When you visit a hotel, you expect more than a temporary roof over your head while you travel. You want to immerse yourself in the flood of history that has engulfed the spot you visit. Perhaps you seek a Colonial ambience in Virginia or a touch of Civil War drama in Georgia or Alabama.  Or you may want to relive the brash frontier past of Texas, Kentucky or Tennessee. Maybe you wish to experience the Creole flavor of Louisiana or Mississippi’s rural heritage. In Florida, much of its history has been influenced by its tropical and subtropical climate. Some of the states included in this book, like North and South Carolina have a culture so diverse you can expect to find a totally different experience depending on which part of these states you visit.

You want to experience this flavor when you travel. This book is set up for you as a traveler. I have offered the most interesting sights whether they are historic places, fun attractions or off the wall less known sights that might be missed in some guidebooks. In some cases, I have arranged them in chronological order to give you a better historical picture of the area. Sometimes, I placed them for convenience of driving to them. I included both haunted and non-haunted, as I know you want to see all each area has to offer.

Many of the most interesting hotels in the southeast have an edge on making you feel part of their states’ heritage. They are housed in historically significant buildings. All old buildings retain a trace of the historical elements that shaped their destiny. Ah, if only their walls could talk! Of course I can’t tell you all about all the best hotels in Dixie. There are far too many.  But I can let you in on the secrets hidden behind the doors of some of the ones with that little something extra, their very own historical spirits. Some are large, corporate owned resorts. Some are so tiny they are now considered bed and breakfasts or inns even though they were once hotels. Some are not what you consider a traditional hotel.

They all do have one thing in common. These are the Hosts With Ghosts!

Excerpt:

The H.L. Hunley

One of the Civil War’s greatest mysteries has been partially solved in 1995 when Author Clive Cussler re-discovered a murky hulk in the waters off Charleston (The Hunley had been found earlier by Edward Spence but the location was not recorded.) The enigma began in Feb. 17, 1864 when a top-secret Confederate submarine, H.L. Hunley, slipped through under the waters of Charleston Harbor headed for the Union ship USS Housatonic. The cigar-shaped vessel was hand cranked by an eight-man crew. The Hunley succeeded in sinking the huge Union warship by means of a torpedo attached to a long pole. But after signaling its success, the Hunley never reached shore. Most people believed it was sunk along with its victim by the torpedo explosion. The sub had previously sunk twice, each time killing its passengers, but was recovered and put back into service. This time it remained on the bottom of the ocean until 2000 when it was raised. Its crew was buried with honor in the Magnolia Cemetery on Saturday, April 17th, 2004 after a weeklong round of ceremonies honoring the ship and its crew.   This was the last Confederate burial in history, obviously. 

Many of the men who took part in the burial as honor guards report paranormal occurrences surrounding the Rebel sub. Re-enactors in Confederate uniform stood at attention guarding the remains of the crew.

They heard footsteps, a voice crying" "mother" and saw the shadow of a Confederate soldier. The strangest of the Hunley ghosts was nicknamed "The Adjuster" because they watched him adjust the positions of the straps on the soldier’s uniforms to more comfortable positions. They also noted also the smell of fresh green apples. Steve Burt, the coordinator for the Honor Guard, believes the crewmembers may have taken apples with them as a snack. The guard members felt light touches and experienced a calm feeling of welcome from the spirits.

Randy Burbage who was involved in digging for the crew members of the earlier sinkings believed buried near Johnson Hagood Stadium, felt he was guided to dig in spots where he had been told not to because he felt  “a presence” guiding him to those bodies. Each time he followed that guidance he found another member of the Hunley. Five members had been buried at Hagood

Bill Sharpe took a picture of the sub and later noted a crewman in it. He posted it on his website only to discover the next day the crewman was gone. He hurriedly took the page down.

Excerpt

The lighthouse began in the mind of a dreamer, James Gould. He came to the island in the late 1700s and in 1807 won the bid to build the lighthouse. In 1810 President Madison appointed him the first keeper.

Since there was no money for an assistant, Gould trained some of his slaves for this position. One of the men was so devoted to this job his friends nicknamed him "Lamp Black" Perhaps it is Lamp Black whose ghostly footsteps still echo on the spiral stair treads around dinnertime. Many people believe he is just returning to check on "his" light.

