Day 33 The Haunted Murrells Inlet, SC

It started with a fly biting me in the bum. I was finished as the captain for the day and Carrie had taken over. I had my feet up and the breeze gently brushed my hair as I read my serial killer novel. All was well. As an avid reader you should know that with Irish Eyes ‘all was well’ indicates an impending ‘all went to hell’.

The nasty little creature bit down hard and paid with his life. Perhaps he had a moment to yell to his clan before his doom or maybe they were already upon us. Carrie and John were like fly swatting ninjas but they just kept materializing. Bad language and the snap of swatters on canvas kept overpowering the sound of our little engine.

We felt we were lucky to be getting near our landing dock at Murrells Inlet where we could shut all the doors and windows and crank the a/c. Our ignorance of the area had us hopeful. We didn't know it was haunted. 

After closing up and having dinner only the sound of an ice cream truck could have gotten me to leave my cool, bug free hovel. That was not the case for John who was desperate to get out of what one friend refers to as our ‘floating prison’.  Carrie and I, instead, took out our bag of dumdums and used the wifi to watch a terrible netflix series.  Yes, a whole series. It was so dull we watched on fast forward only stopping for important parts like a plane crash or a bear and then the last 10 minutes of the series.

Near the end of our skimming John came back full of nervous energy. “THIS PLACE IS HAUNTED!” This is his story in his own words:

This port is a tiny little shrimper’s enclave just off the ICW, with history dating back to the 1860’s, and a population of 605 according to the last census. We took a short walk to pick up fresh shrimp, and immediately I was fascinated by this little town that seemed to be from another time.

Crissie and Carrie stayed in the air conditioned boat to watch a show, while I set out into the heat to explore more of this quaint area. I walked down streets with old sidewalks that meandered around huge oaks and cypress trees, with branches that wept wisps of Spanish moss. Some of the houses were small, while others were more majestic in size and style, but all had equal amounts of southern charm, and I found myself snapping dozens of photos. There were beautiful churches, an art studio, a middle school, and a tiny restaurant with the words “Bless our shrimpers” written on the window. I was struck by how quiet everything was.

 

 

I noticed an area drenched in sunlight down a narrow dirt lane and decided to explore. I found more enchanting houses and an area that opened up to a large field. I figured the road would circle around at some point so I continued on. Turning a corner, the trees thickened and I passed one street that looked like it might take me back to the boat. It was shaded by an imposing tunnel of trees and was a less inviting avenue for sure, so I kept going. The next cross street appeared to curve away from my intended destination, so I had to double back to that shadowy dirt road. As soon as I turned down the road, a sudden breeze struck me in the face, and the branches around me began swaying in a breeze stronger than I had felt all afternoon. Insects also began singing out high pitched buzzing sounds. I found it so peculiar that I pulled out my phone and began to record… 

I had no idea what I was about to discover only a few hundred yards down the road. The trees soon parted to reveal a large church; dilapidated, boarded up, and flecked with small “no trespassing” signs here and there. Behind the church lay several grave stones that seemed strewn about in no particular order. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my hair stood on end, and a previously hot, muggy afternoon now felt chilled. I quickly snapped a few pics, and a short video of the road that would take me away from that place. 

I chose to heed the signs and not trespass on the property, standing a safe distance away near a gnarled bit of twisted undergrowth just past the old entrance to the church. Likewise, I sincerely hoped my presence there did not disturb the eternal rest of any souls still residing there. The history of that church and its congregants remains a mystery to me, but the memory of that little town will remain a part of our sailing adventure. I walked briskly back to the boat, but didn’t shake the chill until the reeds lining the creek came back into view.

(Found on a granite stone on the water’s edge)

A SONG OF HOPE

O GALLANT HEART, DEFEATED, 

NOW GAZING TOWARD THE WEST, 

WHERE THIS DAYS SPLENDOR CRUMBLES,

DISASTROUS AND UNBLEST,-

LOOK, TIL THE DEATH LIKE DARKNESS

BY THE STARS BE GLORIFIED,

UNTIL YOU SEE ANOTHER DREAM

BEYOND THE DREAM THAT DIED.