Shadows and Secrets: The Paranormal History of The King-Criswell-Garrett Home
As I stepped up the creaky porch steps of the King-Criswell-Garrett Home in Selma, Alabama, a chill ran down my spine. It didn’t have anything to do with the crisp evening air, but rather with the palpable weight of history that seemed to settle around me like fog. This place, rich in stories, was built in the 1850s and had seen its fair share of triumphs, tragedies, and a whole lot of lingering energy. I was about to embark on an evening that would make me reconsider everything I thought I knew about the paranormal.
The house itself is a striking example of Greek Revival architecture, with its tall columns and grand façade seemingly standing as a witness to both time and tide. Local historians often recount tales of the house’s original owner, John King, who was a notable figure in Selma's turbulent Civil War era. With stories of clandestine meetings and whispers of Confederate loyalties, the home is steeped in historical significance. But on that night, it wasn’t just history that called me—it was the unsettling rumors of ghosts that beckoned.
According to local lore, the house is haunted by the spirits of its original inhabitants. Rumors often swirl about the spirit of a woman named Elizabeth Garrett, who was said to have spent her last days waiting for her husband to return from war. As the story goes, he never returned—his fate lost to the annals of history—and Elizabeth’s sorrow left behind an echo that still resonates within the very walls of the house.
Armed with this history and an insatiable curiosity, I joined an intimate group of ghost enthusiasts who had gathered for a night of exploration and perhaps, a brush with the other side. As the group settled into the parlor, an older gentleman named Mr. Thompson, who claimed to be a paranormal researcher for over twenty years, shared his experiences. "You may think you're alone," he warned us, "but you’re never really alone here." The dim light cast shadows that danced along the walls, and I couldn't help but feel as if the house itself was eavesdropping.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the air thickened with tension, and my heart raced with anticipation. We moved through the home, armed with EMF detectors and infrared cameras, feeling more like ghost hunters from a reality show than regular folks on a ghost tour. I could hear the rustle of leaves outside, but inside, it was eerily quiet—only the distant tick of the antique grandfather clock to remind us that time continued, at least in the living world.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen, sending jolts of adrenaline through our group. We rushed to investigate, only to find nothing amiss. It was disconcerting, the way the house seemed to hold its secrets so well. We laughed nervously, trying to brush off the unease, but the feeling remained, like a spider’s web lurking in the corners of my mind.
Next, we entered the library—a room that seemed to hold a different energy. With shelves full of books, dust danced in the air under the flickering candlelight. Ms. Johnson, a seasoned historian, shared a chilling account. “I once saw an apparition right here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “A woman in a flowing white dress, her face so sad, just staring out the window. I could almost feel her longing.” The thought sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching us as we spoke.
Throughout the night, we scattered into smaller groups, researching various rooms while also indulging in ghost stories and laughter to dispel the fear that crept up our spines. I found myself gravitating toward the upstairs bedrooms, where the air felt heavier and the temperature eerily dropped. It was here that the alleged incidents of paranormal activity intensified—doors slamming, whispers echoing, and objects moving on their own.
Just as I was documenting my thoughts in a notepad, I felt a sudden brush against my arm. Startled, I turned, convinced it was just a fellow ghost hunter, but no one was there. Panic bubbled in my chest, and I could barely breathe as I dropped my pencil. It rolled across the floor, coming to rest beneath an old vanity. As I bent to retrieve it, I found myself staring into the mirror—only, the reflection wasn’t just mine. I swear I caught a glimpse of a woman behind me, her soft features clouded in grief. I whipped around, but found the hallway empty. My heart raced, pounding in my ears.
Shaking, I stumbled back into the parlor, eager to share my experience. My fellow ghost hunters listened intently, wide-eyed and murmuring about the house's reputation for drawing in the unsuspecting. “Sometimes they say spirits can sense when someone is open to communication,” Mr. Thompson chimed in. “Perhaps she just wanted to connect.” A thought struck me: What if I had unknowingly opened a door to her past?
As the night wore on, I felt more attuned to the home, as if it were a living entity, breathing life into the shadows. Every creak of the floorboards seemed to chant secrets and histories lost to time. Stories woven into the very fabric of the place echoed through my thoughts. I imagined Elizabeth Garrett, gazing out those very windows, longing for a connection that was forever lost—a tragic ending looping through eternity.
When I finally stepped back into the cool Alabama night, I felt a sense of loss, as if I were leaving behind a piece of myself. The King-Criswell-Garrett Home was not just a house; it was a vessel of memories, an archive of emotions, reaching out into the shadows and calling to those willing to listen.
This isn’t just an ordinary haunted house; it’s a reminder of how history lingers on, tethered to the living by threads unseen. In the quiet whispers of the night, as I looked back at the silhouette of the house, I realized that its true story wasn’t confined to the past—it was alive, waiting for the next seeker willing to plunge into its depths and unearth the shadows and secrets that lay concealed.
