It was the during fall semester of 2012, on a calm and brisk October evening. I was attending an evening class in Allgood Hall, and I found myself very weary and tired eyed, having spent the majority of the day, since the early morning, on campus. Because of the morning rush, I found it considerably difficult to find a parking space available in any of the student lots, and so I took an empty length of non-yellow painted curb on Arsenal Avenue closest to the adjacent Walton Way.

I had done this many times before, considering parking was, and to some degree still is, absolutely terrible on campus. It was routine, mundane, and comfortable. I had been a student at the university for nearly two years, and in that time, I had kept all forms of late and awkward hours using the facilities there. I had never felt frightened, vulnerable, or in any way anxious or fearful of my surroundings. This particular night, however, left a very lasting impression on me for years to come.

I remember taking a different route that day, choosing to walk through the arsenal courtyard, past the mounted cannon, and along the intricate masonry which led out through the archaic and faded yellow walls of the armory’s old perimeter and into the deserted parking lot of the business office. Pulling up the collar of my jacket against the cold autumn breeze, I found the absence of the florescent lights which normally illuminated the lot from above rather curious, leaving me to consider the cause for the outage. While unsettling, I contented myself with the idea that perhaps the timers which activated the lamps were simply out of sync, given that it had only just recently started getting dark earlier in the evening.

Pressing on and across the vacant lot, I caught sight of my brightly colored vehicle sitting a little further up the way. While the wide open space of the parking lot had afforded me some degree of ambient natural light, the area where I had chosen to park was nearly pitch black, thanks to dense canopy of trees which extended from both sides of the street and cast the area in a seemingly unnatural darkness. Feeling a sense of unease, I made a point to quickly close the distance between myself and my driver’s side door with as few strides and in as little time as possible; a feat I would have easily accomplished had I not fumbled with my keys and dropped them onto the pavement at my feet.

For a sudden and inexplicable reason, I felt a chill run down my spine. It’s a sensation I can only relate to a feeling of being watched. I retrieved my keys and I rose from my crouched position beside the vehicle. Slowly turning my head to the left, I could just make out the profile of a male figure, not much taller than myself and of a similar build, standing in the darkness not even 25 feet away. Initially, this realization startled me, but being of a rational mind, I assumed the figure was simply another Summerville resident out for an evening stroll, or perhaps a student on their way home from class. The figure paused momentarily, as if acknowledging my presence, before continuing at slow and leisurely pace towards me on the opposite side of the street.

At this point, I was starting to get really uncomfortable. I called out to the figure, looking for some form of communication to relieve my anxieties, but my companion offered nothing in return. Instead, they stopped in front of the Walker Family cemetery, turned to look directly at me, and then walked into the cemetery…straight through the cast iron bars of the gate before disappearing from view. By the time my mind had finally processed what I had just witnessed, a droning hum echoed through the air as all of the previously inactive streetlamps in the nearby parking lot began to flicker and then slowly come to life. The figure was gone.

I stood there, speechless and terrified, not wanting to take my eyes off of where I had lost sight of the entity. With my right hand, I blindly and desperately prodded at what I thought was my door lock, until the key found its mark and slid quietly into the tumbler. It wasn’t until I tried putting the stick into first gear to start my vehicle that I noticed how badly my hands were shaking. I gripped the wheel, took a deep breath, and told myself that what I had seen was simply my imagination. It was nothing more than the dark playing tricks on my mind.

This went on for a few minutes more until, having mostly calmed my fears, I reached down to start the engine. However, I paused as I suddenly heard something faint on the wind. It was the sound of a very old and familiar tune, one that I had heard a thousand times before, but never in such an ominous and terrifying context.

Someone was whistling Dixie...