Happy Halloween, or Blessed Samhain, everyone!
Having recently become a licensed motorcycle rider, I'm quite conscious of keeping my own bones (and titanium replacement parts) intact, thankyouverymuch. :) Since I became a rider, I've gotten into watching motorcycle video blogs, aka "motovlogs", on Youtube. I love the strong sense of community, the diversity, and the welcoming, encouraging spirit among motovloggers.
So, while I don't yet have a fancy, helmet-mounted video cam set-up, I took my regular Canon PowerShot with me on a quick ride to take advantage of a rare, late-fall warm-up. I've ridden down to Sidecut Metropark, near Maumee, Ohio, many times, but never took the time to walk around the historic cemetery perched on the banks of the river.
So, for your Halloween pleasure, here is my first vlog, a walkaround of Riverside Cemetery near Maumee, Ohio, which is practically within the shadow of Fallen Timbers Battlefield. Feel fee to giggle at my stuttering and clumsy attempts at video editing!
Following my vid are links to three of my favorite spooky videos. Enjoy!! Have a safe (and hopefully dry) Halloween!
And now, three of my favorite spooky videos!
Castle Ghosts of Wales
Castle Ghosts of Ireland
Castle Ghosts of Scotland
~Carolan Ivey
www.carolanivey.com
Youtube Channel
Step Into The Mists with our adventurous band of award-winning authors to otherworlds of paranormal, SF, fantasy and speculative romance. Nervous? Don't be. The creatures that live here are friendly. Most of the time... This blog is for age 18 and over only.
Showing posts with label ghosts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ghosts. Show all posts
31 October 2013
30 October 2013
Revenge Fantasies, Anyone?
This month's theme is Digging up Bones: Releasing our Ghosts through Writing. Though I write paranormal and fantasy romance and am about to release my first urban fantasy, I'm not a supernaturally inclined person. I'm not much of a believer, though worldbuilding and researching various phenomena remains fascinating, and I certainly don't knock people who have different beliefs than me.
But releasing ghosts through writing could also refer to stress or memories. Or journaling, as pointed out by A Catherine Noon (http://paranormalauthors.blogspot.com/2013/09/dem-bones-dem-bones.html). Me, if I have ghosts I need to release, it's probably all the dad gum revenge fantasies that occasionally play in my head like movies.
I don't know that this is a particularly writerly trait--perhaps just a surly, mean one--but it does give rise to some interesting situations in my writing. I won't say whether or not any scenes in my books are taken directly from real life, but the feelings of frustration, the fist shaking at the lack of justice in the world, and the way difficult situations frequently turn out for the worse are things we can pour in stories if we choose.
Things we can even rectify, in a way real life doesn't allow.
Anybody else out there enjoy a good revenge fantasy?
***
On that note, I'd like to share the first couple pages of my very-soon-to-be-released urban fantasy, THE WHOLE TRUTH (http://jodywallace.com/books/the-whole-truth/) , where our heroine, who can see lies but has never met anyone like herself, realizes that her real life is about to change. To find out what wrongs she gets to rectify in the course of her story, I hope that this book will go live on Amazon and Smashwords in the next couple days!
*** EXCERPT FROM: THE WHOLE TRUTH ***
Chapter 1
I see shadows. But not dead people.
When they found me, they weren’t ninjas, just garden-variety men in black. Excuse me, people in black. The frustrating part wasn’t that they invaded my home but that I should have been expecting it. After all, I’m the only person I’ve ever met who can do what I can do. Besides write advertising copy. Anybody can do that as long as they have a penchant for buzz words and hyperbole.
No, as far as I know, I’m the only freak like me in existence. I should have been ready for this to happen. I should have had a bag packed, with stylish travel wear and airline-friendly cosmetics.
But I didn’t. They caught me completely unaware. I’m stupid that way, even if I can discover any truth by asking the right questions.
I got home from another late night, after a normal week at work, if there is such a thing. I unlocked the door, cursed it when it stuck, and had almost kicked it shut when I noticed them.
A man and woman I’d never seen before were in my living room watching my newest indulgent purchase. Wait, technically that would be my new Kate Spade purse. While it’s sparkly, it doesn’t do any tricks worth staring at. They were watching my widescreen TV.
The man rose when he noticed me, as if he always stood when a female entered the room. He inhaled audibly but made no sudden moves.
Had I surprised their….illicit TV viewing?
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I asked from the safety of the foyer. I would have taken off without asking questions, but they didn’t seem aggressive. I mean, they’d been absorbed in Andy Griffith.
The man’s lips parted slightly. Then he gave a sharp nod.
“Cleopatra Giancarlo?” he asked, smoothing the lapel of his expensive suit.
“Maybe.” I propped the door open with my toe, tensed to run. “Maybe not.”
“I see you were working late again, Miss Giancarlo,” he said.
“Working late isn’t a crime.” Unless you were a mobster or something. When the man didn’t respond, I continued.
“Who are you people?” Let them try to claim they were friends. Let them try to lie to me. I didn’t step away from the door.
The man glanced at the woman. She shrugged.
“My name is John Arlin. This is my partner, Samantha Graves. We’re happy to meet you, Miss Giancarlo.”
Their actual names, and they were honestly happy to meet me.
Samantha reclined against the arm of my sofa with my cat—my cat!—in her lap. I hoped Boris got hairballs all over her spiffy tweed.
She smiled at me. Her teeth were unnaturally white. “Shut the door,” she said. “You’re letting in mosquitoes.”
I backed onto the porch, only to notice a gigantic man in a dark suit step out of a vehicle at the curb. He was nearly twice as tall as the car. He waved.
Safer inside or outside?
Outside lurked their giant. Inside I could see their masks if they lied. I went in, closed the door, and held my keychain at the ready. I’d read somewhere you could stab people in the eyeball with your key to incapacitate them. Provided you had the guts to do so.
“Please don’t feel threatened. We just want to talk.” John adjusted a sleeve and glanced at his watch. His dark jacket parted to reveal a crisp white dress shirt and…
Did I see a holster?
“You’re in my house without my permission. I feel threatened.” I inched into the room, toward the phone, my cell having disappeared in the depths of my work satchel three days ago. I knew it was there because I could call myself. I just couldn’t find the damn thing.
“I apologize for that. Time has become critical, and it was expedient to meet you in private, instead of making an appointment.”
Was it true? I squinted, trying to detect the shadow that formed around the faces of any liars in my line of vision. No darkening. He was being honest.
It occurred to me that John and Samantha could be the people who wanted to buy the house from my landlord. The old coot threatened to sell the place out from under me every time I complained about the parking lot, if you could call a ten foot wide section of rubble a parking lot.
John continued. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Pastrami and jack on sourdough.”
Good guess…but the sandwich put him out of the running for home buyer. “You didn’t break into my house to talk sandwiches. Why are you here?”
“We have some information for you about an opportunity,” he said. “Will you hear us out?” He had yet to display a mask, the shadow veneer that appeared in front of a liar’s face, which did ease my nerves. That didn’t mean I was going to let my guard down.
“Cut the solicitous crap. What do you want? My television?” I doubted it, because their car outside wasn’t big enough to transport it, but bravado seemed smarter than fear. “Take it, I have renter’s insurance.”
He stepped closer, and I became aware of the fact he was tall, not to mention built. I was short. Could I key-poke his eye or not? More like his throat. Wasn’t the spot between your collarbones vulnerable? I patted my non-key-holding hand against my breastbone to check, my heavy work satchel thumping my hip.
John picked up my cordless telephone from the bookcase next to the couch and extended it to me. “The minute we make you nervous, dial the police.”
“I’m nervous right now.” I pressed various areas on my throat to test which was most stickable. Nervous people did that, protected their throats, or their boobs. I guess they were protecting their hearts, not their boobs.
“Sorry.” He tilted his head down. “Would you prefer to eat first? You must be hungry. We got the sandwich from Mazio’s.”
How could they know my favorite eatery was a dive three blocks down on the east end?
An ugly suspicion rose in me. A nightmare of a thought. They knew all these things about me because they’d been spying on me. Watching where and what I ate, how late I stayed at work.
“I’d prefer that you leave,” I told him.
“We’ll leave as soon as we talk to you.” He stepped closer, still offering the phone.
“I think you should go now.” I snatched the phone but John held onto it, keeping me within arm’s reach. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated, and for a minute I got the distinct impression he was smelling me.
“John,” Samantha warned. “You’re creeping her out.”
He shook himself. I returned to the relative safety of my foyer with the handset. Since Mondo was in the street, I could make a run for the neighbor. So what if he wasn’t home? They wouldn’t know that.
Oh, wait. They probably would. My fingers found the nine. I pressed it, then a one. John pursed his lips and fingered his Snoopy tie. Snoopy?
They waited to see if I’d dial a third number. If they meant me harm, would they give me the chance to call for help? Maybe I should hear them out.
We all stared at each other until Samantha said, “What a soft, fluffy cat. Is this Boris or Natasha?”
I contemplated the additional digit on the phone. “Why do you know all this stuff about me?”
“We know all sorts of things about you. That’s what we’re here to discuss.” The woman slid Boris off her lap and rose.
First thing I noticed was she was really short, too.
Second thing I noticed was she had on four-inch heels, Manolos, which meant she was actually shorter than me. Mine were two-inch kitten heels, the same rose pink as my tiered ruffle skirt and blouse.
You know, that thing about secret servicemen in black isn’t true. Samantha had on a tweed suit. I know tweed’s the new black, but I was pretty sure John’s Snoopy as the Red Baron tie wasn’t regulation at Ye Olde Agency.
“You guys aren’t from the CIA, are you?” I asked. “FBI? NSA? Homeland Security?” The main reason I’d kept myself to…myself was my inherent fear of the government and what they’d want from me if they found out. You could only tip off the cops so many times before they got suspicious, and pretending to be psychic only works on television.
Samantha Graves smiled, and her long-lashed, blue eyes twinkled as if we were sharing a joke. She had a perfect, shiny black bob without a hair out of place, and she couldn’t be more than a size three. I could hate a woman like that.
“That’s correct, we’re not from any of those places. May I call you Cleopatra?”
“Not unless you want me to finish dialing 9-1-1 for the murder I’d be forced to commit.”
I had yet to see a glimmer surrounding either of them. They had yet to answer any of my pertinent questions.
Shit.
They knew.
FMI and eventual buy links: http://jodywallace.com/books/the-whole-truth/
***
Jody Wallace
Author, Cat Person, Amigurumist
http://www.jodywallace.com * http://www.meankitty.com
But releasing ghosts through writing could also refer to stress or memories. Or journaling, as pointed out by A Catherine Noon (http://paranormalauthors.blogspot.com/2013/09/dem-bones-dem-bones.html). Me, if I have ghosts I need to release, it's probably all the dad gum revenge fantasies that occasionally play in my head like movies.
