HALLOWEEN HILL

A True Tale of Fright

2006-10-31T23:02:00.000-08:00

A True Tale of Fright

As Told by Kristina, aka Cuore Della Luna

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night at all, it was actually nice and calm that night, which is typical for Colorado. Nice people, nice scenery, nice weather…well, most of the time. Occasionally, all that niceness just gets to be too comfortable, and Mother Nature will bear down on us with a nice Blizzard, just to remind us all that she’s still in charge. But that Halloween, she was very kind to us, and it was still 60 degrees out when the sun dipped below the mountains.

I was 15, young, pretty and so unaware of it, and being naturally a shy person, with normal teenage insecurities, I was thrilled to have been invited to a party, a real party, with my friends from the 10th grade class. It was Cindy’s birthday party, held on the Saturday before Halloween. It was 1987….Michael Myers had managed to scare us all with that white mask and bloody knife, then came Jason, to haunt our summer camps and of course, Freddy had come along to invade our dreams. Some of us had never seen the Damien movies, or the Exorcist, too young to be sneaking into theatres when they first came out, and parents unwilling to put those nightmarish thoughts into our tiny heads. VCRs were still an expensive toy to own, mostly for taping things off of TV, and video stores were still getting established. But still, we knew the plot lines, from someone’s older brother who had seen it, and told his sibling to torture and scare him, who in turn, told all of us. That Halloween time, yes, our heads were filled with images of teenage slasher films, even if only in our subconscious. It’s only natural, when you’re a teenager yourself, at a party with other teenagers, to have those thoughts dancing in the shadows.

I can’t remember whose idea it was to play with the Ouija board, or even who brought it. We were all sitting in the living room, with candles as our only light source. Cindy and her boyfriend, John, had managed to “sneak” away into Cindy’s bedroom to have some alone time. I had been eyeing Brian, a boy from my church, wishing I could be doing the same thing. Danielle was there, and Amber (with her appropriately long, lush, red curly locks), Jennifer, my neighbor from up the street, and some other kids were around whose names escape me now. But since Brian was there, in the living room, willing to participate in the Ouija Board experience, well, then so was I.

My parents had a Ouija board, the kind that Parker Brothers still makes, and had since I could remember. My sister and I had tried to play with it, after I discovered it one boring summer day in the closet, but nothing ever happened. I had been so frustrated with it, because I had read those directions so carefully, followed every step it said to get it to work, and still, nothing would happen. But, that was the kind of child I was, so sure that if you just followed the steps, followed directions, obeyed, then everything should work out as planned. It’s funny to think on that now, as the painful lessons of young adulthood have taught me so well that directions are merely guidelines, and blind obedience is not often rewarding.

All of us, me, Amber, Danielle, Brian, and a couple of others, each had two fingers lightly resting on the planchette, and were moving it around in the figure 8, as we knew to do. Jennifer, because of her faith, decided not to join us, but stayed on the sidelines to watch. I remember feeling the electric current, the thrill of having my body so close to Brian’s, as was necessary to have us all fit around the board. We giggled and laughed, wondering what we should ask the board.

Finally, someone asked “Is anyone here? Would anyone like to speak to us?” We all watched as the planchette moved to “Yes”. Then we all accused the others of moving it, each in turn, denying it. I know that I didn’t move it; I just felt it trail along to the answer. So, once we all quieted down again, I asked “What is your name?” The planchette slowly moved to the letter “J”, then to “O”, then more quickly to “H” and “N” before it came to rest in the center. “John”, I murmured. Things became quieter, as people who had been talking in the corner came over to watch us. Someone else asked “How old are you?” The planchette moved to the number “6”. Then I said “Awww”. It felt somehow safe, and sad, to know that we were talking to the ghost of a 6-year-old little boy named John….if it was indeed true, and someone wasn’t moving the planchette around to scare the rest of us. I was straddling the fence in that mysterious, tumultuous place called adolescence, on the one side, wanting to believe in the magic, that of course a sweet little boy was talking to us through this board, and on the other side, encountering the skepticism that only going through adolescence can teach, that becomes so easy and natural once in adulthood, knowing that of course, someone was moving the planchette, trying to fool us all.

