There’s an old primitive Baptist church called Talking Rock Baptist Church tucked back in the hills not far from Jasper. In Talking Rock, actually. It’s truly a beautiful place with its white clapboard walls, stone foundation, an a very typical Southern small steeple pointing up to the sky. It’s nothing flashy and obviously nothing about it screams haunted at first glance. But if you know the story, you feel it the second you step onto the grounds.
The mind is truly that powerful!
Local legend says a wedding once ended in heartbreak there, but no one agrees on the details. Some say the bride was left at the alter and others claim something more tragic happened before vows were spoken, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. They all say the ending is the same. A life was broken, a promise unkept, and a spirit that never moved on. Today, people whisper about phantom wedding processions drifting down the aisle, the sound of muffled bells, and ghostly hymns echoing when no one is inside.
Don’t ask me how those are heard. I’m just told they are.
One evening, my husband and I drove out there to see for ourselves. The road narrowed the farther we went, twisting through the trees making everything darker and darker. Talking Rock is in the middle of nowhere, and ambient light is foreign out by us, so when I say dark, I mean dark. We barely saw the church even though we had parked right next to it.
Creepy factor at a ten on a scale of 1 to 10.
We didn’t even make it to the door before I heard something faint nearby. At first, I brushed it off as wind through the trees. My husband stopped walking, tilted his head, and listened.
I asked him, “Do you hear that?” I realized what it was. Music, soft and low, maybe the sound of a hymn. The closer we got to the church entrance, the clearer it became.
But no one else was there, at least not that we could tell. The windows were dark. Jack went up ahead. He checked the doors, but they were locked, and since ours was the only car in the parking lot, we knew we were alone. Still, the melody played.
We circled around to the back, me holding onto him for dear life. The air grew colder. Not just a passing chill but a real drop in temperature that raised the hairs on my arms. I knew what that meant, and I wanted to bolt, but my husband refused. He wanted to debunk the theories, and since I was too scared to sit in the car without him, I had to stick around.
The strangest moment came when we stood by the side door. A single, clear note rang out from inside. It was barely audible, but sharp enough to stop us both. We waited, me barely breathing, and Jack still thinking it had an explanation, but then came the sound of steps on wooden floors, slow and steady, and pacing the length of the church.
That was enough for me. I explained I was leaving, and either he was coming, or he would have to walk home. I think he took me seriously, because he followed.
He still believes there is a logical explanation for what happened, but I don’t care. I’m not interested in finding out what it is.
The church still stands. Few people talk about it beyond a hushed mention, but those who’ve been there know. And I’m one of them.