I don't know that this is a particularly writerly trait--perhaps just a surly, mean one--but it does give rise to some interesting situations in my writing. I won't say whether or not any scenes in my books are taken directly from real life, but the feelings of frustration, the fist shaking at the lack of justice in the world, and the way difficult situations frequently turn out for the worse are things we can pour in stories if we choose.
Things we can even rectify, in a way real life doesn't allow.
Anybody else out there enjoy a good revenge fantasy?
***
On that note, I'd like to share the first couple pages of my very-soon-to-be-released urban fantasy, THE WHOLE TRUTH (http://jodywallace.com/books/the-whole-truth/) , where our heroine, who can see lies but has never met anyone like herself, realizes that her real life is about to change. To find out what wrongs she gets to rectify in the course of her story, I hope that this book will go live on Amazon and Smashwords in the next couple days!
*** EXCERPT FROM: THE WHOLE TRUTH ***
Chapter 1
I see shadows. But not dead people.
When they found me, they weren’t ninjas, just garden-variety men in black. Excuse me, people in black. The frustrating part wasn’t that they invaded my home but that I should have been expecting it. After all, I’m the only person I’ve ever met who can do what I can do. Besides write advertising copy. Anybody can do that as long as they have a penchant for buzz words and hyperbole.
No, as far as I know, I’m the only freak like me in existence. I should have been ready for this to happen. I should have had a bag packed, with stylish travel wear and airline-friendly cosmetics.
But I didn’t. They caught me completely unaware. I’m stupid that way, even if I can discover any truth by asking the right questions.
I got home from another late night, after a normal week at work, if there is such a thing. I unlocked the door, cursed it when it stuck, and had almost kicked it shut when I noticed them.
A man and woman I’d never seen before were in my living room watching my newest indulgent purchase. Wait, technically that would be my new Kate Spade purse. While it’s sparkly, it doesn’t do any tricks worth staring at. They were watching my widescreen TV.
The man rose when he noticed me, as if he always stood when a female entered the room. He inhaled audibly but made no sudden moves.
Had I surprised their….illicit TV viewing?
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I asked from the safety of the foyer. I would have taken off without asking questions, but they didn’t seem aggressive. I mean, they’d been absorbed in Andy Griffith.
The man’s lips parted slightly. Then he gave a sharp nod.
“Cleopatra Giancarlo?” he asked, smoothing the lapel of his expensive suit.
“Maybe.” I propped the door open with my toe, tensed to run. “Maybe not.”
“I see you were working late again, Miss Giancarlo,” he said.
“Working late isn’t a crime.” Unless you were a mobster or something. When the man didn’t respond, I continued.
“Who are you people?” Let them try to claim they were friends. Let them try to lie to me. I didn’t step away from the door.
The man glanced at the woman. She shrugged.
“My name is John Arlin. This is my partner, Samantha Graves. We’re happy to meet you, Miss Giancarlo.”
Their actual names, and they were honestly happy to meet me.
Samantha reclined against the arm of my sofa with my cat—my cat!—in her lap. I hoped Boris got hairballs all over her spiffy tweed.
She smiled at me. Her teeth were unnaturally white. “Shut the door,” she said. “You’re letting in mosquitoes.”
I backed onto the porch, only to notice a gigantic man in a dark suit step out of a vehicle at the curb. He was nearly twice as tall as the car. He waved.
Safer inside or outside?
Outside lurked their giant. Inside I could see their masks if they lied. I went in, closed the door, and held my keychain at the ready. I’d read somewhere you could stab people in the eyeball with your key to incapacitate them. Provided you had the guts to do so.
“Please don’t feel threatened. We just want to talk.” John adjusted a sleeve and glanced at his watch. His dark jacket parted to reveal a crisp white dress shirt and…
Did I see a holster?
“You’re in my house without my permission. I feel threatened.” I inched into the room, toward the phone, my cell having disappeared in the depths of my work satchel three days ago. I knew it was there because I could call myself. I just couldn’t find the damn thing.
“I apologize for that. Time has become critical, and it was expedient to meet you in private, instead of making an appointment.”
Was it true? I squinted, trying to detect the shadow that formed around the faces of any liars in my line of vision. No darkening. He was being honest.
It occurred to me that John and Samantha could be the people who wanted to buy the house from my landlord. The old coot threatened to sell the place out from under me every time I complained about the parking lot, if you could call a ten foot wide section of rubble a parking lot.
John continued. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Pastrami and jack on sourdough.”
Good guess…but the sandwich put him out of the running for home buyer. “You didn’t break into my house to talk sandwiches. Why are you here?”
“We have some information for you about an opportunity,” he said. “Will you hear us out?” He had yet to display a mask, the shadow veneer that appeared in front of a liar’s face, which did ease my nerves. That didn’t mean I was going to let my guard down.
“Cut the solicitous crap. What do you want? My television?” I doubted it, because their car outside wasn’t big enough to transport it, but bravado seemed smarter than fear. “Take it, I have renter’s insurance.”
He stepped closer, and I became aware of the fact he was tall, not to mention built. I was short. Could I key-poke his eye or not? More like his throat. Wasn’t the spot between your collarbones vulnerable? I patted my non-key-holding hand against my breastbone to check, my heavy work satchel thumping my hip.
John picked up my cordless telephone from the bookcase next to the couch and extended it to me. “The minute we make you nervous, dial the police.”
“I’m nervous right now.” I pressed various areas on my throat to test which was most stickable. Nervous people did that, protected their throats, or their boobs. I guess they were protecting their hearts, not their boobs.
“Sorry.” He tilted his head down. “Would you prefer to eat first? You must be hungry. We got the sandwich from Mazio’s.”
How could they know my favorite eatery was a dive three blocks down on the east end?
An ugly suspicion rose in me. A nightmare of a thought. They knew all these things about me because they’d been spying on me. Watching where and what I ate, how late I stayed at work.
“I’d prefer that you leave,” I told him.
“We’ll leave as soon as we talk to you.” He stepped closer, still offering the phone.
“I think you should go now.” I snatched the phone but John held onto it, keeping me within arm’s reach. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated, and for a minute I got the distinct impression he was smelling me.
“John,” Samantha warned. “You’re creeping her out.”
He shook himself. I returned to the relative safety of my foyer with the handset. Since Mondo was in the street, I could make a run for the neighbor. So what if he wasn’t home? They wouldn’t know that.
Oh, wait. They probably would. My fingers found the nine. I pressed it, then a one. John pursed his lips and fingered his Snoopy tie. Snoopy?
They waited to see if I’d dial a third number. If they meant me harm, would they give me the chance to call for help? Maybe I should hear them out.
We all stared at each other until Samantha said, “What a soft, fluffy cat. Is this Boris or Natasha?”
I contemplated the additional digit on the phone. “Why do you know all this stuff about me?”
“We know all sorts of things about you. That’s what we’re here to discuss.” The woman slid Boris off her lap and rose.
First thing I noticed was she was really short, too.
Second thing I noticed was she had on four-inch heels, Manolos, which meant she was actually shorter than me. Mine were two-inch kitten heels, the same rose pink as my tiered ruffle skirt and blouse.
You know, that thing about secret servicemen in black isn’t true. Samantha had on a tweed suit. I know tweed’s the new black, but I was pretty sure John’s Snoopy as the Red Baron tie wasn’t regulation at Ye Olde Agency.
“You guys aren’t from the CIA, are you?” I asked. “FBI? NSA? Homeland Security?” The main reason I’d kept myself to…myself was my inherent fear of the government and what they’d want from me if they found out. You could only tip off the cops so many times before they got suspicious, and pretending to be psychic only works on television.
Samantha Graves smiled, and her long-lashed, blue eyes twinkled as if we were sharing a joke. She had a perfect, shiny black bob without a hair out of place, and she couldn’t be more than a size three. I could hate a woman like that.
“That’s correct, we’re not from any of those places. May I call you Cleopatra?”
“Not unless you want me to finish dialing 9-1-1 for the murder I’d be forced to commit.”
I had yet to see a glimmer surrounding either of them. They had yet to answer any of my pertinent questions.
Shit.
They knew.
FMI and eventual buy links: http://jodywallace.com/books/the-whole-truth/
***
Jody Wallace
Author, Cat Person, Amigurumist
http://www.jodywallace.com * http://www.meankitty.com
24 October 2013
Ghosts of the Past
 |
| Anonymous Retrieved 10/24/13 from URL: http://www.city-data.com/picfilesc/picc36660.php |
I don't often talk about Quincy, the town where I lived during middle- and high-school. When I left that place, I left and never looked back. Well, that's not entirely true; I did go back once and was sharply reminded of why I'd left in the first place. I haven't attended my reunions and no longer receive calls asking if I'm interested.
One of the memories I have is of the kitchen in the house where we lived on a seven acre horse farm. The story has always been, and I've always parroted it, that my mother was a phenomenal cook and could prepare any meal to perfection. Recently, my husband and I moved our family into a three-bedroom apartment, more than doubling our prior space and giving us a sumptuously large kitchen in which to cook. I had forgotten how much I like to cook.
The ghosts came back to haunt me after my best friend left, having come to help me move and settle us into the new place. I stared at the kitchen in shock, because it was mine, and because I could cook anything I wanted in it. But who was I to cook? Wasn't that my mother's purview?
Then it hit me. My father is the one that tells the story of my mother, elevated now to the status of legend in the kitchen. But I lived with my mother too, for eighteen long years, and there's nothing wrong with my memory that a little "listening to" wouldn't fix.
See, here's the thing: the stories that are told about us, haunt us. Good, bad, ugly, beautiful, heart-rending - it doesn't matter. If the story isn't our own, then it's not our truth. I'm not saying my father would deliberately lie about my mother, though there would be plenty of reason. She suffered from mental illness most of her life and the two of us were isolated on that ranch after my father left. We spent eight long years together in that house, and five bedrooms on seven acres isn't nearly enough room to run if you need to.
As I re-learn how to cook now, as an adult, I am startled by the realization that my mother wasn't a really good cook - for me. She was famous for her New York Cheese Cake, but I never tasted it, not once in my life, because she refused to make it as being "too fattening." I spent all of fifth grade eating frozen dinners because she was out in the evening at the bar. I grew fond of Lean Cuisine, though I wrote them when one of the dinners didn't come out very well and was a little burnt. I received eight fifty-cent coupons in the mail from the company, apologizing and begging me to try them again - eight! That was a fortune to my young eyes, all mine, and all to be spent on Lean Cuisine. I didn't like Chicken Cordon Bleu, and have never once eaten it since I left home at eighteen. But fancy meals? My mother stopped cooking holiday meals when I was eighteen because she didn't want to make fattening food. I knew how to make ramen and cups-o-lentils, but couldn't boil water for an egg or make bread.
I don't think that the Story of Mom vs. my memory of her are necessarily at odds. They're simply memories my father has and the way he tells the story to himself of his life. The way to vanquish those ghosts, I've found, is to learn to tell our own stories. By doing so, they cease to become ghosts and become our own bright memories that tell us the story of ourselves. In doing so, the irony is my mother becomes more real, more three-dimensional, in my mind. She becomes a person, and no longer a ghost.