Others believe the ghost at the St. Simons Island lighthouse is that of lighthouse keeper Fred Osborn, killed in March 1881, during an argument with his assistant, John Stevens, who had fallen in love with Osborn's wife.  Another version of the story states that Osborn was a chronic faultfinder with everything Stevens did. Whichever the case, the two men fought. Osborn had a pistol, Stevens a shotgun. Stevens was later acquitted and the killing deemed self-defense but to the end of his days, Stevens claimed to hear footsteps on the stairs when no one was there. Was it Osborn come back to confront his killer or just Lamp Black trying to attend his light?  Who knows, perhaps both spirits inhabit the lighthouse. On cold and windy nights, they may compare notes on the care of the light and the vagaries of life and death.

Confederate soldiers blew up the original lighthouse in 1861 to keep it from falling into Union hands. It was rebuilt in 1872 and now houses the Museum of Coastal History. By day visitors can tour it. By night it is the domain of its resident ghosts. The island, with its moss-draped oaks is a great place for horseback riding. There is a stable located on Frederica Road just past the causeway. However, if you ride at twilight, you may come face to face with Mary the Wanderer. Mary still rides a white stallion searching for her lost lover who drowned during a storm when his boat capsized in the Frederica River more than a century ago.

The island's history goes back over two and a half centuries to the time when England and Spain were locked in a bitter struggle for dominion over these new lands. In 1736, James Oglethorpe began the construction of Fort Frederica on St. Simons to defend England's' southern colonies from Spanish invasion. The fort was the largest and most costly British fort in North America. The prosperous town of Frederica grew around it by 1743, dependent on the soldiers for their livelihood.  This fort played a major part in the route of the Spanish at the Battle of Bloody Marsh, six miles to the south. The slaughter here was so devastating to the Spanish forces that they retreated back to St. Augustine, forever ending the threat to the English colonies. Designed for war, Frederica could withstand every thing except peace. As the Spanish threat faded, the soldiers withdrew leaving the village economy unable to survive. Today, you can view the site. Much of the fort and the barracks remain. Other home and business sites foundations are carefully preserved allowing you a glimpse of what this thriving military town looked like in its heyday. The Visitors Center, which has books and exhibits and an entertaining film about the founding of Frederica.

If you view the site of the Battle of Bloody Marsh, after dark you might meet the earthbound spirit of Thomas Cater. Thomas built the prosperous plantation of Kelvin Grove in the 1790s. Home was his beautiful pink tabby house set among the live oaks and magnolia with a view of the ocean from its wide balconies. Thomas also had a wife, Elizabeth, and a young son, Benjamin Franklin.

There was a hidden serpent in this colonial paradise. Thomas's wife was carrying on a clandestine affair with the overseer. Her jealous lover killed Thomas. The loyal butler, Benbow, fearing for the child's life, fled to Retreat with the young Benjamin who was raised by the master of that plantation, Major William Page.  

Retreat today is the site of the Sea Island Golf Club. Thomas was buried standing up on his beloved plantation. Kelvin Grove has long since been divided unto subdivisions, one of which bears the name of the old plantation. Part of the grounds included the site of Bloody Marsh. Thomas still reputedly roams after dark, perhaps seeking revenge against the overseer. Interestingly, there may be many more spirits in the area to accompany him. When a portion of the tract was sold to the county for an airport in 1936, remains of an ancient Indian burial ground were found on the site.

No institute more evil than slavery ever existed in the American South. Ironically it brought out the best in mankind as well as the worst. Examples of both exist on St. Simon. In May 1803, a group of Ebo captives were being transported to a life of slavery at St Simons.  Rather than submit, the proud tribesmen revolted the only left open to them. They marched into the waters of Dunbar Creek and drowned themselves rather than live in chains. To this day, their mournful chants and clanging chains are sometimes heard, an eternal reminder of man's inhumanity to man.

On the other side of the coin is the reason behind the name of the popular beachfront spot, Neptune Park. It stands at the end of Mallory St, between the pier and the lighthouse. Its sculpture of a mother whale and her baby remind visitors of the Right Whales that visit this coast. These whales were named "Right" by the whalers who considered them the right whales to hunt and succeeded in driving them to the verge of extinction. If you are lucky, you may spot one of the few remanding whales that use this area for a calving ground from December to late March.

