In Tennessee, the hills hum with songs too old for the living to understand. The Smoky Mountains breathe out their mist and gather up the restless — settlers who vanished into the woods, old spirits who never forgot their broken promises. In Adams, the Bell Witch still laughs through the fields, her whispers threading between the trees, daring the foolish to come closer. The graveyards lean into the roads and the churches sigh in their sleep, each one heavy with names the land refuses to let go.

Down in the lowlands, the fields of Shiloh drink the morning fog and the memory of blood, battles stitched so deep into the soil that even the trees seem to stand in mourning. In Memphis, the Orpheum Theatre keeps a little girl named Mary forever clapping from the balconies, while at Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary, the footsteps of the damned echo down cold, empty halls where sunlight never lingers. Across the rivers and mountains, the old songs rise like mist — hymns twisted by sorrow, promises too bitter to break.

In Tennessee, the dead don’t just haunt the land — they shape it. Their songs stitch themselves into the rivers, the fields, the stones. And if you linger too long, if you listen too closely, the hills will hum a little louder, a little sweeter, just for you — and you’ll never leave the chorus again.

Ghost Stories and Scary American Folklore from Across the United States