Suddenly, we heard a loud crash and bang from upstairs. Immediately, as a test, I turned to the board and asked “What just happened upstairs?” The planchette began to move slowly to “T”, then “H”, then “E”, then more quickly to the rest of the letters before it came to rest in the center, to form a complete sentence:

“THEYBROKETHEBED”

Amber jumped up and ran upstairs to find out what happened. We heard people talking and laughing upstairs, and then Amber came to the head of the stairs, a little bit pale, and breathed out “Oh my God you guys, they did, Cindy and John were wrestling on her bed, and they broke the headboard off the rails, and so the mattress fell off its rails. They really did break the bed.”

Immediately, we all took our hands away from the board, all of us shivering a little, laughing some at the excitement from it. I think we all had been assuming that one of us was pushing it, but how could any of us know what had happened upstairs? My heart began to race at the thought that maybe it was a real spirit talking to us. Could it be? The thought frightened and thrilled me.

Amber rushed back upstairs to tell Cindy and John what had happened on the Ouija board, and so they both came downstairs calmly, slightly puzzled and bewildered (and not tucking or straightening out their clothes, I noticed…I guess they really were play wrestling when the headboard broke). We all quickly jumped in to tell them both of what had happened with the Ouija board.

John was always the most secure of all of us, studious, more of an old soul, and in our teenage excitement, he was able to absorb what we told him, and somehow, by telling him the story, I felt better, not as frightened by it. John was smaller than all of his classmates, which made his pairing with Cindy seem perfect, since she was so petite. I had always held a secret crush on John, for his calming ways, the way he seemed to be breezing through his teenage years, despite his physical limitations in stature, his confidence. I remember at a dance at the high school, a really great song came on, and I was dancing with reckless abandon, completely feeling the music, loving that my body could move to the rhythm. I turned on a spin to seeing John talking to another person, and he was looking and pointing at me, and I saw him say “She’s a really great dancer.” I was high all night from that chance comment that I got to witness. Ever since then, he had held a special place in my heart, the place reserved for those that have shown me kindness. I was happy for him, that he found Cindy, but also a little sad, seeing how much he was falling in love with her, because I felt I had lost out on something special.

The party wound down after that, as curfews seemed to suddenly come crashing down on it. I went home, exhilarated, thrilled at the encounter with this Ouija board, and a little boy named John. Did I dare believe it?

At school on Monday, it was all we could talk about between classes. Amber and I then decided to have everyone involved meet at my house and try it again, this time with my Ouija board, just to test it out. Maybe it was just that board that it would work on, and nothing would happen on mine.

After school, Danielle, Amber, Brian, Cindy and John all came over to my house, and I got my parent’s Ouija board out of the closet. Jennifer had declined the invitation, since she felt that we were messing with something that we just shouldn’t. Cindy was a little afraid of it, so she just wanted to watch, and John stayed by her side. Cindy agreed to take notes for us.

We each again put our two index fingertips on the planchette. This time, we asked if John was there, and the planchette moved quickly to “Yes”. We each began to ask questions of him, and as the letters became sentences, and sentences became thoughts, the story of John began to become clearer.

John had been killed on May 14, 1965, when he was hit by a ’57 Chevy in front of his house, on Murray Blvd., across from our high school. He was very excited, he spelled out, because he was about to be reincarnated into a new little boy, who was to born the next afternoon, at Penrose Hospital. The parent’s names were Clearborn, he had spelled out for us, Mary and Martin Clearborn. I could almost feel his excitement and happiness at this chance to be a person again, and I felt happy for him, too.

However, as I caught myself in this feeling, the skepticism in me began to rise, and so I asked that we try a test. We each, in turn, would take our fingers and place them on the planchette, and ask John a question, something simple, like “Are you here, John?” or “Are you with us, John?” The planchette refused to move, for any of us, except for Danielle. I did notice that it moved much more slowly to the “Yes” answer than it had when we all had our fingers on the planchette, but move it did. John asked Danielle point blank if she had been moving it on purpose, trying to scare us, and she shook her head and said plainly, “No”, that she wasn’t moving it, she wasn’t making this up.

