Presenting three ghost stories written by students at Summerville High School in Summerville, South Carolina. Scroll down the page to read them all!

The first ghost story is “The Labrador” – a tale of a mysterious white dog guarding the spot of his master’s death. Written by Bethany Polutta.

On November 7, 1960, a traveling salesman came to Goshen Hill for a few days, selling his wares from door to door. He was a friendly man with a warm grin and a joke for everyone. He was accompanied by a large white dog that rode on the wagon beside him; companion, friend, and guardian of his wares.

The salesman and dog were making their way out of town when a murder was discovered in one of the places in which they had sported their wares. Suspicion blossomed at once against the stranger—certainly no one of the townsfolk was capable of committing such a crime!—and a lynch mob chased the salesman out of town and strung him up on a tree beside the road.

The white dog howled and barked and roared as the mob carried his master away. More than one man was bitten as the salesman, still screaming out his innocence, was silenced forever. One fellow finally shot his gun at the white dog, wounding it enough to send it whimpering away. It soon became obvious to everyone in town that they’d hung the wrong man. The corpse, dangling obscenely from the tree on Old Buncombe Road, was a grisly reminder of the community crime. They would have cut down the salesman and given him a decent burial, but the white dog stood guard over his master’s corpse day after day, savagely threatening anyone who came near the hanging tree. So the salesman’s body withered and rotted underneath the tree beside the road, filling the air with a terrible stench as it desiccated in the summer heat. It was many weeks before body and dog disappeared from the Old Buncombe Road.

A few months later, a man who’d participated in the salesman’s lynching happened to be walking down Old Buncome Road at night. As he drew near the hanging tree, his nose wrinkled in disgust as a whiff of rotten flesh swept past his face and his stomach roiled. He staggered backward, his arm over his nose, wondering what was causing the terrible stench. Then he spotted the hanging tree, and saw upon it a glowing, desiccated corpse dangling obscenely by the neck from one of its branches. And beneath the ghostly figure stood a huge, white dog with glowing red eyes.

The dog growled menacingly when he saw the man on the road, and the man stumbled backward over the rut in the center of the road and then started to run. With an ear-shattering series of barks, the white dog pursued the fleeing man with supernatural speed. The man whipped this way and that, spinning around, leaping into the woods to dodge around trees, trying to avoid the huge dog snapping at his heels. If he fell, the dog would be at his throat immediately.

The man crashed headlong into a tree and flung himself upward. Below him, the ghost dog leapt, and sharp teeth closed on the man’s hand. Pain ripped through him, and he climbed higher, trying to shake off the glowing beast. “Let go!” he screamed, kicking at it again. Suddenly, the white dog turned to mist before his eyes and swirled away. Realizing that the white dog might reappear at any moment, the man seized his chance. He slithered down the tree and ran all the way home. His wife sent a neighbor to fetch the doctor, who stitched up his hand as best he could. The white dog had nearly severed the palm, and the nerves were so badly damaged that he was crippled in that hand for the rest of his life.

The man later learned that every person who had participated in the lynching of the salesman was attacked by the ghost of the white dog. Many—like himself—were crippled in some way. As for the fellow who’d shot and injured the white dog—well, his four-year-old son disappeared and was never seen again.


The second story is “The Impossible” – a ghost story of twins who connect with their dead birth mother from beyond the grave. Written by Makevia Capers.

Beaufort, South Carolina 1994, February 20th, was when Mrs. Cynthia Blake passed away. She was twenty-two with twins named Kaden and Jaden. She passed giving birth to them, her heart wasn’t strong enough, so it gave out on her, and I guess it was her time to go. She wrote in her will she knew she was going to die; she said her friend up stairs showed it to her in a dream, so she wanted me to keep Kaden and Jaden. As I read her will, tears started pouring down my face; I wasn’t only crying because she passed, I was crying because the two handsome boys will never know who their real mother is and how intelligent she was. They will never know what a real mother’s love felt like because I was only sixteen; I was still a child myself.

March 23, 2002, I was sitting in the kitchen, and I heard laughing and playing coming from upstairs. It was an unfamiliar sound added; it didn’t sound like the footsteps of children; it sounded like the footsteps of an adult. I then yelled Kaden, Jaden; then there was a slight pause and they both yelled, “Yes mam” like they were up to something. As I was walking up the stairs the playing and laughing continued as I got to the door, I could no longer hear the third footstep that sounded like an adult footstep. As I opened the door, the two were sitting on the floor looking at me.

