decided to write another one.

And BOOM, the lights went out.


It seems ghosts have gone invisible these days. I found myself yesterday talking to an old friend who had a paranormal experience with some furbies. You remember- those fuzzy little psycho toys from the 1990’s? It seems there have been quite a few people who wound up wishing they’d never met the little furry demons in disguise.This might prove to be an interesting chapter. But ghosts?? Nada…..

I wonder why people are more reluctant to share haunted experiences these days than they were in the past? Surely I haven’t covered them all? Surely someone’s Great- Aunt Sally lives in a house long haunted by some ghost from the distant past. I am following up on a friend’s story of dealing with a ghost that haunts two retail establishments she has worked for in Rome, Georgia. Both (next door to one another) are haunted by the host of a tall, Native American man who makes his presence known by throwing objects, setting off alarms, etc.

If you have a story from the southern states, I’d love to hear it. Drop me a line

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Collecting Spooky Stories

I love collecting stories of the strange and supernatural and much as I love writing them. Most of the stories in my book, Haunted Northwest Georgia, came from ordinary people sharing their experiences with me. Those are the best stories in my opinion. These aren’t something you can find all over the internet or in every book on the paranormal.

When someone shares a story with me, I get excited! I always keep their names private if they wish. After all, some people fear ridicule for sharing. (Hey, I get ridiculed for writing about the paranormal. It isn’t always easy living in the Bible belt!) When a person shares a story with me, that person becomes very special in my eyes. After all, our stories and experiences are an intimate part of ourselves. In my case, the person is often sharing a terrifying time in their lives.

Do I use every story I receive? Well, not yet….but someday. For instance, there is a particular cemetery deemed to be haunted. I’d LOVE to include it’s story. I’ve been intrigued by the place since my first visit, back in the 90s. However, when I ask if anyone has had an experience there, all I can  get is, “I got orbs.” I haven’t thrown these experiences out… I’m just waiting to get a little more.

I also get a few experiences where the teller saw a deceased love one or stranger at the foot of their bed. Without a history or story behind the apparition, there is little I can do. I could make something up…but if you read my posts, you know how I feel about that. It takes away more than it adds, in my opinion. I’d rather wait…if nothing else, I may save these and include them in one chapter some day.

I have made quite a few friends by collecting stories. I’ll never forget the times I spent talking with Debby Brown, one of the best historians and storytellers in the area. When she left this earth, it was a very sad day for me and all the other people who loved her.  I’ll always treasure the time I spent listening to her stories and learning from her.

Sure, it’s a thrill to have my book coming out in December! It’s a dream come true! But if asked what I loved most about what I do…. I’d say meeting new people and collecting their stories.


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The Sad Disappearance of Ottie Cline Powell


November 9, 1891 dawned dreary and cold, with a promise of rain. Dark clouds gathered over the community of Dancing Creek in Amherst County, Virginia. The children of Rev. Ed and Emma Belle Powell set out for school, including the youngest, Ottie Cline. Ottie, who was a few days away from his 5th birthday, said good-bye to his mom then stopped where his father was husking corn and asked if he might skip school that day and stay with his father. Being a responsible parent, Reverend Powell told Ottie he should go on to school. It would be the last time her ever saw Ottie alive.

Miss Nannie Gilbert, the teacher in the one -room log school house then known as Bluff Mountain, was running short on kindling. A three- inch snow and ensuing cold snap the week before had depleted her sources. At recess that day, she instructed her students to each bring back one arm load of wood to use in the school’s wood stove. The girls took their five-minute recess first. After they returned, the boys set out. Young Ottie trailed behind, struggling to gather wood behind the older boys. The path the boys took behind the school lead through a dense forest of chestnut, oak, and pine. By the time Ottie has gathered his wood, the older boys had returned to the school. Little Ottie set out alone, thinking he was following the boys back to the school. Unfortunately, he had gone the wrong way.

About 20 minutes passed before Miss Nannie Gilbert realized Ottie had not returned. In those days, it was the job of older students to watch over the younger. She had assumed he returned with the older boys. When she realized he was missing, all the children set out to find him.