But I still won't eat Chicken Cordon Bleu.
--
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
- E.E. Cummings
The Chicagoland Shifters series:
Book 1 BURNING BRIGHT, available from Samhain Publishing.
Book 2 TIGER TIGER, available from Samhain Publishing. An All Romance eBooks Bestseller!
The Persis Chronicles:
Check out EMERALD FIRE, available from Torquere Books.
Check out "Seeking Hearts", available from Torquere Books.
Check out COOK LIKE A WRITER , available from Barnes and Noble.
Coming soon - "Taking a Chance" is being re-released from Torquere Books!
My links: Blog | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | LinkedIn | Pandora
Knoontime Knitting: Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Ravelry
Noon and Wilder links: Blog | Website | Facebook
The Writer Zen Garden: The Writers Retreat Blog | Forum | Facebook | Twitter | Meetup
Team Blogs: Nightlight | Nightlight FB Page | Beyond the Veil | BtV FB Page
Publishers: Samhain Publishing | Torquere Press
04 October 2013
Spooky October
I really, really love this time of year.
The chill in the air...the falling leaves...the riot of colors across the land...the deep blue of the sky...the smell of wood burning and apples baking. This is my time: the part of the year that I feel most at peace and at home.
It could be because this is my birthday month -- I was an almost-Halloween baby. ;) Or maybe it's something deeper. All I know is that I feel an undeniable sense of belonging.
To share with you my love of all things Autumn, I've re-released a slightly spooky romance titled: Familiar. This story was first part of a short anthology; I later chopped it up into a super-short version for a promotional giveaway with Samhain Publishing. :)
This re-published version of the original length (about 12k) has a pretty new cover and has had a slight spit-shine applied. ;) It features a heroine close to my heart who finally gets to go home to small-town West Virginia-- just in time for Halloween. Along the way she realizes that some things haven't changed; some have; and sometimes you can start over.
Here's a short excerpt:
Familiar
(c)Meg Allison 2013
* * *
* * *
Familiar is a favorite of mine because it combines what I love best: ghosts; family; romance; and the possibility of getting a second chance in life. I hope you'll enjoy it, too.
Now available for $0.99:
Amazon.com
Barnes and Noble
Smashwords
~~Meg Allison
Indulge your senses...
http://megallisonauthor.com
The chill in the air...the falling leaves...the riot of colors across the land...the deep blue of the sky...the smell of wood burning and apples baking. This is my time: the part of the year that I feel most at peace and at home.
It could be because this is my birthday month -- I was an almost-Halloween baby. ;) Or maybe it's something deeper. All I know is that I feel an undeniable sense of belonging.
To share with you my love of all things Autumn, I've re-released a slightly spooky romance titled: Familiar. This story was first part of a short anthology; I later chopped it up into a super-short version for a promotional giveaway with Samhain Publishing. :)
This re-published version of the original length (about 12k) has a pretty new cover and has had a slight spit-shine applied. ;) It features a heroine close to my heart who finally gets to go home to small-town West Virginia-- just in time for Halloween. Along the way she realizes that some things haven't changed; some have; and sometimes you can start over.
Here's a short excerpt:
Familiar
(c)Meg Allison 2013
* * *
“Jed will be standing behind the counter and he’ll say…”
“I’ve been waiting on you, Penny Lynn…” She gasped as her
eyes met a pair in that hypnotic shade of crystal blue she had vividly
imagined. “My Penny Lynn comes home again.”
He grinned at her and the second of silence stretched tight
and thin as she swallowed, took a deep breath and swallowed again. Coincidence,
that’s all. It had to be. Dreams didn’t come true. Not like this.
“Jed, it’s good to see you,” she replied in a nervous rush.
“But how did you know I’d be here?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I heard you were moving
back and figured you’d need supplies sooner or later.” He winked at her. “Glad
it’s sooner. You look good, Penny. Haven’t changed a bit.”
* * *
Familiar is a favorite of mine because it combines what I love best: ghosts; family; romance; and the possibility of getting a second chance in life. I hope you'll enjoy it, too.
Now available for $0.99:
Amazon.com
Barnes and Noble
Smashwords
~~Meg Allison
Indulge your senses...
http://megallisonauthor.com
25 October 2012
Local Ghost Stories - Gacy House and a Quick Survey of Modern-Day Ghost Hunting
This is Noony, your host for today's exploration into ghostly phenomena around Chicago.
Okay, that was my working hypothesis when I started to write my post for this week. It quickly turned darker and more reality-based as I wandered the pages of one of my husband's local guidebooks, one that centers on ghost stories around the Windy City. I came across the chilling factoid that I am a neighbor of John Wayne Gacy. Not a literal neighbor, but in the sense that he lived, and murdered, in Norwood Park, just 3 neighborhoods away from where I sit, typing this. Chilling.
The interesting part about Gacy's murders is that several of them were solved by the use of psychic evidence. In the book Chicago's Street Guide to the Supernatural, author Richard Crowe, with Carol Mercado, relate how the lot where Gacy's house stood continued to remain barren in two oval spots, photographed 3 times over 2 years.
Several theories abound about why plants would not grow on those spots. The location of buried victims, the ground remained disturbed until new owners purchased the lot and changed the physical address. The land recovered after that change and grass finally grew on the site.
Despite this, speculation has surfaces regarding other possible sites used as dumping grounds by Gacy. His construction company worked all over Chicago. He was convicted of thirty-three murders, but authorities don't know if there are more bodies that have yet to be uncovered. Other psychics have attempted to discover signs of his victims.
The use of psychic phenomena in criminal investigations is viewed with skepticism by many in law enforcement, and with good reason. Some so-called psychics have been charlatans, bilking people out of money and raising false hopes. On the other hand, there have been verified discoveries by psychics that have lead to the arrest of criminals, so it's hard to say with black-and-white certainty one way or the other whether psychic phenomena are empirically true or not.
In the last few years, the public has grown more fascinated with the possibility of psychic phenomena. Shows like Ghost Hunters, now on the SyFy network, detail the work of real paranormal investigators armed with modern-day technological tools to support their psychic detection.
Dean Radin has researched consciousness and related phenomena for over 20 years and has worked on psychic research for the government. He ran the paraphsychology program at University of Nevada, Las Vegas, when I lived there, and the program was greeted by great fanfare in the press. (I regret not going to study with him, actually, since that would have been an interesting, and unusual, course of study.) My point in bringing him up, though, is that not all psychic research is by new age devotees. There's some pretty heavy science behind trying to figure out, conclusively, whether or not this stuff exists - and, if it does, to what extent and in what ways.
Curious about these practices, I wandered over to Meetup to see if there were others who decided to try to find Casper with an EMF meter. It turns out there are many groups who meet on a regular basis to do just that. There are six groups just in the Chicagoland area. If you're curious, head over to Meetup.com and type "ghost hunting" in the search box. Perhaps a group meets in your town? If not, why not start one? You might find the next local murder house. ~shiver~
Resources
1. "John Wayne Gacy," Wikipedia entry, Photograph accessed 10/24/2012 from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wayne_Gacy
2. "Biography," Dean Radin's website, accessed 10/24/2012 from http://www.deanradin.com/NewWeb/bio.html
3. "The Top Ten Best Video Clips From Ghost Hunters (TAPS)," YouTube, accessed 10/24/2012 from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciHf4WXKY4E
4. Chicago's Street Guide to the Supernatural: A Guide to Haunted and Legendary Places In and Near the Windy City, by Richard T. Crowe with Carol Mercado, Carolando Press, Inc., Oak Park, IL, Second Printing, 2001
--
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
- E.E. Cummings
My links: Blog | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | LinkedIn | Pandora
Knoontime Knitting: Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Ravelry
Noon and Wilder links: Blog | Website | Facebook
Team Blogs: Nightlight | The Writers Retreat Blog | Beyond the Veil | LGBT Fantasy Fans and Writers
Publishers: Samhain Publishing | Torquere Press
Check out BURNING BRIGHT, available from Samhain Publishing.
Check out EMERALD FIRE, available from Torquere Books.
Check out "Taking a Chance", part of the Charity Sips 2012 to benefit NOH8, available from Torquere Books.
Watch for TIGER TIGER, coming soon from Samhain Publishing.
Okay, that was my working hypothesis when I started to write my post for this week. It quickly turned darker and more reality-based as I wandered the pages of one of my husband's local guidebooks, one that centers on ghost stories around the Windy City. I came across the chilling factoid that I am a neighbor of John Wayne Gacy. Not a literal neighbor, but in the sense that he lived, and murdered, in Norwood Park, just 3 neighborhoods away from where I sit, typing this. Chilling.
 |
| Mug Shot of John Wayne Gacy Photo from Wikipedia (1) |
Several theories abound about why plants would not grow on those spots. The location of buried victims, the ground remained disturbed until new owners purchased the lot and changed the physical address. The land recovered after that change and grass finally grew on the site.
Despite this, speculation has surfaces regarding other possible sites used as dumping grounds by Gacy. His construction company worked all over Chicago. He was convicted of thirty-three murders, but authorities don't know if there are more bodies that have yet to be uncovered. Other psychics have attempted to discover signs of his victims.
The use of psychic phenomena in criminal investigations is viewed with skepticism by many in law enforcement, and with good reason. Some so-called psychics have been charlatans, bilking people out of money and raising false hopes. On the other hand, there have been verified discoveries by psychics that have lead to the arrest of criminals, so it's hard to say with black-and-white certainty one way or the other whether psychic phenomena are empirically true or not.
In the last few years, the public has grown more fascinated with the possibility of psychic phenomena. Shows like Ghost Hunters, now on the SyFy network, detail the work of real paranormal investigators armed with modern-day technological tools to support their psychic detection.
Dean Radin has researched consciousness and related phenomena for over 20 years and has worked on psychic research for the government. He ran the paraphsychology program at University of Nevada, Las Vegas, when I lived there, and the program was greeted by great fanfare in the press. (I regret not going to study with him, actually, since that would have been an interesting, and unusual, course of study.) My point in bringing him up, though, is that not all psychic research is by new age devotees. There's some pretty heavy science behind trying to figure out, conclusively, whether or not this stuff exists - and, if it does, to what extent and in what ways.