Her calmness in the face of being accused of moving the planchette made me question whether she really had been moving it, that her calmness meant that she was lying to us. If it had been me, I would have answered with a resounding “NO! Of course I’m not doing it!” The fear of someone thinking I was lying would have come out loud and clear in my voice. It didn’t in hers…she seemed to expect that her “No” was enough, and that she had nothing else to prove then. To this day, I still wonder if she really was trying to fool us, although I can’t reconcile why she would do it. She was well-liked by everyone in this little group, and then also, how could she know that the sound of the crash was the breaking of the bed? I then wonder if maybe, just maybe, Danielle was a little bit psychic, a sensitive, and that she was receptive to the communications from the dead, and that maybe she’d been aware of it for some time by then, and so had no problem with being accused of faking it for the rest of us…she just knew better. If she was, I pray for her now, that she has been able to handle this gift, or curse, and that by being “outed” that day, she has been able to cope with it well in her life now.

We resumed asking the board questions, with Amber, Brian, Danielle and I touching the planchette again, and suddenly, the planchette began moving in a figure 8, something we hadn’t intended. We all looked at Danielle, and John asked her again if she was doing it. She had a look of fear on her face this time, the kind that only a teenager can give, the kind that shows up when someone is deathly afraid that they will no longer be accepted by her peers. She stammered out “No, NO! I am NOT doing this!” That caused my heart rate to rise a bit then, because she sounded sincere this time. Suddenly, the planchette started to spell out letters again for us, quickly, so quickly that Cindy could barely keep up with writing them as we spoke them out to her. Put together, it spelled

“HEWILLNEVERBEFREEOFMEHEISMINE
HEISMINEHEISMINEHEISM…”

All of us, our eyes became very wide, and our pupils became very wide. My heart was in my throat. As if on cue, we all took our fingers off of the planchette at the same time. What we saw then scared me so much that I had tears in my eyes.

The planchette halted right in the center, stopped utterly in its tracks.

If someone had truly been pushing on it, the planchette should of kept going a little on that waxed, unused board, pushed on by the velocity it had when it was spelling out that horrid message. It didn’t, it stopped dead in its tracks, right in the middle, with no other movement. We all looked at each other, fear and wonder in each of our eyes. Danielle looked at all of us angrily, breathing fast, eyes wide with fear, and asked “Now, NOW do you believe me?”

Cindy read back to us what had been spelled out…not that she really needed to, since we all seemed to grasp the evil intent of that message as it was being spelled out. We each in turn caught our breath, calmed a bit, and we decided to try the board again.

We asked John if he was still here. The planchette slowly, more slowly than before, moved to “Yes”. We then asked if he was alright, and it moved to “No”. We asked if someone else was with him, and it moved to “Yes”. We asked who it was. It spelled out for us:

“MYFATHER”

A new take on his story began to emerge, and as it was told to us, letter by letter, word by word. The movements went more quickly, each of us saying the letters as they were spelled out for us. John spelled out that it was his father that had been driving that ’57 Chevy, and that he had murdered John by running over him. He then said that his father now had him in a cage, and that he was afraid, because he didn’t know if he was going to be able to be born again, or to meet his new parents, Mary and Martin.

Then, again, the planchette moved around in the figure 8, quickly, and each of our eyes grew wide, and my heart began to pound again. A lump formed in my throat as the planchette began to move again, so fast, so fast the planchette practically leaped from letter to letter, and again, a new set of letters formed for us:

“HEISMINEHEISMINEYOUAREALLGOINGTODIEYOUARE
ALLGOINGTODIEIWILLKILLYOUALLIWILLKILLYOUALL
HEISMINEHEISMI…”

That was it. We all took our fingers off the planchette, thoroughly frightened, and called it a day. Suddenly homework and parents seemed like gifts to us, the perfect excuse to just get away from what we had just seen. The normal world, the real world, what a blessing it seemed to me right then. They all left, and there I was, putting the Ouija board away before my parents got home, heart still pounding, tears forming in my eyes. I was afraid, afraid for myself, afraid for my friends, and afraid for little John.