These ancient mountains are part of her blood and her culture. The beauty and the customs have always been sacred to her. However, much more than early memories await Casey in Bluejay, Georgia. By chance, or was it design, Weesie’s childhood diary turns up in the cabin. The scrawled pages transport Casey back into the late nineteenth century. Far from finding the peaceful time she expects there, she uncovers a web of adultery, murder and intrigue that threatens to entangle Casey’s twenty-first century life.

That life threatens to become more complex when her new neighbor turns out to be a handsome victim of his own marital disaster. Lee Schmidt has vowed never to let another woman mangle his life. As Casey is drawn deeper into Weesie’s life and times, her "real" life becomes more complicated by her growing attraction to Lee. Some strange occurrences happen in the cabin mirrored by tales of ghostly sightings in her family history. Her involvement with things past increases. As she travels back to 1879 via Louisa’s diary, she meets an intriguing cast of characters. Donald Stuart, her "sister" Lillith’s faithful lover, David, his evil hearted twin brother, Ma and Da Garrett, Louisa’s parents and her own direct ancestors,  and the other inhabitants of early Bluejay.

Read the first Chapter of Kudzu

Prologue March 10, 1879, Bluejay, Georgia

Louisa crept out of her rope bed and down the loft’s ladder. She didn’t put on her boots until she stood in the moonlight outside the cabin door. Her thoughts tumbled like water in a mountain stream. She had to catch Lillith. She wasn’t sure what she could say to her beautiful big sister but she couldn’t stand what was going on. She knew Lillith was going to meet Preacher Jonathan at the barn in the hollow between their cabin and the big house on the hill. It ain’t fittin’. I know the preacher is so handsome but he’s married. Got a li’l ‘un and his wife is al’ays so sick. T’aint right what Lillith was doing sneaking out to sleep with a married man and him a preacher man at that.

Louisa hurried between the pines and holly berry that bordered the rock-strewn path. Sprouts of that new plant, Kudzu, that Mr. Stuart had brought back from Philadelphia to control erosion were taking root in the sunny spots near the barn. In the distance, she thought she heard a gunshot. She stopped on the edge of the clearing to gather her thoughts. At that moment, Lillith burst from the ragged opening where once two double doors had stood. She passed within inches of Louisa but didn’t see her.

I’ll just go on in and talk to Preacher Jonathan, she thought. I’ll make him see he’s doin’ wrong. He’s got a wife. The thought crept unbidden into her mind. If’n his wife died, there’s someone else who loves him more’an Lillith ever could. I would make him a fine true wife. Lots of girls marry at thirteen around here. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the barn, she knew the preacher wouldn’t have to worry about women problems any more. He lay on the straw in the first stall. There was a small hole in the center of his forehead and a pool of blood on the floor. 

Chapter 1

2002, Bluejay, Georgia Casey leaned on her shovel and admired her work. It had taken all day. Her auburn hair was flecked with hay from the mulch and her hands were smeared with manure. Her jeans were red at the knees and seat from the Georgia clay. To call her shirt disreputable would have been complementary.