When they could not find Ottie, they were sent to gather parents and neighbors to help search. In spite of their efforts, Ottie could not be found.  An evening rain began to fall. An ice storm was brewing over the community of Dancing Creek.  Searchers found the place where Ottie had dropped his load of kindling, but still could not find the little boy. As they searched and called, a Mr. Henry Wood set his dog out on Ottie’s trail. The dog and Ottie were fond of one another and the dog set out readily after the little boy’s scent. The dog headed up the ridge and was gone for a very long time. (Mr. Wood wondered later if the dog had not actually gone to the little boy.) Around 10 pm that night, the search ended.

Newspapers all over the area carried stories of the little boy’s disappearance. Around 1500 volunteers came to help in the search. They walked in circles surrounding the school in an area that got wider and wider. Still. Ottie was never found. No one searched the old Indian trails leading up Bluff Mountain. The trail was so steep, it was thought no child could ever climb that high.

Reverend Powell hired a detective. After two weeks, the detective returned, saying he could find no trace of Ottie. Undaunted, Reverend Powell offered a reward for his son to be returned alive. Throughout that long snowy winter, Reverend Powell never gave up hope of his son’s return.

On April 3, 1892, a party of hunters on Bluff Mountain followed their barking dog along an old trail through the forest. They found the dog beside the body of a young boy. They knew immediately that they had found Ottie Cline Powell. He lay curled as if asleep, still wearing his brown hat. His pants were full of holes, torn by the briars and brambles as the little boy struggled along the trail trying to return to school. His feet were missing, evidently taken by wild animals.

Two hunters set off down the mountain with the news, while the others remained behind with the body. The Reverend stopped his sermon as the hunters entered the church house that day, informing him that his boy had been found. Reverend Powell threw up his arms and began thanking and praising God for answering his prayers that his boy be found.

Ottie was brought down the mountain at last. It was determined, after examining the contents of Ottie,s stomach (three chestnuts, undigested, eaten at recess that day) that Ottie had died that first evening of his disappearance. He had collapsed from exhaustion and fallen asleep beneath a large tree as the rain began, and had never awakened. At long last, Little Ottie was laid to rest in a local cemetery.

Emma Belle Powell became depressed at the loss of her youngest child. He grief began to threaten her health, so her husband had Ottie’s casket exhumed and reburied near their home. He thought that, since Emma Belle could now look out the window and see Ottie’s grave, she might find comfort. However, she only became worse.

Finally, the family moved to a new home near an intersection where Reverend Powell opened up a general store. Emma Belle never recovered, and eventually succumbed to her grief in 1897. She never got over losing her Ottie.

In 1925, a teacher from Buena Vista, J.B. Huffman interviewed Ottie’s family members and older members of the community in order to write a book about Ottie’s death. He was so touched by the tale that he built a wooden cross form, filled it with concrete and , when it was set, hauled it up Bluff Mountain to the site of Ottie’s death. Here it remained for 43 years.

As more travelers and tourists began to visit the Blue Ridge Parkway and Appalachian Trail, a new interest was generated in Ottie’s story. In 1968, Huffman used the proceeds from the sales of his book to purchase a new memorial for Ottie. This monument still stands today. There are a couple of errors on the plaque, however. It reads:







For many years, hikers on Bluff Mountain have told tales of encountering the ghost of Ottie Cline Powell. A Journal at nearby Punchbowl Shelter holds many tales of a “brat” child ghost that poked them with sticks in their sleep.

One 2009 hiker left a tale of his encounter with Ottie. The hiker heard crying around 10 pm, but assumed it was a wild animal. Later, he was awaked by a loud thunderstorm. In two consecutive flashes of lightning, he saw a young boy crouched in the corner of the shelter. When he grabbed his flashlight and shined it in the corner, the boy was gone.  The next day, he found all his clothes removed from his backpack and folded into neat little squares. On top of the clothes was a small pile of chestnuts.

Resources and additional reading:


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Smoky Mountain Ghosts Part 1


I’ve been doing some research on ghosts of the great Smoky Mountains National Park. I know there are some so-called “haunted tours” in the surrounding towns. I’ve made it pretty plain in earlier posts where I stand on these. However, as old and mysterious as these mountains are, you just know there have to be some great hauntings here.