I know now that I was wrapped up, obsessed with what this Ouija board was telling us, in a way that only teenagers seem to be able to do. It was all that I thought about all that next day at school. I was frightened, yes, but exhilarated as well. It was binding us all closer together; we were becoming a group, something I had craved for so long, a tribe of my own. And Brian was a part of it, and John, and that was worth more to me than anything frightening that this wooden board would tell us.

Amber, Danielle and I decided to go to the new Penrose Birth Center the next day after school, before we were all to meet at my house to try the Ouija board again. It was right up the street from our neighborhood, so we figured it would be a quick trip before we all went to my house. We wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, there was child named Clearborn that had been born there. Amber and I were determined that if this was true in any way, we wanted to see him, this little baby. This was in the day where anyone could go look at the newborns, before a couple of crazy women had stolen newborns from hospitals, before the maternity ward was under lock and key. Danielle was more afraid, and when Amber and I went flying in to go look at the babies born that day, we had to convince her to come with us, practically dragging her in with our peer pressure pleas.

We looked up and down the rows of those precious little newborns, and not one of them was named Clearborn, or Clareborn, or Cleary, or Klerbern, or anything else remotely close in spelling or phonetics. We walked out of there so disappointed and dejected. It wasn’t true, there was no baby Clearborn. Then, with an excitement that almost showed the lightbulb over her head, Amber remembered that this isn’t the only place in the Penrose Hospital system where babies were born; there was the main hospital downtown that had a whole floor for their maternity ward. However, we were all meeting at my house again, to try the Ouija board again, and didn’t have time to drive all the way downtown and back. We decided that we would go to Penrose Main the next day after school, to check there. Then, we all hopped into Amber’s car and drove to my house.

We all assembled in the lower part of my parent’s split level house again, and again I got the Ouija board out of the coat closet. Cindy and John again stayed off to the sidelines, notepad in Cindy’s hands, and Brian, Danielle, Amber and I surrounding the Ouija board. Taking a deep breath, we each put our fingertips on the planchette. Immediately, it began going in that fast figure 8, faster and faster. “Uh oh”, I thought, as my heart began to race again.

We asked it “Is this John?” and a quick movement to “No” answered that. We asked “Who are you?” and it refused to answer, just kept moving in a figure 8. We asked it that three times before finally moving on. We then asked “Are you John’s father?”, and the planchette kept moving between “Yes” and “No”, “Yes” and “No”. We asked, “Is John there?”, which was answered with “Yes”. Then, suddenly, it just stopped in the middle for a few seconds, and then spelled out this:

“HEISMINEHEISMINEYOUAREMINEYOUAREALLMINE
YOUAREGOINGTODIEIAMGOINGTOKILLYOUALL
KILLYOUALLKILLYOUALLYOUAREMINE
YOUAREMINEYOUAREGOINGTODIE”

And it stopped in the middle again, abruptly, before the fast figure 8’s began again.

This time, Brian’s bravado came out, and he started laughing. He said, “Yeah, right, I know we’re all going to die, everybody’s got to die someday.” The planchette shot to the letters:

“YOUAREFIRSTBRIANYOUAREFIRSTBRIAN
YOUWILLBEDEADIN24HOURS
YOUAREMINEYOUAREALLMINE”

My eyes grew wider with fear. It had spelled out his name. It had called him out. Brian kept it up though, and laughed, and said “Oh yeah, so I’m going to die in 24 hours. Who else, huh? How you going to do it, tough guy?” The planchette moved quickly to spell out:

“BRIANDIESAMBERDIESJOHNDIESCINDYDIES
KRISTINADIESDANIELLEDIES
YOUAREALLMINEYOUWILLALLDIE”

So Brian laughingly asked, “Oh yeah? When am I going to die? How am I going to die?”

To which it answered:

“24HOURSBRIANDIES”

Brian’s bravado began to infect us all, and we all let out little laughs at this board that was trying to scare us, or this entity, or whatever. John was pshawing at it all, and said “Danielle’s just doing this to scare us”, to which Danielle cried “I’m not doing it!” We all joined in, though, and began to ask the board when and how we were each going to die, each in turn, each with a sense of sarcasm, challenge and humor.