Curious about these practices, I wandered over to Meetup to see if there were others who decided to try to find Casper with an EMF meter. It turns out there are many groups who meet on a regular basis to do just that. There are six groups just in the Chicagoland area. If you're curious, head over to Meetup.com and type "ghost hunting" in the search box. Perhaps a group meets in your town? If not, why not start one? You might find the next local murder house. ~shiver~
Resources
1. "John Wayne Gacy," Wikipedia entry, Photograph accessed 10/24/2012 from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wayne_Gacy
2. "Biography," Dean Radin's website, accessed 10/24/2012 from http://www.deanradin.com/NewWeb/bio.html
3. "The Top Ten Best Video Clips From Ghost Hunters (TAPS)," YouTube, accessed 10/24/2012 from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciHf4WXKY4E
4. Chicago's Street Guide to the Supernatural: A Guide to Haunted and Legendary Places In and Near the Windy City, by Richard T. Crowe with Carol Mercado, Carolando Press, Inc., Oak Park, IL, Second Printing, 2001
--
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
- E.E. Cummings
My links: Blog | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | LinkedIn | Pandora
Knoontime Knitting: Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Ravelry
Noon and Wilder links: Blog | Website | Facebook
Team Blogs: Nightlight | The Writers Retreat Blog | Beyond the Veil | LGBT Fantasy Fans and Writers
Publishers: Samhain Publishing | Torquere Press
Check out BURNING BRIGHT, available from Samhain Publishing.
Check out EMERALD FIRE, available from Torquere Books.
Check out "Taking a Chance", part of the Charity Sips 2012 to benefit NOH8, available from Torquere Books.
Watch for TIGER TIGER, coming soon from Samhain Publishing.
20 October 2012
Alexandria Ghosts
Looking for ghost stories?
Have I got the town for you: Alexandria, Virginia. We’ve got three centuries of ghosts to choose
from, and we aren’t done yet.
Carlyle House was built in the early 1750s by John Carlyle,
a wealthy merchant and close family friend of George Washington. The Georgian Palladian stone mansion was the
premier house in town for many years—and the only one with a front yard. So it was the natural choice for General Braddock’s
famous conference.
Before its restoration, the house was popularly supposed to
be the most haunted place in town. The
basement wine cellar, the result of a mid-nineteenth century renovation, was
described as a pen for runaway slaves.
(It wasn’t.) Mrs. Green, the wife
of the man who built the hotel, was said to roam the backyard, fretting about the
ruination of her daughter Emily. (Emily
wasn’t ruined. She never even dated a Yankee.
She married Frank Stringfellow, a Confederate spy who later became a
U.S. Army chaplain in the Spanish-American War.) Any number of ghostly Civil War patients were said to
repeatedly throw themselves off the roof. (When the hotel
was converted to a hospital, the house was used as a doctors’ residence. The patients were billeted in the hotel,
which spanned the street in front of the mansion. Some of them did jump or fall from the upper floors of the hospital, but not the house.)
Founded in 1749, Alexandria hosted the gathering of
governors that kicked off the French and Indian War. General Edward Braddock, who convened the
conference, wrote the fateful letter to the British government suggesting the
colonials pay for their own defense, which prompted the creation of the Stamp
Act. If that wasn’t enough, he was a
braggart, a drunk and a sexual predator.
He was no respecter other people’s property, and oh yes, he insisted the
town’s citizens house and feed several thousand unruly British troops without compensation
or legal recourse. Fortunately, he
managed to get himself killed within three months of his arrival, and the aftermath gave
local boy George Washington some serious experience in retreating.
Speaking of George, he slept, ate, drank, danced, and was
first called “president” here. Dolley Madison
served oyster ice cream at her parties here.
The town surrendered to the British twice in during the War
of 1812. On one of those occasions, local leaders had to chase the British down
to do the deed. It saved the city from
burning…by the British. The political
cartoonists of the day were another matter.
 |
| Johnny Bull and the Alexandrians by William Charles (1814) |
Robert E. Lee’s hometown, Alexandria was the site of the
first Union and Confederate deaths in
the Civil War. It was occupied by Union
forces for the duration, although it voted overwhelmingly to secede with the
rest of Virginia.
During the occupation, nearly every large building was
converted into a military hospital. Many
of the remaining structures became part of the Union war machine, serving as laboratories
for the advances in engineering which helped win the war for the North.
All this history means there are so many ghosts, local ghost tour guides have to
pick and choose. Are the customers
interested in the War for Independence?
Tell them about the Loyalist wrongfully shot by the British, who has
since made a point of harassing any English-born man or woman who presumes to
cross the threshold of his Prince Street home.
Are they romantics?
Recount the story of the Female Stranger, whose male companion swore her
deathbed attendants to secrecy about her identity—then skipped town without
paying the hefty tab for her medical treatment and her elaborate gravestone in
St. Paul’s Cemetery. Or talk about the
screaming ghost of Candi’s Candies, who burned alive when a candle ignited her
wedding gown.
To say nothing of the usual parade of spectral dogs and
soldiers, executed criminals (including one who was cooked alive in an outdoor
oven), suicidal sea captains’ wives, etc., etc.
You could fill a book. In fact, people
have.
So why hasn’t it appeared on any of the televised ghost
hunting shows? You’d think it would be a
natural.
Okay, you can understand why someone might now want to open
their home, but the museums? Gadsby’sTavern, favorite haunt of the Female Stranger and the occasional incorporeal
cotillion, has been a restaurant and museum for years. Ramsay House, formerly owned and still patrolled by
one of the town’s founders, serves as Alexandria’s Visitor Center. On the creepy side of the street, the
headquarters of Franklin and Armfield, one of the nation’s largest slave
trading firms, has been office space since 1984—which seems appropriate in an
odd, double-speak kind of way.
I don’t know why those folks didn’t invite Ghosthunters to
come on down. I only know the reason why
the Carlyle House never made it to national TV.
 |
| Carlyle House (courtesy Ser Amantio di Nicolao at en.wikipedia) |
It was the “mansion house”, which gave its name to the
Mansion House Hotel, and became an integral part of the hotel complex. During the Civil War, the hotel also became one of
the largest medical facilities in the region and ground zero for one of the
conflict’s biggest battles of the sexes.
It was a proving ground for the Civil War’s most outrageous innovations:
women nurses.
And that’s just the building’s public face. An Englishman of Scottish extraction, Carlyle
appears to have been a superstitious sort.
When the Northern Virginia Park Authority restored the mansion in the
early 1970s, they discovered a dead cat had been walled into the hearth—an old Scottish
tradition thought to protect the house from harm.
It worked on the house, if not on the Carlyles. Both of Carlyle’s wives died of complications
in childbirth before the age of thirty-five.
All but two of Carlyle’s eleven children predeceased him. Only one survived to her majority.
However, daughter Sarah Carlyle Herbert not only beat the
family odds, she had seven healthy children and lived out her full three score
and ten. Her descendants and those of
her sister Ann (who died in childbirth at seventeen) are the reason the house
can display so many Carlyle family treasures.
They cherished their heritage and their ancestors’ possessions.
 |
| This historic photo shows the Mansion House Hotel during the Civil War, when it served as a military hospital. The hotel was built in front of the Carlyle House (aka the Mansion House). |
But all the ghoulies seem to disappear as soon as the
derelict remains of the hotel were torn down.
I suspect it had something to do with all that sunlight streaming through windows which hadn't seen the street in over a hundred years. But whatever the reason, I’ve worked as a volunteer docent at the Carlyle House for two years
now, and I’ve never felt any out-of-place “spiritual energy” or unnatural cold
spots. The building is quiet. Serene, even.
At least to me.
But I wonder if the house’s last curator felt the same. You see, one of those national ghost hunting
shows did approach him about doing a program about the house.
He said no. He said the house
wasn’t haunted. Insisted it wasn’t.
“Why’d you turn them down?” I asked. “Half the time they don’t find anything. The other half, they’re just scaring
themselves. Either way, it’s good
publicity.”
“I know. But…”
He hesitated. The
former curator resembled a genial linebacker, and I wouldn’t have thought
anything made him nervous. But by this
point in the conversation he was looking downright sheepish.
“But,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “what
if there’s something here?”
Jean Marie Ward
19 October 2012
Duppy, Rolling Calf and a White Witch
My country of birth and heart, Jamaica, is filled with
“duppy” (ghost) stories. Tales such as that of River Muma, who sits on a rock combing
her hair with a golden comb, luring the enchanted to a watery grave abound. Another
Jamaican spectre you may encounter as it races along lonely country roads is the
Rolling Calf, covered in hellfire and bound with rattling chains, coming to
scare you into madness, or to death.
Obeah, the remnants of African spirituality brought to the
island with the slaves, doesn’t produce zombies like Voodoo is reputed to.
Instead, the Obeah Woman or Man steals a person`s spirit, hiding it in a cotton
tree and using it to make mischief and bring misery to others. In the meantime
the person whose spirit was stolen slowly withers away and dies, unless someone
with the knowledge and spiritual strength can “dig out” the obeah, freeing the
spirit and returning it to its owner.
Ironically enough, probably the most famous Jamaican ghost
story involves not the work of an Obeah practitioner, but of a woman alleged to
be well versed in the art of Voodoo—Annie Palmer, the White Witch of Rose Hall.
Rose Hall is a plantation house located east of Montego Bay,
on the northern coast of Jamaica. Legend has it that the owner of the
planation, John Palmer, married Annie, a woman who was well versed in Voodoo.
Annie is reputed to have murdered not only John, but also her next three
husbands, all of whom died under mysterious circumstances. Apparently not
content with a handful of husbands, Annie also had a tendency to take to her
bed any slave who caught her fancy, eventually murdering them too.
She in turn is said to have been murdered by her butler, a
slave and one of her many lovers. Some legends say he murdered her because he
knew if he didn’t, she would kill him in turn. Others say he killed her because
she caused the death of his daughter’s lover.
After her death, it’s said that the next owners of the house
had a series of unfortunate incidents that culminated with their housekeeper
falling to her death from the balcony Annie would stand on each morning to
issue instructions to the slave. The house was eventually deserted, and fell
into ruin. It was restored in the 1960s and then, in the 1970s, was refurbished
and opened to the public for tours.
There is little, if any, historical fact to back up the
legend of Annie Palmer. There are no records showing she ever existed and so
many variations on the story exist, making it hard to decide which is more
likely. Some stories are set in the 1700s, others in the 1800s. Some say she
was born of mixed English/Irish heritage but raised on Haiti, where Voodoo is
practised, others have her born in France and being taught Voodoo in Jamaica,
by the very slaves she used it to terrify and control. She is said to have
tortured, maimed and killed slaves without mercy and remained at the house even
after death to continue her reign of terror.
I’ve been to Rose Hall, and it’s a beautiful, interesting
place, and will say whoever sourced the items displayed in that house did a
masterful job when they acquired a particular portrait, billed as being of
Annie. Since I can honestly say I don’t think she ever even existed, and know
the house and most likely all contents were destroyed by fire during a slave
rebellion, I’m sure it wasn’t her in the painting. Yet I stood there, feet
glued to the floor, staring and staring, feeling the woman in the picture
staring back at me, her black-eyed gaze burning its way into my soul. It took
all my energy to turn away.
And to this day that painting haunts me, a lingering,
malevolent shadow, the most vivid reminder of my trip to the rebuilt plantation
house. Whatever ghosts live at Rose Hall, I bet they found a happy, haunted home
in that portrait…
04 October 2012
Who Believes in the Bell Witch?