She was exhausted but totally self satisfied as she surveyed her new garden. The morning’s backing breaking work was worth it. Her garden was planted and if the unseasonable weather continued she would be feasting on its bounty soon. The manure she had painstakingly hauled in tubs from the Track Gap Stables had darkened the earth to rich brown and the tomato, okra, squash and watermelon seedlings stood like proud toy soldiers. Movement up the hill at the old Stuart house caught her eye. Rumors around town were rampant. Someone had moved in but no one seemed to know more than that. The huge old farmhouse had been boarded up for several years. Casey had heard that it had once belonged to some distant family connection but she was a bit foggy on just how it fit into the family tree. Someone had purchased it and had been repairing it. Casey suppressed the pang of envy at the thought of someone else acquiring her dream house. As a tiny child, she had stood right here with Granny Weesie and listened to her tell about the people who lived in it now and who had lived in it when Granny was young. Casey couldn’t recall a single name now except "Stuart". No point being a dog in the manger, she told herself. Her divorce had left her poor as the proverbial church mouse. She could never afford the Stuart place even in its present rundown condition.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, two brown and tan explosions of energy erupted from the underbrush directly into her new garden plot. They rolled, romped and trampled until nothing was left standing. "Get! Shoo! Scram you beasts! The dogs ignored her and continued the total devastation of her garden. Nothing she could do seemed to get their attention but when Smokey, her fluffy black cat moved into their line of vision, they were out of the garden like a shot. Smokey headed up the nearest pine tree. They settled in at the base and began howling and barking as Smokey calmly surveyed his pursuers from the first branch. At that moment, a man emerged from the path leading uphill to the Stuart Place. "Tater. Snuffy! Quit that racket. Get over here." He had spoken in a low voice but the dogs instantly stopped barking and ran to his side. He stooped indulgently rubbed their backs. "Sorry if they upset your kitty, Ma’am." He looked up at her with the most incredibly blue eyes she had ever seen. When he straightened up, he must have reached at least six feet. His Levi’s fit him well and left no doubt of his masculinity even if his rugged face hadn’t proclaimed that same fact.

Any other time she might have been impressed with his craggy good looks but the memory of the hours of tilling, digging, removing the endless rocks, working in the smelly manure, all now wasted effort thanks to his unruly pack of hounds, enraged her. "Those beasts should be on chains! They’re vicious!" she exploded. "Look what they did my garden."

"They are not vicious. They’re just puppies." He rose to his full height and looked down at her with a smile playing around his mouth. "Besides any fool knows you can’t plant any of that stuff and expect it to grow. We’re sure to have at least one more freeze up here."

"Why you arrogant jackass! You’re trespassing on my property and so are those hateful hounds from hell you set loose on my garden! And you dare call me a fool?" She fumbled for threats dire enough, more to repay his insult than his dogs’ damages. Ray had always called her names, most of them worse than "fool". She had taken enough of that during her marriage. Ray had always tried to belittle her and make her feel like a stupid "little woman". Now that she was through with her ex-husband, she was never going to let another man put her down. Her emerald eyes flashed a warning fire. "Do you realize I could sue you for damages?"

"Whoa, lady. We’re not in Hotlanta. Up here in the mountains, neighbors settle their differences among themselves not in law courts. I have every intention of repaying you for the damages the pups did. I just wanted to point out it’s too early to plant vegetables up here yet."

She was furious and he didn’t seem to consider the situation more than an amusing incident, probably something to recount to his hunting buddies next time he and his hounds from hell went out to shoot some poor frightened deer. That, on top of everything else, caused her control to break like a raging flood over a dam. "Well, thank you very much for the weather report. A dumb little gal like me couldn’t know if some big, strong man didn’t tell her." She let the sarcasm sink in for a moment then threw down the shovel and glared at him, "Listen, Bubba, If I want a weather report I turn on the TV. I don’t need any advice from a dumb hillbilly. You probably plant by the signs, too!"

He chuckled, "Matter of fact, I do." 

Enough was enough. "Get off my land! Now! Take those- those beasts with you", she screamed.

"Yes, ma’am. Anything to oblige a ‘lady’"

He sauntered calmly back up the hill. Casey stomped her foot and threw the shovel she still clutched in her hand to the ground. Stomping in Georgia clay was not too satisfactory and the shovel just fell across her other foot causing her to howl in pain. Totally frustrated, she marched inside. She filled the old enamel pot with its blue cornflower design and sat it on the eye of her ancient stove. The kettle had been Granny Weesie’s and a cup of tea made in it never failed to soothe her ruffled spirits. Some of her earliest memories were of sitting in this very kitchen with her Granny Weesie and listening to her tales of hidden Confederate gold. Granny had always ended the tales with "One day I’ll tell you where ‘tis."

Waiting was only one torture to be endured. These previously sheltered southern ladies were often forced to flee their homes and seek shelter wherever they could find it. From one day to the next they did not know what lay in store. Yet they coped! More than coped, they triumphed.

