The Catawba Switch

I grew up in the low country of South Carolina, where Spanish moss drips from live oaks like frayed nooses and the marsh fog creeps in with the tide. My brother Eli and I were twelve and ten that summer, and we thought we were invincible. When our parents dropped us off at our great-aunt Hester’s farm for the weekend, we barely listened to their warnings. The farm had been in our family since before the Civil War, and the main house was a sagging Colonial with a wraparound porch that groaned under its own weight. But there was a carriage house out back, and that’s where Aunt Hester said we’d sleep—she claimed the main house was too drafty for children.

Aunt Hester was a wiry woman with eyes the color of swamp water and a habit of muttering to herself. She gave us a tour, her voice a dry rustle like corn husks. She showed us the hand-pump well, the root cellar, and the old tobacco barn where the curing fires had been doused decades ago. ‘Y’all stay out of the woods past the creek,’ she said, pointing a crooked finger. ‘And whatever you do, don’t touch the Catawba switch.’ She pointed to a gnarled, blackened stick propped against the hearth. It looked like it had been burned in a fire, but the ends were jagged, as if snapped by a strong hand. ‘That switch belonged to your great-great-granddaddy. He used it on the slaves, and they say it still holds their anger.’ Eli scoffed, but I felt a cold prickle at the back of my neck.

That night, we settled into the carriage house loft. The room smelled of hay dust and old wood, and the only light came from a kerosene lantern that threw dancing shadows on the rafters. We lay on creaky cots, and Eli was snoring within minutes. But I lay awake, listening to the chorus of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Then, around two in the morning, a sound cut through the night—a low, rhythmic thumping, like a heart beating underground. It seemed to come from the direction of the tobacco barn. I sat up, my heart racing. The thumping grew louder, more insistent, and then I heard a voice—a man’s voice, deep and gravelly, singing a work song I didn’t recognize. The words were slurred, as if through water.

I shook Eli awake. ‘Do you hear that?’ I whispered. He blinked, annoyed, then his eyes widened. ‘Is that Aunt Hester?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s coming from the barn.’ We crept to the window. The barn was a dark silhouette against the night sky, but a faint orange glow flickered from its cracks—as if a fire was burning inside. But we’d seen no one light it. The singing grew louder, punctuated by a sharp crack, like a whip. Then it stopped abruptly, and the glow vanished.

We grabbed the lantern and, despite our gut instincts, sneaked out to the barn. The door was ajar, and when we pushed it open, a wave of cold air hit us, reeking of burnt tobacco and something else—blood. The floor was littered with old curing hooks and dried leaves, but in the center, the dirt was oddly smooth, as if something had been dragged across it. Eli pointed to a corner: there, propped against a post, was the blackened switch. ‘I thought Aunt Hester had it by the fireplace,’ he said. ‘She did,’ I replied. ‘Unless someone moved it.’ But there were no footprints in the dust except ours.

We backed out, and as we turned to run back to the carriage house, I felt a searing pain on the back of my thigh, as if I’d been struck. I yelped and spun around, but there was nothing. Eli looked at me, his face pale in the lantern light. ‘Your leg,’ he said, his voice trembling. I looked down and saw a thin, red welt rising on my skin, already blistering—exactly the shape of a switch.

Back in the loft, we huddled together, too scared to sleep. The thumping resumed, now faster, like a frantic pulse, and the voice sang again, but this time it was a woman’s wail, a sorrowful keen that seemed to shake the walls. I covered my ears, but the sound seeped through my hands. Then, as suddenly as it began, everything went silent. The silence was worse.

The next morning, Aunt Hester found us pale and shaking. She looked at the welt on my leg and nodded slowly. ‘I told you not to touch it,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t,’ I protested. ‘It touched me.’ She sighed and handed us a jar of dark honey. ‘Rub that on the welt. It’ll take the poison out.’ Then she led us to the porch and pointed toward the woods. ‘That switch was made from a branch of a Catawba tree that grew on the old slave burial ground. My granddaddy cut it to keep the spirits in line. But the spirits don’t forget. They’re always looking for someone to punish.’

We left that afternoon, and we never slept at the farm again. But for years, I carried that welt like a brand. And sometimes, late at night, I still hear that singing—a deep, mournful sound that seems to rise from the earth itself, as if the ground remembers what has been done to it. And I know that the switch is still there, waiting, and that somewhere, out in the Catawba woods, the voices are never truly silent.