This month at BTV in honor of spooky October, many of us will be talking about ghost stories and local haunted house tales. I live in Tennessee, and one of the most prominent Tennessee Tales of Terror is the story of the Bell Witch. In fact, the Bell Witch cave is only a couple miles from the house of a crit partner of mine, though neither of us have ever been.
Growing up, the main thing I knew about the Bell Witch was that if you went into the bathroom after dark, closed your eyes, chanted, "I believe in the Bell Witch" 3 or 10 or 13 times, and then opened your eyes, you would see her in the mirror. Right there, scary as any retinal adjustment to a change in illumination *heh*. I don't think I ever made it to 13 times.
The legend itself doesn't appear to stem from some horrific witch-burning incident or ax murdering psycho, as so many haunting tales do. No, it was some ticked off neighbor lady named Kate who took offense to the Bell family and poltergeisted them (in particular the dad and one of the girls) for a number of years.
Naturally my writer's mind wanted to make sense of it (She had an affair with the dad! The girl was engaged to her half-brother, unbeknownst to her!), which apparently isn't a rare reaction, as a number of movies, books and stories revolve around the legend. The About.com page suggests the girl's teacher was in love with her and wanted to scare off her fiance, who did eventually leave, and the girl ended up married to the teacher.
(http://paranormal.about.com/od/trueghoststories/a/aa041706.htm)
According to the official website, tales of the Bell Witch stretch back to 1817. According to the Wiki, movies it inspired include The Bell Witch Haunting, The Bell Witch, An American Haunting and the Blair Witch Project. I don't think I've ever seen any of those, either, since I'm not a huge fan of horror. Nor have I heard the "2 piece doom band" with the name Bell Witch: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bell-Witch/136264673108884 (I know, right??) Also tons of books and such at Amazon, which are too numerous to list.
You can find out more about the Bell Witch at the official site: http://www.bellwitchcave.com/
Here's another webpage dedicated to the Bell Witch by author/historician Pat Fitzhugh, who's also written books about the legend: http://www.bellwitch.org/home.htm
Wiki Page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bell_Witch
For those of you who aren't wholesale believers in ghosts, here's a skeptical review of the legend: http://mtskeptics.homestead.com/BellWitch.html
And if you're a fan in general, there's a fan site: http://www.bellwitchfansite.com/ which claims it has exclusive pictures and videos, woohoo!
Have you ever been inspired by local haunting tales to write a story?
Jody Wallace and Meankitty
Making the Internet Cattier Since 1999
http://www.meankitty.com * http://www.jodywallace.com
Growing up, the main thing I knew about the Bell Witch was that if you went into the bathroom after dark, closed your eyes, chanted, "I believe in the Bell Witch" 3 or 10 or 13 times, and then opened your eyes, you would see her in the mirror. Right there, scary as any retinal adjustment to a change in illumination *heh*. I don't think I ever made it to 13 times.
The legend itself doesn't appear to stem from some horrific witch-burning incident or ax murdering psycho, as so many haunting tales do. No, it was some ticked off neighbor lady named Kate who took offense to the Bell family and poltergeisted them (in particular the dad and one of the girls) for a number of years.
Naturally my writer's mind wanted to make sense of it (She had an affair with the dad! The girl was engaged to her half-brother, unbeknownst to her!), which apparently isn't a rare reaction, as a number of movies, books and stories revolve around the legend. The About.com page suggests the girl's teacher was in love with her and wanted to scare off her fiance, who did eventually leave, and the girl ended up married to the teacher.
(http://paranormal.about.com/od/trueghoststories/a/aa041706.htm)
According to the official website, tales of the Bell Witch stretch back to 1817. According to the Wiki, movies it inspired include The Bell Witch Haunting, The Bell Witch, An American Haunting and the Blair Witch Project. I don't think I've ever seen any of those, either, since I'm not a huge fan of horror. Nor have I heard the "2 piece doom band" with the name Bell Witch: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bell-Witch/136264673108884 (I know, right??) Also tons of books and such at Amazon, which are too numerous to list.
You can find out more about the Bell Witch at the official site: http://www.bellwitchcave.com/
Here's another webpage dedicated to the Bell Witch by author/historician Pat Fitzhugh, who's also written books about the legend: http://www.bellwitch.org/home.htm
Wiki Page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bell_Witch
For those of you who aren't wholesale believers in ghosts, here's a skeptical review of the legend: http://mtskeptics.homestead.com/BellWitch.html
And if you're a fan in general, there's a fan site: http://www.bellwitchfansite.com/ which claims it has exclusive pictures and videos, woohoo!
Have you ever been inspired by local haunting tales to write a story?
Jody Wallace and Meankitty
Making the Internet Cattier Since 1999
http://www.meankitty.com * http://www.jodywallace.com
17 October 2011
Chills and Thrills
Our October theme is about dragons and other creatures who chill us and thrills us. It made me wonder why we love them so much. Why do we like to be scared out of our wits? Why do we keep coming back for more?My son is a perfect example. Halloween is one of his favorite days of the year and not just because of the mass-candy-collection. He loves to dress up to scare and be scared by ugly, snarling, fanged, blood dripping creatures of the night.
I'll never forget the first time we took him to a haunted house. He was a tiny thing and I didn't want him to go, but he begged and whined until we finally agreed to take him in.
The second that we stepped past the curtain, I regretted it.
Imagine a dark "cemetery" complete with gravestones and moaning ghosts set up inside a theater. We followed a guide as she walked slowly through black curtained tunnels, under drippy spiderwebs, and passed strobe lights. Masked zombies, headless horsemen, terrifying ghosts, and freaky goblins followed us, rattling chains and reaching through the curtains as if to snatch us away.
I was looking for the exits.
My son had a death grip on my arm so tight that I worried he might peel back skin. I kept asking him if he wanted to leave. He made a little cry in his throat but firmly shook his head "no." He wanted to stay.
The tension built as we headed into a cement hallway. I could only guess that we were beneath the theater. Suddenly, an ear-piercing "rrrr-rrr" echoed down the corridor.
Chainsaw. Coming for us.
My son nearly yanked my shoulder out of its socket. Instinctively, I pulled him behind me, sheltering his little body with my own.
The creature with the chainsaw slid past us on his knees, the REAL chainsaw smoking up the room so that we could barely see his hideous demon mask. My son froze in his tracks, gripping my waist so hard that I couldn't move.
I turned around to reassure him and got the surprise of my life.
My little man faced the demon with the saw and...growled!
I'm not kidding. He let loose this gut-wrenching noise that easily matched the decibel level the chainsaw was creating. And then he did it again and didn't stop. His growls echoed down the hallway. And then...we were outside. It was over.
"Wow, that was really scary," I said.
"I know," he whispered, his eyes still wide. "Can we go again?"
So maybe my little son answered the question about why we like to be scared out of our wits. Being terrified had actually empowered him. He looked the devil in the eye and didn't back down. Heck, he might even have scared the poor teenager in the demon mask who probably had never been growled at by a kid. My son found strength in the darkness, in the unknown, in the terror, while realizing all along that it wasn't real. Mom was always there and so were the exits. Everything after that was a roller coaster ride.
Have a safe and sweet Halloween.
Kimberley Troutte
17 April 2010
Ghost Story Time!
Anyone up for a couple of true, spooky tales? Okay, grab your wooby (or whatever security device you use) and hang on.Last week I took my son Dylan and his girlfriend, Katie, down to North Carolina with me to visit my Mom. Now, Mom says she doesn't believe in ghosts, but the family history is littered with strange phenomena - and my sister and I always swore she was psychic. Plus, when we were growing up, Mom used her ability to move as silently as a ghost through the house to her best advantage. You NEVER knew when she was going to appear behind you just as you had your proverbial hand in the cookie jar.
So anyway, last week on a Thursday night, Mom and I attended a Piedmont Wind Symphony concert, in which my sister plays bass clarinet. It was a benefit concert for Home Moravian Church in historic Old Salem. (In fact, the photo on the web site's home page was taken that night in the church. My sister is on the far right in the second row.) But I digress, as usual.
While we were enjoying the concert, my son texted me with weather updates. A powerful storm cell was heading straight for us, and tornado sirens were going off all over the region. Mom and I were sitting in the balcony, so I kept one eye on the stained glass windows, figuring if the hanging light fixtures started to sway in the 400-year-old building, we'd head for lower ground.
I texted Dylan to get to the basement with Katie, and to please unplug my laptop on the way. When we got home, all was well, but Dylan was stuttering with excitement and poor Katie was white as a sheet, teeth chattering. And not because of the storm. They're Ohio kids - tornado warnings are routine for them. They were already in the basement before I told them to go there.
Slowly, between the two of them, the story came out. When they first went down to the basement - which is Mom's ginormous sewing area - both Dylan and Katie had the distinct feeling they weren't alone. Almost simultaneously, Katie said "I feel like someone else is in here" and Dylan said "I feel like Grandpa just walked into the room." (My father died about a year ago, and hadn't been able to leave the ground floor for several years prior.)
They shrugged it off, turned on the TV and watched the weather channel. Keep in mind my mother's dress form sits just off to the right of the TV, within eyeline. It's always facing toward the center of the room.
When Dylan come downstairs from unplugging computers, he noticed something odd. The dress form was turned a quarter turn toward the wall. He made a comment but Katie hadn't noticed it before. A bit later, he went back upstairs for some ice cream. When he came back down, Katie was curled up on the couch, shaking.
She had seen the dress form slowly spinning around by itself. It now had its back to the room. Of course, Katie was scared to death, but Dylan laughed and said "It's just Grandpa messing with you. He wouldn't tease you if he didn't like you."
Indeed, when my sister and I were growing up and had sleepovers with friends, Dad delighted in finding ways to scare the bejeebers out of us!
Later on that night, in the wee hours, I was sitting alone in the family room playing Vampire Wars on Facebook (a game that kept me sane while Dad was in hospice). Dad was always a night owl, and when we visited I always sat up late with him while he worked on his computer or recorded old movies from a classic movie channel. We didn't always talk, just kept each other company.
The house has a security system with motion detectors all over the place. Even when it's disarmed, you can hear a faint "beep" when you walk through a room and break one of the invisible beams.
So as I sat there in the silence, nothing in the room was moving. Yet I kept hearing that quiet little "beep" at odd intervals. It was coming from the detector right behind where Dad's favorite chair used to sit. After about the sixth or seventh beep, I glanced in that direction and said softly, "Hi Dad. I know you're here. Now go to bed."
The beeps stopped. Smiling to myself, I went back to killing virtual vampires. Comforted that our loved ones never really leave us.
--Carolan
www.carolanivey.com
(Image from Scarier Than Norman Bates' Mother by C. Taylor)
P.S. - Hey, don't forget, the annual Spring Showers extravaganza is coming up on Coffee Time Romance! Click here for details.
01 December 2009
Isn’t it gorgeous? The Tickle My Fantasy anthology is out in print today!! Go ahead. Try to resist the magic. We dare you!