“Why are you guys playing so hard?” I asked.

Kaden starting smiling and pointed to the closet door, “It was Mama,” he said.

Looking around I laughed and replied, “But, I am your mama sweetheart.”

He stared at me like he was waiting on me to drop dead and said, “NO! My biological mother.”

That hurt me at heart because I was the only mother he ever knew, but I just kept a smile on my face and said, “Oh really, what is your other mother’s name?”

Then he said the name that was actually his biological mother Cynthia Blake. When he said the name the room began to get chilly, and I felt as if someone was in the room besides my boys and me. I walked out the room trying to ignore the fact that my nine-year old sons know the name of their biological mother, and I have never spoken of her since February 20th, 1994.

March 24, 2002, at one o’clock in the morning I was still up because I still wasn’t over what Kaden and Jaden had told me the night before. The name Cynthia Blake just kept giving me the chills, so I decided to go down stairs and take some medicine to put me to sleep; as I was walking down stairs there were two hard knocks on the door. I opened the door and there was nothing, but the smell of cookies, and the funny part was I wasn’t baking any cookies, so I thought to myself, could what Kaden and Jaden told me be true? I brushed it off; no, it couldn’t be; that’s impossible. I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face, then I heard what sounded like Jaden screaming, “NO MAMA, PLEASE, DON’T.” I ran into the room to him sitting up in his bed crying. I asked him what was wrong and his reply was, “Mama said I couldn’t tell, or she would hurt you.” I hugged him and told him it was a bad dream. That night I thought I heard the television switching channels. I didn’t get up to check because the things my sons where telling me was starting to get to me, but then I felt someone lying next to me breathing on the back of my neck, breath ice-cold as snow. I turned over to make sure it wasn’t the air vent, and I wasn’t tripping, but then my face started to get cold too and my lips were feeling as if they were getting blisters from the cold air, but I just continued to lay there still until my body actually fell asleep.

March 25, 2002, that morning I got up hoping the television would be off because that would have meant that everything I thought I heard and felt would have just been all in my head; sadly, I got up to the television on, so I knew that I wasn’t going crazy. I went down stairs as usual to do my daily routine, check the weather and get the boys up and ready for school. I walked outside, and it was pitch black outside and cold as if we were living in Antarctica. I went to go look at the thermometer, it read below twenty degrees. I thought to myself below twenty in July with no sun, and it was almost twelve in the afternoon; that was the strangest thing that I have ever seen. An hour after I came from outside it started thundering, lighting, and raining; so, I decided that was not the type of weather I wanted to send my children into, so I decided that they would stay home with me. We all piled into my bed reading, and all of a sudden the power went off. Five seconds after the power went off, I heard rattling coming from the kitchen. I told the boys to stay there I was going to check; I grabbed the quickest thing that I could use for a weapon. As I was walking down stairs I could hear something coming up behind me; when I turn around it was Jaden and Kaden. “Didn’t I tell you guys to stay in the room?” I said.

“Yes m’am, but we were scared,” they replied.

We continued to walk down the stairs until Kaden kept yelling “Mama is it you?”

I interrupted and said, “Didn’t I tell you I was your…” and before I could finish my sentence a long scream came from out of nowhere.

Jaden started calling again, “Mama, did you come for us?” and then everything in the house started shaking. We finally got down stairs and there was a light; it wasn’t an ordinary old kitchen light; it was a light like a train was going to run us over, only we didn’t live by any tracks, and I saw doctors and two little baby boys. I went up to go hold them, but it was like they were heliographed; then I heard doctors yelling like they were rushing to do something, and right then and there I knew it was Kaden and Jaden’s biological mother Cynthia Blake. The light that I saw got even brighter, so I closed my eyes and when I opened them nothing was there not even Kaden and Jaden; I yelled around the house for them, but there was nothing not a sinker from their laughs, not a thump from their little feet, nothing.


The third ghost story is “The Black Dog,” about a mysterious ghost dog taking revenge on the truck driver who killed him. Written by Brian Latham.

