The Head-Scratching Tale(s) of Dorchester’s Most Confusing Ghost

In the mosquito-thick swamps of Dorchester County, somewhere between history and hearsay, lurks Maryland’s most wildly inconsistent spirit. Folklorists agree that no two versions of her story match. It’s less a ghost tale and more a Choose Your Own Misadventure. Some call her Big Liz and others Big Lizz, but the wise don’t call her at all.

A Woman of Many Descriptions

Nobody agrees on what she looked like. Some say she was a giantess who could outmuscle a pair of mules; others claim she was a slip of a gal with the strength of a hurricane. One teller insists she was so mighty her name needed extra consonants—Bigg Lizz—just to contain her legend.

She was born enslaved on a Bucktown plantation where the tobacco grew tall and the stories taller. Her enslaver’s name might have been John Rustin, a die-hard Confederate fanboy in a border state. He spent the Civil War smuggling supplies to the Rebels—food or gold or silver.

This went along fine until the Union army started “mysteriously” intercepting those supplies. When the leaks continued, Rustin sniffed out the rat: apparently Lizz had a side hustle passing intel to the Yankees.

The Spy Who Dug Too Much

Rustin needed to get rid of Lizz, but he couldn’t confront the intimidating woman. So, he concocted a foolproof plan. One moonlit night—unless it was moonless—he told Lizz to help him bury a chest of Confederate gold in Greenbrier Swamp. Lizz, planning to alert the Union, agreed.

She hefted the chest like it was a sack of feathers and loaded it onto a wagon. Or she hauled it through miles of muck on foot while the Master followed behind with a shovel and a suspiciously sharp tool—a machete, a three-foot-long tobacco knife, or maybe a full-on cavalry sword.

When they got to the swamp, Lizz dug a hole so deep that only her neck and shoulders were visible above. Rustin watched from his perch on a log or on the wagon. When she finished digging, he decided the hole and the moment were perfect.

With one mighty swing of his mystery blade, he lopped off her head—cleanly, clumsily, or with artistic flair. It rolled into the reeds, bounced off a tree, or maybe just landed dramatically in the mud. Rustin buried the gold (and maybe Lizz) and headed home, smug and swampy.

The Immediate Aftermath

As he trudged back, he heard footsteps—or didn’t. By 3 a.m., he was tucked in bed, dreaming of Rebel victory, when scratching filled the house and the air turned cold. Rustin, spooked out of his wits, flung open his bedroom door, or maybe he just sat up in bed, and there she was.

Big Lizz glowed with a pale blue flame (or green, or ghostly white), holding her severed head like a lantern from hell, eyes blazing red (or yellow). One version of the tale claims her head floated in behind her like a haunted helium balloon.

Some say she snapped Rustin’s neck and tossed him out a third-story window like a ragdoll. Others claim she chased him around the room with that knife-machete-sword until he leaped to his doom, terrified of spending eternity headless.

Either way, he woke up deader than the Confederacy’s dreams. The slaves whispered about cleaning up two sets of muddy footprints—and the legend of Big Lizz was born.

The Haunting That Won’t Quit

For a century and a half, people have claimed to see ghostly blue lights flickering over Greenbrier Swamp. Lizz’s spectral lantern? She’s been spotted drifting along the Transquaking River or loitering on DeCoursey Bridge, holding her head in her right hand—unless it’s her left.

Local folklore maintains that Lizz is guarding Rustin’s gold to keep it out of evil hands. But generations of treasure hunters have come up empty, possibly because the directions vary every time someone retells the story. Others insist she lures the greedy into the marsh, promising riches and delivering silence.

The Ritual (Version 3.0)

Every October, local thrill-seekers test the legend for themselves. If you’re brave or foolish or bored enough, you too can try calling Big Lizz. Drive out to DeCoursey Bridge at midnight and turn off the car.

Some say you call her name three times. Others demand you honk three times and flash your headlights twice. One bold storyteller insists you must shout Civil War trivia into the mist. “Big Lizz! Maryland never joined the Confederacy!” Or “Lincoln freed the slaves!”

Big Lizz might just appear, possibly glowing blue, possibly holding her own head. The car won’t start again until dawn, which is either supernatural interference or just a dying battery from leaving the lights on.

And that Rebel gold? Still missing. Maybe it’s under the swamp. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Either way, it’s not worth the risk to find out, even for Confederate bling.

Still Watching Over the Shore

Big Lizz remains the Eastern Shore’s most enduring and least consistent legend: a woman so strong she survived slavery, decapitation, and more than a century of contradictory stories. She’s part ghost, part folklore, part cautionary tale about helping your boss after hours.

So, if you ever find yourself near DeCoursey Bridge after midnight and feel tempted to honk, flash, or holler, be warned: Big Lizz might show up. Or she might not. Follow her if you dare, but don’t expect to come back with the gold . . . or a clear version of the story.

Thanks to Mindie Burgoyne, Myth Woodling, S.E. Schlosser, Ron Ieraci, Ed Okonowicz, and Danielle Webster for their takes on the legend.