The board spelled out that Brian and John were going to die in 24 hours, that Amber and Cindy were going to die in 48 hours, and that Danielle and I were going to die in 72 hours. No matter how many times we asked, the board would only move in figure 8’s when we asked HOW we were going to die, or asked for its name.

Brian and John were laughing by now, feeling confident, feeling the spell of obsession broken. I, however, was scared, scared to death. I could see from Amber and Danielle’s face that they were scared, too. Cindy seemed on the fence, a little scared, but feeling John’s confidence, and I think protection. I couldn’t stop thinking “What if it happened, what if it was true?”

We stopped then, some of the spell broken by John and Brian’s laughter over the whole thing. The laughter helped to ease the tension and fear in the room, that moments ago was so thick it was almost choking me. I picked up the board and planchette, noticing that the planchette felt warm this time, where it hadn’t before now, and put them back in their box as everyone was saying goodbye. When everyone had left, the fear came rushing back into me. I wanted to break that board, burn it, throw it out…I never wanted to see it again. I thought about that twice, though, because the wrath of my mother at that time was more fearful than anything some scary ghost demon could promise to do. So, instead, I put it back in the closet.

I knew that I needed to tell my mom what happened, even though I was pretty sure to get in a ton of trouble for having kids in the house without her permission (my mother’s particular pet peeve, and as a normally obedient teenager, this reminds me of how obsessed I had become with our talking with this Ouija board). But, I was so afraid; I felt like I was 5-years-old again, and the boogeyman was in the closet, and I wanted my parents to protect me. I wanted my daddy. Unfortunately, Dad was on the road then as a long-distance truck driver, and so I would have to settle for my mom, which meant I would get in trouble. Dad was definitely the more lenient of the two, and his anger was more understandable. My mother, her anger was so hard to read. But, I also thought that if she knew what had happened, then she would probably get rid of the board. So after dinner, I sat my mom down, and told her the whole story. As I did, I cried and shook, from the sheer terror of it all, and the fear that I and my friends were really going to die in the next 24-72 hours.

My mom was angry, as I had expected, but for reasons that I had not. She was upset because she knew that we had been messing with something dark, something evil, and she was afraid for me, which translated into that unreadable anger. I didn’t find out until years later that her anger stemmed mostly from that, and not that I had disobeyed her wishes about kids in the house. She was mad that that it had gotten a hold of me enough to have me sneaking off to Penrose to go look at babies, that I had become that obsessed with it, and forbade me to go back there, to check again the next day. She tried to forbid me from seeing my friends again, but when I explained that we all had lockers next to each other, and that Brian went to our church, she lightened up and said that we weren’t to ever play with the Ouija board again, and then grounded me for a week for not telling her what I had been doing and having kids in the house without their permission. She took the board out of the closet, and said that she was going to throw it away (I found out years later that she hadn’t, which from what I understand of Ouija boards now, I’m really glad she didn’t. If there is any evil force now attached to that board, it can just stay there for all I care. No need to go breaking or burning it to set that force free to attach to some other vessel.)

I’m not sure why, but getting in trouble over it all seemed to comfort me, make me feel like it was all just a game that I had been playing with my friends, that it was normal. The fear that I was going to die, that my friends were going to die passed into just a mere curiosity. Of course I wanted to see if anything would happen, and so kept in close touch with my friends over the next few days. Cindy did get sick during her supposed time to die, two days later, which had scared me and Danielle when we didn’t see her at her locker that day, but Cindy had called Amber that morning to tell her that she was sick with a cold, so wouldn’t be to school that day. Obviously, I didn’t die either, or I wouldn’t be here to tell you this tale. So, we were all ok.

And I never touched a Ouija board again.

Oh, one thing did happen after all this that spooked me a little. I looked in the Sunday paper after all this had happened, and looked at the Births section. A little 8 lb. 4 oz. boy had been born at Penrose Main Hospital, with the last name of Klerbern.

If you'd like to try a reading with an online Ouija board, as well as learn more of their history and myths, then click here.

In Fine Spirit

2006-10-31T10:18:00.000-08:00

On learning that I wrote material in a medieval setting,
a cousin inquired if I wrote ghost stories -- perhaps
confusing the dark ages with renaissance romances.