The diaries and journals women like Sarah kept tell their portion of history. These books recount terrors and trivia that made up their lives during the conflict. Always the backdrop for these everyday events was the might drama of The War. Whether you refer to it as the Civil War, the War Between the States or even the War of Northern Aggression, you will find more than a dry history lesson here. These little known works, many unpublished or retired over a century ago, tell stories you won’t want to miss. It is for this reason, the first book released by Flaming Magnolia Imprint of Global Authors Publications is Sarah’s Story. Sarah and countless other Southern women like her, lend a poignancy to history that cannot be matched by the loud clashes of generals and their armies.

Excerpt

Chapter 1
Background

Who is Eric Robert Rudolph? Arresting officer Jeff Postell found him cooperative and respectful. His Nantahala ninth grade teacher, Angie Bateman, recalls him only because of one essay he wrote in her class. Doyle Grant knew Eric as a polite and competent carpenter who worked on the Grant home. According to an interview Grant gave the New York Times, "It was always ‘Yes, ma’am’ and "Yes, sir.’ I never heard a swear word out of him."
Another man, John Glenn, who hired the 18 or 19-year-old Eric, along with a brother and a friend, to work on his home tells a very different story. "He was a lousy carpenter. He was a poor student, a bad soldier, and an incompetent bomb maker. He built a bomb to try to kill hundreds of people and only killed two. I would say he wasn’t even good at that. The only thing I would say was he was a good survivalist."

Who is this person who allegedly set off four bombs that took 2 lives and wounded more than 150 others?

A ninth grade dropout and a college student, an anti-government dissident who enlisted and served 18 months in the army; everything about this man is paradoxical.
To begin to understand the complex mass of contradictions that is Eric Rudolph, you need to go back. Way back …

Eric was the fifth of Patricia and Robert Rudolph’s six children. Even his birth was unusual. He was born at home in Merritt Island, Florida on Sept. 19, 1966. Robert was an aircraft mechanic. Perhaps the first seeds of distrust of authority were sown when Eric was in his early teens. Robert was diagnosed with Melanoma, a deadly strain of skin cancer. While fighting for his life, there appeared to be one drug that the family believed might have helped—Laetrile. Sadly, it was not approved by the Food and Drug Administration. The family tried to obtain the drug by legal means in this country. They failed. They did finally succeed in getting it from Mexico but either their faith was misplaced in the "wonder cure" or it was too late.

When the cancer took his father in 1981, young Eric must have felt betrayed by the government. Perhaps the seeds of discontent with a government that fails to help some of those who need it most were already flourishing in his fertile mind. By all accounts, both parents had a lack of total trust in "the system."

His mother, Patricia, was a free thinker, a product of the "Beatnik" era. She prided herself on being an intellectual. In an interview with USA Today, she described herself as "a pacifist", an "anarchist", "anti-government" and a "Christian."
Patricia grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. When and where she met and married Robert Rudolph remains unknown to the public. She was at least in her late teens or twenties. Obviously, she was always seeking answers in religion. As a young woman, she entered a Catholic convent and became a novice, the first step towards becoming a nun. She left before her final vows. Perhaps it was then that she began her quest for a faith that would fulfill her needs. She obviously included her children on that religious quest. She also brought her family up to look beyond the obvious. Nowhere is there any record of her using violent means to accomplish her goals. She believes her son could not be guilty of the things he is accused of because, "He was not taught violence at home."

She fears the government will fabricate the evidence against Eric. "What they are trying to do is build a case. They are matching nails and crazy things like that. Well, who doesn’t have nails in their garage? Why do you think they are building this case? Because he made them look like the fools they are."

Patricia never had much faith in the government. She passed that heritage to her children. But then during the 60’s and 70’s, whose faith in the government wasn’t severely shaken? The Kennedy assassination and the Warren Commission caused many people, with a lot stronger faith in the federal powers that be, to shake their heads in disbelief.

Then there was Watergate. Who of us that lived through that period doesn’t remember our president, the highest official in the land, lying and stonewalling the investigation until even the stupidest supporter had to realize the truth? Add that to the fact that all of Richard Nixon’s henchmen went to prison—granted it was a country club type setting for most—and all he did was resign.

Yes, while Pat Nixon was proclaiming her husband’s innocence, Pat Rudolph might have had just a little more reason to distrust the government.