I’ve been coming here all my life. These mountains are like a second home (although I’m not lost on the fact that thousands of people lost their very homes in order to make this place possible). These mountains are old… they exist in a space and time all their own. They have an unsurpassed beauty that defies mere words. I have no patience for the mindless morons who never venture outside the towns of Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge and yet insist they have visited the smokies. Indeed, they have not. They may have seen them in the distance, but that is all.

If someone tells you they have been to Gatlinburg, but then say they don’t know anything about Roaring Fork Motor Nature Trail..well, dear, they haven’t been to the Smokies. Speaking of Roaring Fork…I’ve been reading up on a ghost here named Lucy. Supposedly, she died in a fire around 1909. They say she tries to get a ride with unsuspecting visitors. She is barefoot and gives off an unusual warmth.

Ther road through Roaring Fork where Lucy is said to ask for rides from usnsupecting tavelers.
Scene near the mill on Roaring Fork

I hear there is a little girl ghost on Mt LeConte that is seen standing at the foot of visitor’s beds at exactly 3:33am. Why 3:33? I’ve read that 3:15 is the most powerful time of night- the time when the veil betewen our world and the spirit world is thinnest. But 3:33? Maybe this is the time she died?

What about Cades Cove? I love to come here on “off” days of “off” seasons- otherwise it is so crowded one can scarcely breathe, much less get a feel and appreciation for the place. I want to camp here, but the waiting list is long, and I’m the spontaneous sort on those matters…I’ve read about a man named Basil Estep that was struck by lightning in his own bed at night. This wasn’t a freak accident- it was the revenge of his former wife’s ghost. You see, she was born during a thunderstorm and feared both storms and sleeping in iron beds. When Basil remarried, the wife’s ghost couldn’t bear him sleeping with the new wife under one of her quilts- and on an iron bed at that! So when poor Basil met his end in such a way, well, it was thought to be fitting I suppose.

There are some interesting paranormal photos taken in Cades Code that are circulating on the internet. Whether or not they ar authentic, I can’t say. I take these things with a healthy dose of speculation. I’d love to hear more about the hauntings of Cades Cove, if anyone has some stories they’d like to share.

Church in Cataloochee

If Cataloochee isn’t haunted, well, I’d be greatly disappointed. The very road from Cosby to Cataloochee takes you back at least 150 years. Honestly…you’re rolling along on a narrow road seeing nothing but mountains and forests for, oh, about 28 miles or so..This is an awesome way to let your kids see the wonder and beauty of this place. (Just be sure they potty before you leave and pack snacks…) I can just imagine traveling this road at night. No telling who (or what) you might meet.

The road through Cataloochee

I remember walking a few miles out to a beautiful white church in Little Catalochee once. We passed old home places, crossed some creeks, saw a few old apple trees here and there- reminders of the pioneers that once called this place home.Being me, I had to wonder if any spirits remain. In the dead of night does a lone horseman walk soundlessly down this old road? Do children from another time play in the creek?

The road to Cataloochee helps emphasize to the casual visitor how remote the mountains actually are. Their rugged isolation is what preserved so much of the culture here long after it was obliterated in the rest of the country. The people who settled here brought their beliefs and practices from their homelands- Scotland, Ireland, Germany, and these were mingled with the Cherokee who had been here for years before the white man. The Cherokee revered these mountains as a magical place. Their legends of the Little People and the spirits that roamed these mountains were here before the first white man ventured here.

hillside cemetery in Cataloochee

I hope to gather stories from this area- both of the public paces (like Lydia of the Greenbrier Restaurant) and personal stories. Have you ever experienced anything you can’t explain while you were visiting the Smokies?

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Encounter with a Ghost Hearse

I get a lot of comments on my Facebook Pages Shadows in the Pines and Ghosts of Northwest Georgia from people who naturally assume I am an experienced paranormal investigator. I mean, I run two paranormal facebook pages, right? Actually, even though I have been a member of Southern States Paranormal for a while ( as historian), I just went on my first investigation a couple weeks ago.

Growing up, my parents had told me of an encounter they had with a mysterious ghost horse on a dirt road near an old cemetery in Chattooga County. Later, when writing Ghosts of Northwest Georgia, I heard of this horse again- but with more detail. According to lady telling the story, the cemetery was haunted by the ghost of a horse pulling a horse- drawn hearse. Each night, according to the legend, the horse would pull the hearse into the cemetery. (More on that story in my upcoming book.)

