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 Not long ago, but before interstate highways ran around towns and cities, a young man left Greensboro late one night to drive to his old home in Lexington. At that time, just east of Jamestown, the old road dipped through a tunnel under the train tracks.
The young man knew the road well, but it was a thick foggy night in early summer and he drove cautiously, especially when he neared the Jamestown underpass. Many wrecks had taken place at that spot. He slowed down on the curve leading to the tunnel and was halfway through it when his eyes almost popped out of his head. Standing on the roadside just beyond the underpass was an indistinct white figure with arm raised in a gesture of distress. The young man quickly slammed on his brakes and came to a stop beside the figure. |
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 There was fog in the low places and out of the blackness overhead fell a fine, steady rain. It made little ponds of the ruts in the lonely country road. Hugged by scrub pines, vines and underbrush the road straggled for perhaps a hundred yards. Then the woods stopped abruptly and there lay the wet softly gleaming rails at Maco Station. Maco lies fourteen miles west of Wilmington on the Wilmington-Florence-Augusta line of what is now the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad. It is today much as it must have looked to Joe Baldwin more than one hundred years ago. |
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The story below isn't of a ghost, but of an occurance strange enough to be here. This is a story of historical fact.  If you've ever been through Screven County, Georgia on Hwy 301 toward South Carolina you've been through Jacksonborough, though you probably never new it. Jacksonborough was once the county seat of Screven. That was before Lorenzo Dow came to town.
Like many travelling preachers of that day, Lorenzo Dow often counted on the hospitality of those in the towns he ministered to. When he walked the dusty road into Jacksonborough he expected the fine Southern hospitatlity he had seen so many times before in such sleepy little towns. Instead he found that the townspeople were quite rude. Everyone he met greeted him with cold stares and abusive words. Everyone except Seaborn Goodall. |
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 Many years ago in Screven County Georgia there was a small country community known as Six Bridges. The community consisted of no more than the homes of those who lived there and a rugged, one room church where all could be found on Sunday morning singing hyms and enjoying fellowship. There were no stores in Six Bridges so shopping was done in the nearby town of Hilltonia.
The people of Six Bridges were friendly and well liked by their Hilltonia neighbors. Talk had begun lately, however, that no one had seen anyone from Six Bridges in town for some time. The decision was finally made to make the trip to Six Bridges and see that everything was alright. |
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