A walk down Philadelphia Alley: A ghost story

Philadelphia Alley is a long brick-paved corridor connecting Church and State streets in Charleston’s French Quarter. The pathway appears on maps in the Holy City as far back as the 18th century. A lot of feet have walked along the slightly serpentine trail, that is now fern and shade-loving plant lined and protected by moss-covered walls. The place has become a popular tourist spot.  

Legend has it that the passage was originally called Cow Alley because people used it to move and keep their livestock. Yes, even city folks needed a cow or a goat or two. It wasn’t until the 1800s that that the stretch of bricks was dubbed Philadelphia Alley for the City of Brotherly Love after some aid was rendered in the wake of a massive fire that left Charleston charred and smoldering.

Renaming the place you keep your cows doesn’t seem like much of an honor to me, but what do I know?

To the locals though, the area is known as Duelers Alley and was the scene to at least a dozen or more duels. Though we now look at the practice as barbaric, dueling was a popular way for gentlemen, if you can call them that, to settle their differences and defend themselves when their honor was at stake. The art was prominent up until the Civil War. Even Abraham Lincoln was challenged to duel by one of his critics, allegedly to be settled “bare chested with broadswords in a pit.” I guess they didn’t have alleys in Illinois. 

Maybe we should reintroduce dueling. People are always kinder if there’s a chance of getting punched in the jaw or shot at 50 paces. 

How many people died on the bricks of Philadelphia Alley has been lost to time. But some say, at least the city’s robust tourist industry, that the blood-soaked soil is haunted by at least one ghost. The stories of Charleston’s duels are public domain and can be found all over the internet, so I won’t bore you. I usually don’t put much weight into ghost stories, but I’ve spent a lot of time in Charleston over the years and on almost every trip I walk through Philadelphia Alley. 

I like to walk through in the dead of night, after the tourists and the tour groups have passed through, but before the bars let out, so there is nothing but silence and solitude, and the darkness is only broken by the pale-yellow beams of the staggered security lights. Usually I’m armed with a camera, cellphone or otherwise to snap a few pictures. 

One night more than a decade ago I was walking along the alley with some friends. As usual I was stopping intermittently to take photos of the shadows cast on the brick when a chill ran down my spine. For several moments I was frozen in time, unable to move. When I regained control of my faculties I was overcome with a sense of uneasy fear. I looked at my friends and said: “Let’s get out of here.”

I don’t put much weight in ghost stories, but I believe in ghosts enough to know I don’t want to mess with them. I never looked at the pictures I took that night and I haven’t been to Duelers Alley since.