Carolina Wolf by Sela Carsen (psst! This is me!)
Debra knows that the teensy amount of witchcraft in her veins isn’t worth getting excited about. Yet someone—or something—thinks it’s worth attacking her. Rescuing her seals Maddox’s fate, but only if he can protect her from a rogue of his kind. A werewolf with a nasty streak…and a preference for raw meat.
The Ghost Shrink, the Accidental Gigolo and the Poltergeist Accountant by Vivi Andrews
Lucy is doomed. Not to death. To nightly visits from recently deceased Casanovas without the bodies to scratch her itch. Then a living fantasy arrives on her doorstep. Is her dry spell at an end? Not hardly. Jake has been sent to prevent her from getting laid until a particular horny phantom—and key witness in his investigation—pays her a visit.
ParaMatch.com by MK Mancos (hi Kat!)
Even though she lives without a paranormalady, Lucille has managed to carve a niche for herself with a paranormal matchmaking service. Enter Jager, deposed king of the Titans and successful paratrader. She can match anyone, except him. She doesn’t know that he’s out to negotiate the deal of a lifetime—a future with her.
Witches Anonymous by Misty Evans
Amy is done with Devil-worshipping. After swearing an oath never to use magic again, she’s in the market for a normal guy to complement her new lifestyle. And Adam looks like perfect hero material. Lucifer, however, isn’t about to be nice about letting her go…
Warning: This book contains hunky werewolves, smart-ass women and men who think that’s sexy, magic, angels, medieval legends, inter-species romance, disco music and flatulent Boxers. (The dogs, not the underwear.)
Read An Excerpt Online
09 October 2009
What color is your sky?
As a child I saw things differently. I was afraid of the dark, or rather, afraid of the things that lurked there. I was always afraid of the possibility of seeing ghosts though my best friend for years was a girl of unknown origins and looks. At least to my mother, who couldn't see her.
Like most children, my imagination roamed free. A hairbrush was a microphone. The bed a stage. A shadow could be a monster or some horrible beast that would drag me away, never to be seen again. And of course, I didn't dare look under that bed at night.
But now I'm an adult and things have changed. Um, well, a little. I'm no longer afraid of the dark. I prefer it. I will admit, many of my 'friends' are still invisible to most. However, that shadow near the forest at the end of our driveway is not seen as a monster or beast. Obviously it's the spirit of a long-dead Native American, protecting what was once his people's land. I just might write his story someday.
Children are amazing. They have such capacity for 'what-if' and are willing to accept so much. But as they grow, they learn from us adults that there aren't monsters under the bed or in the forest. The sky isn't purple, it's blue. The grass shouldn't be colored red, it's green. And don't forget to stay inside the lines. Little by little, their imaginations are reined in until many of them forget how to use them. They forget how to dream.
Luckily many of us never quite let go of childhood. We thumb our noses at authority and keep coloring those pictures any way we see fit. And so an artist is born... or an inventor... another Einstein... an actor... a musician... a writer.
Luckily, my mother taught me that there is more to life than what I can see. (Insert a nod to Shakespeare at this point.) She taught me so many things through example and words. So many things about this world and the next. And so I am still a child inside. I hold on to the notion that yes, sometimes the sky is purple. And pink. And blazing orange. Somewhere the grass may be red. And those shadows? They're ghosts... or shapeshifters... or faeries.
My youngest son -- now nine -- is ever the dreamer. He often seems to be immersed in his own, happy world. We once asked him what the color of the sky was in his world.
"Orange," he replied, not missing a beat. I hope he always sees it that way.
So what about you? What color do you see when you look up?
Like most children, my imagination roamed free. A hairbrush was a microphone. The bed a stage. A shadow could be a monster or some horrible beast that would drag me away, never to be seen again. And of course, I didn't dare look under that bed at night.
But now I'm an adult and things have changed. Um, well, a little. I'm no longer afraid of the dark. I prefer it. I will admit, many of my 'friends' are still invisible to most. However, that shadow near the forest at the end of our driveway is not seen as a monster or beast. Obviously it's the spirit of a long-dead Native American, protecting what was once his people's land. I just might write his story someday.
Children are amazing. They have such capacity for 'what-if' and are willing to accept so much. But as they grow, they learn from us adults that there aren't monsters under the bed or in the forest. The sky isn't purple, it's blue. The grass shouldn't be colored red, it's green. And don't forget to stay inside the lines. Little by little, their imaginations are reined in until many of them forget how to use them. They forget how to dream.
Luckily many of us never quite let go of childhood. We thumb our noses at authority and keep coloring those pictures any way we see fit. And so an artist is born... or an inventor... another Einstein... an actor... a musician... a writer.
Luckily, my mother taught me that there is more to life than what I can see. (Insert a nod to Shakespeare at this point.) She taught me so many things through example and words. So many things about this world and the next. And so I am still a child inside. I hold on to the notion that yes, sometimes the sky is purple. And pink. And blazing orange. Somewhere the grass may be red. And those shadows? They're ghosts... or shapeshifters... or faeries.
My youngest son -- now nine -- is ever the dreamer. He often seems to be immersed in his own, happy world. We once asked him what the color of the sky was in his world.
"Orange," he replied, not missing a beat. I hope he always sees it that way.
So what about you? What color do you see when you look up?
13 March 2009
I See Dead...Coffee Cups?
I don’t normally steal blog ideas from The Colbert Report, but this was too perfect: Too much caffeine will make you see ghosts.Finally! A magic potion to make me psychic like the cool kids! And it’s legal. In fact, it’s already in my kitchen.
Wait a minute, it’s in my kitchen, I already drink enough tea (not to mention eat enough chocolate) to qualify for my own wing in the Caffeine Hall of Fame, and so far it hasn’t done anything except let me squeeze out a few more words on my project of the minute and inspire the name of the spouse person’s latest cartoon blog. It’s never helped me see any ghosts. I want my money back!
But I’m not going to get it. Turns out the original study never made a direct connection between caffeine and ghosts. What it said was caffeine seems to exaggerate the effects of cortisol, one of the brain chemicals associated with stress—and stress predisposes folks to visual hallucinations.
Dangerous stuff that. The ghosts I know wouldn’t take kindly to being called hallucinations. They’re people too, you know. Well, most of them. Among the various corporeally challenged critters in our neighborhood is a little gray and white ghost cat. Yes, people are more likely to catch sight of it when they’re tired or stressed, but that doesn’t appear to be a requirement.
Then there’s the whole visual thing. Just because I almost never see ghosts doesn’t mean they don’t interact with me. Take the ghost cat, for example. Occasionally, it jumps up on the bed and curls up on the comforter, just like our flesh and blood fur ball, except they never share. Believe me, there is very little quite as unnerving as waking in the dim pre-dawn to the press and pad of little cat feet atop the covers, only to realize our Lord of the Litterbox is sitting in the doorway, watching.
And cat—the real one—doesn’t use caffeine. Or get stressed. That's not how he rolls.
Sigh. Back to the drawing board.
21 February 2009
Celebrating Romance in haunted Portland
Next weekend, Feb. 27-28, is one of my very favorite cons - Celebrate Romance. As always, when J.C. Wilder and I travel anywhere together, the first thing we do is research where the paranormal hot spots are. Let's see what's rattling the pipes in Portland:
Pittock Mansion
Built by Henry Pittock, an influential businessman in the early industrial days of the Pacific Northwest. Pittock was a big supporter of Portland's annual Rose Parade, and visitors to the mansion often report the strong smell of roses, though none kept in the house. A picture of one of his children is said to be moved from place to place. Other experiences include an apparition of an old woman, footsteps, and windows that close and latch themselves.
Old Town Pizza
Situated in an historic building that sits atop Portland's Shanghai Tunnels, a frequent guest in this restaurant is Nina (Nigh-nah). Legend has it that she was a victim of the white slavery market, sold into prostitution. She was was convinced to provide information to traveling missionaries who were trying to clean up the town. She was later found dead in this building, having been thrown down and elevator shaft. She is reportedly friendly to diners.
Shanghai Tunnels
As the name suggests, these tunnels were used to smuggle kidnapped men and women out of the city and into a life of slavery. Victims were often lured to sit in specific locations atop trap doors, then either beaten or drugged before being "disappeared."
Lewis and Clark College
If you find yourself near the center of the old campus around 1 a.m., you may hear the screams and yells of an angry mob chasing someone. You might even see apparitions of the mob - and its quarry. (I guess it depends on how many pitchers you've consumed!)
Witch's Castle
Not actually a castle, but the ruins of a stone house at a crossroads. Reportedly was a trading post owned by the first person legally hanged in Oregon. Tales of "ghost wars" that take place here abound. Not so sure about that, but it's a creepy-cool looking place!
There's much more, but that's about all I have time for today! If you're going to be at CR next week, look me up and we'll take a ghost walk. :)
Sources:
www.ghostsandcritters.com
www.oldtownpizza.com
www.theshadowlands.net
Pittock Mansion
Built by Henry Pittock, an influential businessman in the early industrial days of the Pacific Northwest. Pittock was a big supporter of Portland's annual Rose Parade, and visitors to the mansion often report the strong smell of roses, though none kept in the house. A picture of one of his children is said to be moved from place to place. Other experiences include an apparition of an old woman, footsteps, and windows that close and latch themselves.Old Town Pizza
Situated in an historic building that sits atop Portland's Shanghai Tunnels, a frequent guest in this restaurant is Nina (Nigh-nah). Legend has it that she was a victim of the white slavery market, sold into prostitution. She was was convinced to provide information to traveling missionaries who were trying to clean up the town. She was later found dead in this building, having been thrown down and elevator shaft. She is reportedly friendly to diners.Shanghai Tunnels
As the name suggests, these tunnels were used to smuggle kidnapped men and women out of the city and into a life of slavery. Victims were often lured to sit in specific locations atop trap doors, then either beaten or drugged before being "disappeared."Lewis and Clark College
If you find yourself near the center of the old campus around 1 a.m., you may hear the screams and yells of an angry mob chasing someone. You might even see apparitions of the mob - and its quarry. (I guess it depends on how many pitchers you've consumed!)Witch's Castle
Not actually a castle, but the ruins of a stone house at a crossroads. Reportedly was a trading post owned by the first person legally hanged in Oregon. Tales of "ghost wars" that take place here abound. Not so sure about that, but it's a creepy-cool looking place!There's much more, but that's about all I have time for today! If you're going to be at CR next week, look me up and we'll take a ghost walk. :)
Sources:
www.ghostsandcritters.com
www.oldtownpizza.com
www.theshadowlands.net
15 March 2008
Things That Make You Go Eeek!
I’ve been spending a lot of time on the dark side lately. No, not Bianca D’Arc’s side--splendid though that is. I’m talking about the darker edge of fantasy.
At least, that’s what people tell me. The funny thing is I don’t see it quite that way.