I shared this story with my friends Matt and Adam, fellow members of  Southern States Paranormal, who were also intrigued. One Saturday evening, Matt, Adam, Matt’s girlfriend, Christy, and one of my former co-workers and I set out to investigate.

Matt and Adam had brought along an EMF meter and what I think  was a K2 meter. I had a camera and a digital recorder. We also brought flashlights, bottled water, and copious amounts of bug spray (after all, this is Goergia in the summertime). Another thing we tried out was an app called Ghost Radar, which I had downloaded onto my cell phone. (While I can’t say I am completely sold in the app itself, I would later be AMAZED at the EVPs I gained as spirits reacted to the app.)

Adam explained the ropes to us newbies. I had never thought about the fact that, when recording, I needed to state any noises that might be later miscontrued as paranormal activity (example: car passing, dog barking, person coughing).

For the next few hours we explored the area in small goups and as a whole group. I can honestly say that I was never frieghtened or even uncomfortable during this time. Much of the time spent on an investigation is “down time”. You spend a great deal of time watching and waiting. I can’t say I was bored, though. I found the whole thing interesting.


After about 2 1/2 hours, we had detected some spirit activity, including a rod and several orbs caught on photo. The Ghost Radar app detected a spirit that gave names and talked about military involvement and a war. We actually found these names on a tombstone in the cemtery along with mention of military involvement!


We took a few breaks and went over the recorder to check for EVPS, but found none at that time. One thing we all did experience was periodically hearing a strange popping noice. We never found a reason for this.

We were able to debunk some shadows and noises as having natural causes. The guys pointed out that, even though it is exciting to find actual paranormal activity, it is extremely important to make every effort to disprove all activity. (This makes the activity you can’t disprove more credible.)

DSCN5296 DSCN5297

Above: before and after taken just seconds apart. Note the bright light on the right. No known source.

As the session ended, we sat on a grassy embankment near the dirt road and quietly watched and listened. It was during this time that the sound of summer insects slightly faded and we became aware of a crunching sound on the gravel of the old road. We turned toward the noise, but saw nothing. The road was well illuminated, both by moonlight and the security lights from the cemetery. Although nothing could be seen, the sound got louder as it came closer. We could actually hear the clop of what sounded like hoofbeats on the gravel and the sound of what appeared to be old wooden wheels slowly turning on the gravel. We stood and stared. Although nothing was there, we plainly heard this sound.  The phenomenal thing (well, one of the phenomenal things) was that this went on for a few minutes. It wasn’t something that happend for just a second or two. Unfortunately, the batteries in my camera were drained (typical occurrence) and the camera on my cell got nothing.

As the sound ended, we approached the road as a unit- eager to investigate what we had heard. That’s when it happened- about four feet from where we stood- you know that blowing sound a horse makes? Not exactly a whinny- my horse used to do it all the time and I never really knew the word for it. It’s kind of an exhale, I guess. And it was right there!

We were amazed, both newbie and experienced guys as well. We couldn’t disprove it. It was there! We had actually heard the ghost hearse!!!

Shortly after this, the atmosphere in the area changed. It was a foreboding feeling. The guys actually saw a grey figure walking along the road where the hearse had traveled. A couple of us experienced pains in our stomach. It was very weird. Although I had not been frieghtened all night, I distinctly became aware that something wanted us to leave. Not long after this, we wrapped things up for the evening.

And stranger things were yet to come….

DSCN5292 DSCN5293

Above: Before and after taken seconds apart. No known source for orange light.

I didn’t check my digital recorder for EVPs that evening. I was the only one home at the time, and the thought of hearing a strange voice was a little more than I wanted to deal with. The next day, however, I got our my little recorder and was stunned. I had actually recorded spirit voices! Some were untelligible to me, but some were quite clear. At one point, the Ghpst Radar app had said the word “cream”. (No idea why.) Adam asked, “What is cream?”  I could plainly hear a man’s voice saying (as if “I can’t believe you don’t know this”), “Milk! …Milk!”  Later I was examining my recorder to see wheter it was still on. A man’s voice whispered, “It’s on hold.”  The EVPs were unbelievable. I caught several- and I was truly amazed. I was there. I know the voices I recorded did not belong to anyone in the group.