Have you ever heard of the story of the Black Dog? If not, then here is some spooky themes and stories about the Black Dog. The story behind the Black Dog starts off as a normal scary or tragic story. From what I have heard from my family, it started out a normal night with a normal Black Dog walking into the street, trying to get to the other side to the woods. When suddenly, out of nowhere a driver behind the wheel of a truck came around the corner. The driver had not sleep in hours and started to get tired, and when he turned around the corner he passed out in the drivers set and hit the dog; the hit from the car killed the dog immediately. After that, when people start driving and start to get sleepy the Black Dog jumps up on the side of the car, barking and trying to get revenge on the person who ran him over many of years ago.

Not lots of people see the Black Dog when they are tired because they probably are not tired enough to be able to see it. You probably have not heard of the Black Dog before because there is not really any stories to tell because there is not really any sightings of him. Some of the people in my family have seen this beast saying he is almost as big as their entire car causing them to crash or be driven off the road by the ginormous beast. My family members who have seen him say if he was not a spirit dog, that to be face-to –face with this monster would kill by the sight or even the smell that comes off the spirit. Also, they said if I was to come face-to-face with it, I would be torn to shreds. My dad told me his story, when he came in contact with the beast, separated by a thin piece of glass that kept him away from tearing him to pieces. I would never want to come into to contact with this beast.

When my dad got home one day he seemed startled as he had just seen a ghost. He sat in his favorite chair and said to me, “Brian, I never want you to ever be a truck driver.”

I asked, “Why don’t you want me to be a truck driver?” At first he was hesitated from telling me but then he said, “Because of the Black Dog.”

I thought hard to think about the Black Dog, but I just thought of a dog that’s fur was black, and I asked, “Are you talking about a black dog that scared you when you were driving?”

He gave me a look as if I just said something stupid, but then it seemed, by the look of his face, that he realized that no one told me about the Black Dog. He stared at me and asked me, “Would you like to learn about the Black Dog, so that you can understand a little better?”

I immediately said, “yes I want to know everything about the Black Dog and do not to leave anything out about the Black Dog.”

He told me everything about how the Black Dog died, and why it tried to run people off the road and take revenge on his killer who fell asleep behind the wheel.

I said to my dad, “That’s kind of overboard, don’t you think?” He looked at me and the last thing he told me was that some people report seeing a huge kind of black mist around the car accident and that some people believe that it is the Black Dog to see if it was his killer.

When he was finished about the history of the Black Dog, he told me what happened to him and how he said it made me even more afraid of the Black Dog. He told me this: “I was driving last night, and I haven’t slept in a while, and I was getting extremely tired. I was thinking of pulling over to the side of the road to take an hour or two long nap to get some rest. Instead I decided to drive for about one more hour, and then I would get some rest. I started to get near the end of the hour of driving and decided it was time to pull over to a truck stop. Before I came to my stop to get some rest, the Black Dog jumped up, and hit the truck and the Black Dog did not take his eyes off me; and I was for sure I would be in an accident and pretty darn sure that the Black Dog was going to be having me for supper that night. The only thing going through my head at this point was that stare of his eyes that were blood-shot red.

Over the weekend after my dad got home, I was allowed to spend the night at my cousins’ house, and I told him about the Black Dog. As scary as it seemed to both of us, we decided to get my cousins’ go-cart with homemade doors on it, and when we got really tired, we went to see if we could see the Black Dog. I drove the go-cart because my cousin was way too short to reach the peddles, but I was the right height for the job. We got on the road and started to drive down the road and began to attempt to see the Black Dog; and on top of that, I was trying so hard not to go to sleep. We pulled over to the side of the road and closed our eyes for about ten seconds before we woke up to see the Black Dog. Somehow it seemed as if the beast had seen me before, and then I realized about my nickname that I was given. Little Keith was my nickname because I looked lots like my dad and then it hit me knowing that it thinks that I am my dad. It gave me a stare that made me feel as if I was being turned to stone by Medusa. It began to attempt to break the doors off. I took off and turned around facing the huge beast. I reacted and by hitting the gas pedal and headed straight for the Black Dog, and he did the same charging towards us. My cousin kept yelling, “Stop Brian, Stop!” I refused and hit the pedal to the floor board of the go-cart. When we were at least five to six feet away from the beast, it disappeared right into thin air. My cousin still believes it was not after us, but I think that it was because of the adrenaline that we had been going so fast that we were not tired anymore, and we became aware, alert, and awake. To this day, I have not seen the Black Dog, and I don’t plan on seeing him again for the rest of my life. This is my story and my experience with the legendary Black Dog.


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