My work in progress, for example, is a contemporary retelling of the myth of Orpheus in Eurydice in which I drag poor the poor woman, limping on a rattler-bitten leg, from the pleasures of the Elysian Fields through the Underworld of the New York subway system. Along the way, she faces off against killer zombies, sulfur-driven infernal engines, and a fine collection of monsters, ghosts and ghouls. And I call it a comedy.
Well, it is her story, and she does make out okay.
But that’s not all of the reason. It seems I define “dark” a little differently than the people who define the genre rules. “Dark” to me involves a high squick factor with lots of body parts dismembered on screen and nameless horrors mutating into swarms of ravenous but less than particular insects. Killer signs and ambulatory pigeons with no heads? Aw shucks, ma’am, that’s just local color.
At least it is in my part of Virginia.
Before you ask, no, I don’t live in the hill country. So you can put away your banjos and DVDs of Deliverance right now. I’m Urban Girl, through and through. If it doesn’t have pavement, I don’t know where to put my spike heels. Roughing it consists of a hotel without room service.
But strange things do abound even in the most civilized of places. Headless pigeons, for example. I met one on a walk along the bike path of our local part. I was lost in whatever daydream was playing through my head that October, not paying attention to where I was going until I nearly tripped over a bird body waddling slowly in my path. I stopped myself from stepping on it just in time.
That’s what caught my attention. The birds in my neighborhood are pretty fat and accustomed to hand-outs, but they blast off in a welter of flapping wings when something bigger than a squirrel threatens to fall on top of them. I looked down and realized the bird in front of me had no head, just a meat end of neck with a little bit of bone sticking out. Believe me, I checked all the telephone wires between there and the house, just in case something that didn’t know it was dead decided to get the drop on me.
Talking to my husband after I got home, I learned there are several well-documented cases of chickens living without heads for days, sometimes months. The most famous is Mike the Headless Chicken, who is honored every spring with his very own festival in Fruita, Colorado. Organizers call attending the festival “a no-brainer”, proving they share my mindless sense of humor as well as my affinity for stupid animal tricks.
The sign was, if anything, stranger than the pigeon. Imagine an underground parking garage in the middle of a sultry June night with no wind currents. None. It was sealed off from the outside by closed garage doors, and there was no air conditioning or venting to create currents in the concrete cavern. Yet there was this sign--an inch-thick metal plate three feet tall and as wide as a driveway, suspended on metal chains as wide as my wrist--doing a jig in the still, humid air. The metal screamed as it tried to tear itself from its moorings.
Eight years later, I still can’t offer any explanation for it. The people in the hotel connected to the garage had no clue. Local newspapers offered no tales of parking garage murders or desecrated cemeteries or Indian burial grounds. I’ve never found its equivalent on the ‘Net either. At least, I’ve never found anything with the kind of corroboration you find with stories of headless chickens.
No, I didn’t drive under the sign. I might be crazy enough to research headless birds and inquire politely of a hotel night clerk whether there’s a danger the hotel's signage might separate from its moorings. But I’m not quite stupid enough to drive under a shrieking sign.
Having survived both encounters undamaged, I find it hard to consider them dark. Weird, certainly. But not dark--at least, not necessarily. On the other hand, they provide great fodder for “what if” play. Consider, for example, what might happen if someone decided to hold a séance in a hotel parking garage. Or what kind of birds might populate the after life.
They also make it easy to explain why I write fantasy. Not that many people ask. The little ghost cat who shares our house usually takes care of that. I just wish it was a better mouser.
At least, that’s what people tell me. The funny thing is I don’t see it quite that way.
My work in progress, for example, is a contemporary retelling of the myth of Orpheus in Eurydice in which I drag poor the poor woman, limping on a rattler-bitten leg, from the pleasures of the Elysian Fields through the Underworld of the New York subway system. Along the way, she faces off against killer zombies, sulfur-driven infernal engines, and a fine collection of monsters, ghosts and ghouls. And I call it a comedy.
Well, it is her story, and she does make out okay.
But that’s not all of the reason. It seems I define “dark” a little differently than the people who define the genre rules. “Dark” to me involves a high squick factor with lots of body parts dismembered on screen and nameless horrors mutating into swarms of ravenous but less than particular insects. Killer signs and ambulatory pigeons with no heads? Aw shucks, ma’am, that’s just local color.
At least it is in my part of Virginia.
Before you ask, no, I don’t live in the hill country. So you can put away your banjos and DVDs of Deliverance right now. I’m Urban Girl, through and through. If it doesn’t have pavement, I don’t know where to put my spike heels. Roughing it consists of a hotel without room service.
But strange things do abound even in the most civilized of places. Headless pigeons, for example. I met one on a walk along the bike path of our local part. I was lost in whatever daydream was playing through my head that October, not paying attention to where I was going until I nearly tripped over a bird body waddling slowly in my path. I stopped myself from stepping on it just in time.
That’s what caught my attention. The birds in my neighborhood are pretty fat and accustomed to hand-outs, but they blast off in a welter of flapping wings when something bigger than a squirrel threatens to fall on top of them. I looked down and realized the bird in front of me had no head, just a meat end of neck with a little bit of bone sticking out. Believe me, I checked all the telephone wires between there and the house, just in case something that didn’t know it was dead decided to get the drop on me.
Talking to my husband after I got home, I learned there are several well-documented cases of chickens living without heads for days, sometimes months. The most famous is Mike the Headless Chicken, who is honored every spring with his very own festival in Fruita, Colorado. Organizers call attending the festival “a no-brainer”, proving they share my mindless sense of humor as well as my affinity for stupid animal tricks.
The sign was, if anything, stranger than the pigeon. Imagine an underground parking garage in the middle of a sultry June night with no wind currents. None. It was sealed off from the outside by closed garage doors, and there was no air conditioning or venting to create currents in the concrete cavern. Yet there was this sign--an inch-thick metal plate three feet tall and as wide as a driveway, suspended on metal chains as wide as my wrist--doing a jig in the still, humid air. The metal screamed as it tried to tear itself from its moorings.
Eight years later, I still can’t offer any explanation for it. The people in the hotel connected to the garage had no clue. Local newspapers offered no tales of parking garage murders or desecrated cemeteries or Indian burial grounds. I’ve never found its equivalent on the ‘Net either. At least, I’ve never found anything with the kind of corroboration you find with stories of headless chickens.
No, I didn’t drive under the sign. I might be crazy enough to research headless birds and inquire politely of a hotel night clerk whether there’s a danger the hotel's signage might separate from its moorings. But I’m not quite stupid enough to drive under a shrieking sign.
Having survived both encounters undamaged, I find it hard to consider them dark. Weird, certainly. But not dark--at least, not necessarily. On the other hand, they provide great fodder for “what if” play. Consider, for example, what might happen if someone decided to hold a séance in a hotel parking garage. Or what kind of birds might populate the after life.
They also make it easy to explain why I write fantasy. Not that many people ask. The little ghost cat who shares our house usually takes care of that. I just wish it was a better mouser.
18 August 2007
Haunted
I'm taking a road trip next Saturday. My baby sister is visiting, and we're going an hour down the coast to St. Augustine.
The Old City (some call it the Ancient City, but honestly - where but in "The New World" of America would we call something 440 years old "ancient") fascinates me. I can (and have) spend hours wandering around the fort - Castillo de San Marcos - getting lost in the feel of history within those "ancient" stones. It's an impressive site, and one I won't ever get tired of visiting.
And if you wander the narrow streets beyond the fort you'll find plenty to entertain. There's a story on every street corner, and usually a tour that will guide you. I'm going to try out something new to me this trip - a ghost tour.
I'm tired of sticking with the usual - Ripleys Believe It or Not has lost it's ability to bemuse, and the Alligator Farm isn't going to cut it this visit. No, I'm ready to "Saunter with the Spirits from dusk to darkness", and I'm going to tag along with a tour guide to make sure I don't miss a single spectral resident.
There are quite a few to choose from - there'a regular cottage industry of them going on in St. Augustine - but I'm gong to give Ghost Tours of St. Augustine a try. Their website has dozens of pictures taken by visitors. Some of them look like just badly blurred pictures - is that a ghost, or a car driving past? - but there are plenty of other pictures that make me stop and wonder.
I don't know what I really expect to get out of the experience. Not proof. But I'm ready to have my eyes opened by the experts.
I'll let you know how it went after I've had my first taste of St. Augustine's paranormal tours. And I'll be taking many pictures - maybe I'll even have my own contribution to the sightings page to show for it.
If you've ever been on a guided ghost tour, I'd love to hear what you thought of it.
The Old City (some call it the Ancient City, but honestly - where but in "The New World" of America would we call something 440 years old "ancient") fascinates me. I can (and have) spend hours wandering around the fort - Castillo de San Marcos - getting lost in the feel of history within those "ancient" stones. It's an impressive site, and one I won't ever get tired of visiting.
And if you wander the narrow streets beyond the fort you'll find plenty to entertain. There's a story on every street corner, and usually a tour that will guide you. I'm going to try out something new to me this trip - a ghost tour.
I'm tired of sticking with the usual - Ripleys Believe It or Not has lost it's ability to bemuse, and the Alligator Farm isn't going to cut it this visit. No, I'm ready to "Saunter with the Spirits from dusk to darkness", and I'm going to tag along with a tour guide to make sure I don't miss a single spectral resident.
There are quite a few to choose from - there'a regular cottage industry of them going on in St. Augustine - but I'm gong to give Ghost Tours of St. Augustine a try. Their website has dozens of pictures taken by visitors. Some of them look like just badly blurred pictures - is that a ghost, or a car driving past? - but there are plenty of other pictures that make me stop and wonder.
I don't know what I really expect to get out of the experience. Not proof. But I'm ready to have my eyes opened by the experts.
I'll let you know how it went after I've had my first taste of St. Augustine's paranormal tours. And I'll be taking many pictures - maybe I'll even have my own contribution to the sightings page to show for it.
If you've ever been on a guided ghost tour, I'd love to hear what you thought of it.
15 August 2007
The Hopkins House-Memories rise out of my gloamy brain
Carolan, Isabo and JC's book title kept niggling at me... In the Gloaming but I couldn't put my finger on it. Finally, I remembered. There's a house in my hometown called, the Hopkins House. It's said a woman named Anne Harrison grew up there and she wrote In The Gloaming because of this house it's a rumor, never proven, but you know how southerners are and I'm not arguing. Gloam refers to twilight, right before dark. All the shadows around that place literally and figuratively, well, the song fits the house like biscuits and butter.
Built in the middle to late 1800's The Hopkin's House has seen a lot of life, and of course, a lot of death as well. Set back on a hilltop, surrounded by bent and ancient Oaks and Cypress , and the ever present Magnolias it's got that good old Southern gothic charm. From the time I was born until I was fifteen nobody lived there. Those big empty windows gave it an air of dissolution and of course plenty of room for the ghosts to grow. That's right, the Hopkin's House, of In the Gloaming fame is haunted as they found out when they started renting it. Nobody lived there long and those who did reported seeing flickering lights, their belongings were moved around, and even more unsettling they heard strange noises coming from the upstairs bedroom. This room was used as the nursery for the original owner's of the house. This room still has the old furniture,including a rocking horse which would rock when nobody had been in the room to touch it.