This was truly one of the most amazing, awe-inspiring moments of my life.  This is why I love the paranormal! Those moments when something so amazing happens that you can’t disprove.  The moments that remind us that, as William Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”


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For the Love of a Ghost Tale

It’s been quite a while since I posted on this blog. It isn’t that I have nothing to say. (I ALWAYS have something to say!) I signed a contract with a publisher (dream come true)! Now I’m working like crazy to get my book lined up and into the correct format.

I have LOVED collecting ghost stories from Northwest Georgia. To me, the best are personal accounts- not just hearsay. I’ve met some of the kindest people on earth and I have loved every minute of the time I have shared with them.

I have always loved a good ghost story. Even as a child, I devoured every ghost story book I could find on the shelves of my local library. I remember discovering Kathryn Tucker Windham’s “13 Ghosts…” series when I was around 12 or 13 years old. I loved them! Later I moved on to Nancy Roberts. When I worked as a Media Specialist in an elementary school I realized that most kids DO love a good ghost story. Most adults do, as well… Of course, I get a lot of “Aw, I don’t believe that mess!” Well, I don’t believe Spongebob is real, nor does my child…but he is on our TV as I write this. Evidently we are enjoying him anyway….

Collecting ghost stories isn’t easy. Some people are reluctant to share their stories. They are afraid of being ridiculed. I don’t use a person’t real name, nor do I share an address. Sometimes a person has a story but it isn’t enough to fill a chapter. Example- “My grandma’s house is haunted. I saw a man at the foot of the bed!” Not that those aren’t great stories…but it isn’t exactly going to fill up a chapter…

I almost drove myself crazy trying to get enough stories on Little River Canyon..but as far as I can tell, there just aren’t any. Other than a Little Foot sighting here and there and a few chanting voices…nada. I found one fantastic story, then I read an article where a guy admitted he made it up. That may be OK for him, but there is a difference between fiction and creative non-fiction. Passing one off as the other is as bad as passing Pepsi off as Coke. It just “ain’t right”. That’s just my humble opinion.

I get excited every time I open up my email and find someone with a story to tell. I read every email, message, and comment that I receive from this site and both my facebook sites (Shadows in the Pines and Ghosts of Northwest Georgia). You never know when that next fantastic story will come along!

Here’s hoping you have a great day! If you run into a ghost… be sure and let me know!




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Black Eyed Kids- Have You Ever Seen One?

I love reading various web pages and group pages concerning the paranormal. It is so interesting to read personal experiences from around the world. I am amazed at how  people from opposite sides of the world can have common expereinces with the paranormal.

One of the subjects that I have been reading on lately is the phenomena of Black-Eyed Kids, or BEKs.

For instance, this article I found through a Google search:

16 Terrifying Encounters with Black Eyed Kids

In a nutshell, BEKs appear to be children between the ages of 3/4 (0r 8- depending on what you read) and 17. They are extrememly pale, with coal-black, empty eyes.Their clothes are usually drab-old jeans, hoodies, or ragged/ worn shirts and pants. They often ask to use your phone, use your bathroom, ask for a ride,  or for a drink of water. The warning is to never let them in. My question is– what if you do?

I found an article by someone who (supposedly) let a BEK into her home. Of course, when you click on the article and begin reading, the article itself becomes greyed over and you are asked for an email. After 3 attempts to close the evil email box, I just moved on…

SO… then I see this video on youtube:

drone catches video of BEK girl?

Some people believe them to be of demonic origin. Others feel they are alien.  There is also the theory that they are a species of their own right. Who knows? I’ve yet to find anything describing an encounter with BEK’s before modern times. Are they a new phenomenon? And why would they choose to reveal themselves in modern times rather than in the past?

I’ve read accounts from respectable citizens, news reporters, self- procalimed athiests…. and yet all seem to experience the same phenomena…

Have you ever seen a BEK? What is your theory on the matter? I’d love to hear your input. I will post more on the matter as I learn more about the subject.


All comments and opinions are welcome…just respect the comments and opinions of others…

And, as always, you can email me personally at



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