I'm from South Georgia and personally I feel that the south is filled with the paranormal. This story comes from my childhood and it is an experience that I'll never forget.
When I was 12, my brother and I decided to spend the weekend at my grandmother's house. This had been the first time that we ever stayed with her and we were very excited. On the way there, my dad decided to tell us that we needed to be careful because the house was old and that strange things happened during the night. When we asked why he told us that many years ago, the house had been a funeral home owned by his great-grandfather.
Unphased, we bravely went ahead with our sleepover. There was only one bed in the house (the one that my grandparents slept in) so we had to sleep in the living room that night. At about 2:00 that night, I was awoken to a strange sound. I opened my eyes to see the chandelier swing back in forth. I thought it was the wind, but realized there were no open windows or fans going, so why was it moving? I woke my brother up and he didn't know what it was either. We had trouble sleeping the rest of the night.
The next night, around the same time, we were awoken by a strange squeaking sound. It appeared to be coming from the hallway and sounded like someone pushing a cart down it. A few minutes later we were hit with a strong smell like someone was smoking a cigar. We tried to ignore it and later it went away.
The night after that, my brother woke me up when he swore somebody sat on the couch he was sleeping on. About an hour later we heard a strange voice saying that children aren't allowed back here. We both screamed and ran into our grandparents room, where we stayed for the rest of the night.
I told myself that it was just my mind playing tricks on me and that dad just told us that story to freak us out, something that he does often. But that all changed when a few years later when I was doing a report on my family in high school that I found out that what he had said was true.
You see long ago my town was split into three communities and instead of bringing someone 30 miles into town by wagon; they had funeral homes in these areas to serve them. Turns out my great-great-grandfather owned one of them. It was also revealed that he had died there in the funeral home from an apparent heart attack.
To this day I have never spent another night in that house and I don't spend more than few hours inside it when I'm visiting my grandparents.