Whispers from the Past

Typically, this blog is filled with historical stories—tales of the past that are as intriguing as they are factual. But this time, the story I’m sharing, while captivating, contains some fantastical elements that I sincerely hope aren’t real.

Tanner Beach Road holds some of my earliest and fondest memories—from flying remote-controlled helicopters with my dad to playing with cousins at family reunions - the park was a place of pure joy. We actually lived in a house on Tanner Beach Road (in the late 80s) when my brother was born.

So why, over 30 years later, am I dreaming about bodies buried beneath the lake's surface? The dream was so eerie, that it inspired a story that needed to be told.

Photo credit: Jose Mata/Google Reviews

It was a quiet summer evening at John Tanner Park, or as the locals called it, Tanner’s Beach. The park, with its man-made lake, sandy beach, and quaint picnic spots, had always been a cherished place for families. My family’s connection to Tanner’s Beach ran deep; we once lived on Tanner’s Beach Road. Memories of that place always filled me with a sense of nostalgia, but something else lurked beneath the surface of those memories—something unsettling.

I remember that day vividly. The sun was high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the shimmering water as families scattered across the park, enjoying the warm breeze. I was walking along the trail that circled the lake when I saw it—a tiny copperhead snake, coiled up in the grass near a group of children. One little girl, with curly blonde hair and a curious smile, reached out her hand toward the snake. Her parents sat nearby, oblivious to the danger.

My heart raced as I rushed forward, snatching the snake away before it could strike. The girl looked up at me, confused, as I carried the snake toward the water’s edge. I wasn’t sure what drove me, but I was convinced that the snake had come from the lake, and that there were more of them hiding beneath its surface. I needed to protect the people in the park.

I found a strange powder in my pocket—I don’t know how it got there or what it was, but it felt right. I sprinkled it into the water, watching as it dissolved, hoping it would rid the lake of any other lurking dangers. But as the powder vanished beneath the waves, a chill ran down my spine.

Later that afternoon, my dad and I took the boat out onto the lake. The air was still, the water eerily calm. As we drifted, we talked about the snakes and what else might be hiding in the depths of the man-made lake. We didn’t speak of it aloud, but there was an unspoken fear between us, a sense that something was not quite right.

It wasn’t long before we saw it—a body floating in the water, face down. My breath caught in my throat as we slowly approached, expecting to find a drowned victim. But as we drew closer, we noticed another body, then another, scattered across the surface of the lake. 

We should have left, we should have turned the boat around and gone straight to shore, but something held us there, some morbid curiosity or perhaps an invisible force. The lake, once a place of fun and family gatherings, had transformed into something dark, something sinister.

Then we saw him—a man, dressed in military fatigues, floating lifelessly. But as we neared, his eyes flickered open, and he began to move. We pulled him into the boat, frantic to help. He was young, maybe in his late twenties, his clothes soaked and his face pale. He looked at us with wild eyes, breathing heavily as if he’d been running for his life.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, but his response was disjointed, rambling about a jungle, being separated from his unit, and hiding from something or someone. The word “Vietnam” slipped from his lips, and I glanced at Dad, who only shrugged and muttered, “Maybe.”

But as the man spoke, something changed. His eyes grew distant, his skin cold. I realized then that he wasn’t alive. He had never been alive—at least not for decades. His presence in the boat was an impossibility, yet there he was, and we had touched him, spoken to him. 

Fear gripped me as we managed to get him back into the water, watching as he slowly sank beneath the surface. We rowed back to shore in silence, both of us too shaken to speak.

I couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to tell someone. I rushed to the main park office, finding the park ranger at his desk. As I recounted what we’d seen, he listened calmly, his expression barely changing. When I finished, he simply nodded.

“The park’s haunted, you know,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “Been that way for a long time. Most folks don’t see it, but it’s there.”

That same day, the authorities arrived, draining the lake to uncover whatever secrets it held. The water receded, revealing a grim collection of bodies—missing persons from decades past, their lives long forgotten by everyone except the lake that held them.

I never found out what the snake had to do with any of it, or why the park had suddenly revealed its dark secrets to me. But I knew one thing for certain: the park, the lake, the house on Tanner’s Beach Road—they all held dark secrets, hidden just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered.

------------------------------------------------------
Now, this is a history blog so, let's talk about the actual "not so grim" history of the park.

Digital Library of Georgia: Benjamin M. Long Collection

The park, which first opened as the "Beach at Lakeview" in 1954, was created by local businessman John Tanner, who famously hauled boxcars of sand from Florida to build the man-made beach. By 1960, it was renamed "Tanner’s Beach," a name that’s stuck with our family. 

In 1971, the State of Georgia acquired the property and changed the name to "John Tanner State Park." The park features a picturesque lake surrounded by a walking trail, picnic areas, and a putt-putt course. It offers a variety of activities, including swimming, fishing, and bike trails. In recent years, the county has taken over the management of the park, which also includes shelters, a concession stand, and campgrounds for overnight stays.