True confession time---I am obsessed with cemeteries. I'm not particularly morbid, or Goth, and I certainly don't want to become a resident of a burial ground any time soon. But still, I love visiting cemeteries, reading tombstones, and generally absorbing the atmosphere of a graveyard.
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The pictures in this entry are all from Charleston (some of you may have recognized the location!). Charleston is one of the few places in the South where one can see elaborate 18th century tombstones. These masters and mistresses of plantations, or lords or merchant companies, wanted portraits in stone.

We were in Charleston during Spring Break of 2010. Now, I've never had a truly frightening experience in a cemetery, but when I leaned down to make the picture of the tombstone above (with the lady) it look like the eyes were moving. I jerked back and the eyes seemed to close. I nearly ran screaming in terror! My scientifically-inclined companion quickly pointed out that my perception was caused by the way the light shifted. But, you know, I kinda liked my explanation better. I liked imagining that a saucy Charlestonian ghost was flirting with me.
So here's a question for you folks---have you ever had a scary experience in a cemetery? Or have you ever seen (or heard, or smelled) a ghost? Have you seen the 'Eyes of Old Main' or met Ben Wofford late at night? I love collecting these stories. They are part of what makes us human---every culture has some type of belief about ghosts and spirits, so 'seeing a ghost' must occur all over the planet. These stories also help inspire me as I think about what kind of ghost encounter might occur in my next novel.
Who knows, your story might find a way into fiction, so don't be shy!!!!

I grew up in a really old farm house built by a German family named Stuck. It was surrounded by a windmill, and a crumbling brick orange chimney left over from a burned down slave house, and a carriage stone, and fallen in smoke houses, and a family cemetery. So, naturally, I grew up believing the place was haunted. There were muddy footprints and handprints and little drawings on the wood (especially the ceilings). Above my bed was a baby footprint - I used to make up stories about that baby, running around with muddy feet while the older men cut the wood. I was convinced that the family still lived in the house with us. I'd always hear things moving in the walls - my dad always told me it was squirrels, but I knew it was the Stuck family.
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