Does it sound like a chicken may know a bit more about this than she should? Well, you're right. I, Jenna Bock Bock Leigh actually stayed many a night inside Haunted Hopkins House. Oh, I heard the gasps of shock, and believe me, my mother was just as surprised as you, are. I, like the rest of the town of Marion, went on tours of this beautiful home and was struck by the eerie stillness of it. It's large, with airy ceilings and hardwood floors so that your footsteps echo back to you as well as, other things. Not a great combo, huh? Well, no. However, friends of mine moved in and I screwed up my courage and stayed.
Sometimes I think ghosts may be memories of happenings gone by but not in this case. See, we'd make the bed in the nursery upstairs, together I might add, as there was no way in Mayhaw Country, we were going up there alone. Hours later, we'd go back up there and find that the bed would either be messed up again, or handprints would be pressed into one or more of the pillows of the high teaster bed. Many times the rocking horse would rock by itself, quickly or slowly, depending on the day and the temperment of the 'ghost'. The renter had two teenaged daughters and I firmly believe this entity liked these people, because at no time did we ever feel threatened by whatever it was.
Now that's not to say we weren't ever scared because please, we're big babies. But we were never scared by this so called ghost. We were scared by, the dog who got mysteriously shut into the nursery upstairs, bats inside the house.. oh dear God, I almost passed out, shut up, I know they're nice, shut up! The dude dressed up like Freddie Kreuger on Halloween! But the ghost, never scared us, not really. I mean, I had my share of goosebumps and chills down the spine walking from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but never in all my time at The Hopkins House did I ever have a bad experience with whoever it is that resides there. And for that, I'd like to say, thanks for never scaring me in the gloaming.
Built in the middle to late 1800's The Hopkin's House has seen a lot of life, and of course, a lot of death as well. Set back on a hilltop, surrounded by bent and ancient Oaks and Cypress , and the ever present Magnolias it's got that good old Southern gothic charm. From the time I was born until I was fifteen nobody lived there. Those big empty windows gave it an air of dissolution and of course plenty of room for the ghosts to grow. That's right, the Hopkin's House, of In the Gloaming fame is haunted as they found out when they started renting it. Nobody lived there long and those who did reported seeing flickering lights, their belongings were moved around, and even more unsettling they heard strange noises coming from the upstairs bedroom. This room was used as the nursery for the original owner's of the house. This room still has the old furniture,including a rocking horse which would rock when nobody had been in the room to touch it.
Does it sound like a chicken may know a bit more about this than she should? Well, you're right. I, Jenna Bock Bock Leigh actually stayed many a night inside Haunted Hopkins House. Oh, I heard the gasps of shock, and believe me, my mother was just as surprised as you, are. I, like the rest of the town of Marion, went on tours of this beautiful home and was struck by the eerie stillness of it. It's large, with airy ceilings and hardwood floors so that your footsteps echo back to you as well as, other things. Not a great combo, huh? Well, no. However, friends of mine moved in and I screwed up my courage and stayed.
Sometimes I think ghosts may be memories of happenings gone by but not in this case. See, we'd make the bed in the nursery upstairs, together I might add, as there was no way in Mayhaw Country, we were going up there alone. Hours later, we'd go back up there and find that the bed would either be messed up again, or handprints would be pressed into one or more of the pillows of the high teaster bed. Many times the rocking horse would rock by itself, quickly or slowly, depending on the day and the temperment of the 'ghost'. The renter had two teenaged daughters and I firmly believe this entity liked these people, because at no time did we ever feel threatened by whatever it was.
Now that's not to say we weren't ever scared because please, we're big babies. But we were never scared by this so called ghost. We were scared by, the dog who got mysteriously shut into the nursery upstairs, bats inside the house.. oh dear God, I almost passed out, shut up, I know they're nice, shut up! The dude dressed up like Freddie Kreuger on Halloween! But the ghost, never scared us, not really. I mean, I had my share of goosebumps and chills down the spine walking from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but never in all my time at The Hopkins House did I ever have a bad experience with whoever it is that resides there. And for that, I'd like to say, thanks for never scaring me in the gloaming.
10 August 2007
Carnival Ghosts? County Fair Phantoms?
It’s race against the clock. A storm is a coming and it’s always a possibility that the electricity goes out here on the plains. Not unusual for August either.
Rain, Thunderstorms, and the County Fair. That’s what August has always been about for me.
And being the County Fair, my daughters and I had an interesting conversation on the way home…through the fog-filled eight mile drive home across muddy gravel roads. Has there ever been a story about a County Fair ghost? See, my girls love Phantom of the Opera so they began this crazy story (they are 8 & 4) about the Phantom of the Fair and then through a barrage of giggling the story quickly became “the Phantom Pig of the Fair.”
But still it made me wonder if there were any real ghost legends or fictional paranormal stories about fairs or carnivals. I could recall Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes” and the 1932 movie, “Freaks” (which isn’t a paranormal but is as scary as heck.) Nothing else comes to mind. Anyone out there know of a paranormal fair story?
A quick search online didn’t turn up any ghost stories related to fairs or carnivals either. I did find an Angel sighting. (I’m agreeing with the Moth camp).
Personally, I think either a fair or a carnival would be a perfect setting for a good ghost story. In one of my early drafts of Half Moon Rising I had a “hazing” scene where a teenage werewolf was dared to sneak into a cheap carnival haunted house and shift without getting caught. It didn’t make it to the final drafts, but I still think it would make a cool scene.
Well, the storm is in the next county. Time to wrap it up. Have a great weekend and see you at the fair!
~Margo
P.S. The storm came through, but only a few end rows of our crops got flattened by the winds. Thank goodness for small favors :)
Rain, Thunderstorms, and the County Fair. That’s what August has always been about for me.
And being the County Fair, my daughters and I had an interesting conversation on the way home…through the fog-filled eight mile drive home across muddy gravel roads. Has there ever been a story about a County Fair ghost? See, my girls love Phantom of the Opera so they began this crazy story (they are 8 & 4) about the Phantom of the Fair and then through a barrage of giggling the story quickly became “the Phantom Pig of the Fair.”
But still it made me wonder if there were any real ghost legends or fictional paranormal stories about fairs or carnivals. I could recall Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes” and the 1932 movie, “Freaks” (which isn’t a paranormal but is as scary as heck.) Nothing else comes to mind. Anyone out there know of a paranormal fair story?
A quick search online didn’t turn up any ghost stories related to fairs or carnivals either. I did find an Angel sighting. (I’m agreeing with the Moth camp).
Personally, I think either a fair or a carnival would be a perfect setting for a good ghost story. In one of my early drafts of Half Moon Rising I had a “hazing” scene where a teenage werewolf was dared to sneak into a cheap carnival haunted house and shift without getting caught. It didn’t make it to the final drafts, but I still think it would make a cool scene.
Well, the storm is in the next county. Time to wrap it up. Have a great weekend and see you at the fair!
~Margo
P.S. The storm came through, but only a few end rows of our crops got flattened by the winds. Thank goodness for small favors :)
30 July 2007
Haunted Vacations
Every couple of years or so the hubby and I plan a trip to some well-known haunted historical site in hopes of having a paranormal experience or catching apparitions on film or digital medium. Last year, our trek took us to haunted Gettysburg where we stayed at the Farnworth House Inn—an known hotbed of paranormal activity.
To step out onto the battlefield and know how many men gave their lives on those three bloody days, and to feel the oppressive energy is enough to knock a sensitive to their knees. I remember one night in particular, when Dave and I stayed on the battlefield near the area where Pickett failed in his desparate charge, cameras at the ready. As we stood and looked off into the rolling hills, fog began to roll in and surround us. Dave began to snap pictures, positive that he'd capture something supernatural on film. Something the naked eye had failed to see.
The next night we climbed the rocks around Devil's Den waiting to see some soldier, trapped in time, defending his post. Again, we snapped picture after picture hoping to take away some proof as a souvenier. Alas, no ghosts were around that night, so we headed back to the hotel to sign up for a ghost walk. And it rained.
Do you see a theme emerging here?
Though I enjoyed the town and the historic sites and spending the week walking around with my hubby, I have to admit to a small amount of disappointment that the only paranormal activity we encountered was on our first afternoon there, after we'd first checked in.
We were given the Custer Room (probably not a good choice for us since my husband is part Cherokee and Blackfoot). The room is not connected to the rest of the inn, but faces a nice little garden and outdoor dining area. It's really was a lovely, comfortable space. So, hubby and I were on the bed, discussing what we wanted to do first, since we'd just drove from NJ in 98 degree heat. We were contemplating if we'd see anything in the hotel room, when Dave said out loud. "I just want to see some ghosts." - The words had barely left his mouth when a knocking on the footboard made us both jump. Now, I know what you're thinking: it came from outside. It came from Dave doing it to scare me. No. A sound from outside would be muffled through the walls, and this was crip. And it came from where neither Dave or I were sitting at the time. We both laughed and knew we'd have a great vacation.
Now, if I can only find the money to go to haunted England.
-Kat
To step out onto the battlefield and know how many men gave their lives on those three bloody days, and to feel the oppressive energy is enough to knock a sensitive to their knees. I remember one night in particular, when Dave and I stayed on the battlefield near the area where Pickett failed in his desparate charge, cameras at the ready. As we stood and looked off into the rolling hills, fog began to roll in and surround us. Dave began to snap pictures, positive that he'd capture something supernatural on film. Something the naked eye had failed to see.
The next night we climbed the rocks around Devil's Den waiting to see some soldier, trapped in time, defending his post. Again, we snapped picture after picture hoping to take away some proof as a souvenier. Alas, no ghosts were around that night, so we headed back to the hotel to sign up for a ghost walk. And it rained.
Do you see a theme emerging here?
Though I enjoyed the town and the historic sites and spending the week walking around with my hubby, I have to admit to a small amount of disappointment that the only paranormal activity we encountered was on our first afternoon there, after we'd first checked in.
We were given the Custer Room (probably not a good choice for us since my husband is part Cherokee and Blackfoot). The room is not connected to the rest of the inn, but faces a nice little garden and outdoor dining area. It's really was a lovely, comfortable space. So, hubby and I were on the bed, discussing what we wanted to do first, since we'd just drove from NJ in 98 degree heat. We were contemplating if we'd see anything in the hotel room, when Dave said out loud. "I just want to see some ghosts." - The words had barely left his mouth when a knocking on the footboard made us both jump. Now, I know what you're thinking: it came from outside. It came from Dave doing it to scare me. No. A sound from outside would be muffled through the walls, and this was crip. And it came from where neither Dave or I were sitting at the time. We both laughed and knew we'd have a great vacation.
Now, if I can only find the money to go to haunted England.
-Kat
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