Springer's Point

We never got to the museum, or to the edge of the harbor to listen for Martha Ann's gasp, last night. But we did venture down the long path to deserted Springer's Point. We turned and walked up the small hill and meandered along a narrower path among ancient live oak trees and lush English Ivy.

At the graveyard, thick with vines and moss, we stopped and waited patiently. Quiet reigned. We peered into the darkness, looking for the smoky specters Roy Parsons claims to have seen down there after dark. I even sat on the edge of the old cistern listening for sounds from deep in the woods. Eventually tree frogs announced their presence, but no shadowy figures appeared.

We continued along the path, past some of Ocracoke's largest live oaks, and emerged on the sandy shore. Pamlico Sound was calm with tiny waves lapping at the beach. As we stood there, the moon, bright and full, rose slowly above the canopy of oaks and cedars, giving a ghostly hue to the entire point.

Talk turned to old Ned Teach who is reputed to roam this area searching for his head.

The walk back was quiet as we made furtive glances into the darkness at nearly every step.

By the time we returned home it was nearly 12 o'clock. Perhaps next time we'll be brave enough to stay until the stroke of midnight.