She being a favorite 'Aunt' though, I set out to do that,
and finished it on the day she passed away -- and never
got to hear me sing this ballad.

The hero's name is that of one of her in-laws,
a grand old man of my memory.

Please enjoy ....
................................................................................

Spirit Song

The fearful wind whispers through the broken reeds,
Hugo - Hugo
Hear the tiny claws scramble on cold hard stones,
beware, beware.
Listen to the story of the Jouvenal sword,
attend, attend

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom,
while eagles hide with mist shorn wings,
and a floating sword carves truth from sin
to pay debt to the ghost of Jouvenal.

The castle had stood a thousand years
to turn Persians and Mongols aside.
The towers were tall ‘round a hidden well
and mossy stones within thorns did hide.
Myth said twas mortared with virgin blood
with a ring moat of serpents and tears.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
while brave knights swear fealty anew.
Purpose and honor should inspire them
to match the life of Jouvenal.

Sir Hugo remained while four rode out
to claim full pride of a battle guard.
By lot his fate was to guard the gate
with less valor sure for bloodless sword.
“Safe return my friends,” he cried anon
“The gate awaits those without fear.

Their race came stride their foaming steeds,
three dead in saddle and comrade dear.
“Betrayed,” he cried with parting breath.
“Preserve our pledge, quick - prepare.”
Hugo strode out 'fore postern gate,
spear and shield stood forever near.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
for a blood quest is honor bound,
and such treachery must quick renounce
or face the wrath of young Jouvenal.

Baron turned coward crested the hill
leading ranks of minions most foul.
Nothing stood ‘tween his covet tower
but slender knight called Jouvenal.
His charged intent hardly slacked
as archers called he from the rear.

The crossbow has but two hundred range,
while the Sythian bow crosses three.
In motion swift as a falcon wing
six arrows set these archers free.
Then followed the Baron’s favored horse
and two squire sons he held so dear.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
where evil is met with more sure portent.
So bold are they two hundred to one,
but quick to their heels from Jouvenal.

The milling throng did distant withdraw
to curse this blight to well laid plan.
But none would stride upon the road
where Jouvenal did protect his clan.
Yet chivalry did provide relief
for single challenge did honor share.

A knight strode down the rutted road
with shield and banner lofted high.
Sir Hugo met with buckler and sword,
with courage found one cannot deny.
The sparks did match the flow of blood
from fallen knight ,neath Hugo’s glare.

Another fine knight approached the field
to clank in the dust before the keep.
Five more in turn did quick battle meet,
and each in turn made a widow weep.
But each defeat took a bitter toll
of strength and blood beyond repair.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
where valor designs its own defeat.
A warrior slow wounded in victory
will match the sad fate of Jouvenal.

As he fell to knees, no foe ahead
Sir Hugo cried out to comrades down.
“Support me now in oath and quest
to carry this day - defend the crown.”
Dead comrades all did answer the call
bound by fine will each could share.

The sword swept up from the stricken hand
to dance in the air with spinning light,
to vanquish each challenge evil bent,
and none could pass dead Hugo’s might.
New souls departed were two score more
before all ran from the Baron’s care.

The sword still stands before open gate
imbedded in stone than none can take.
Good will can pass with contented heart,
giving a prayer for courage sake,
but evil does shrivel and run away
from symbol of shame they must beware.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
where sword of Hugo defends the gate.
Where honor is sacred to comrades
you will find the spirit of Jouvenal.

Jouvenal - Jouvenal - Jouvenal

Dressed up for Halloween

2006-10-31T04:59:00.000-08:00

A Tale of Revenge

2006-10-31T02:19:00.000-08:00

Revenge is a dish best served cold. That’s a quote from Star Trek. Don’t tell me otherwise, I know.

If you had been forced to watch every episode of the original series, every movie in the franchise plus the endless TV spin offs, dozens of times over, you would know too.

Don’t get me started about the conventions. I’ve been to more conventions than a shoe brush salesman. My fingers bled making those costumes. The Klingon costume was made of real leather. Thousands of hand sewn stitches. I still have the scars.

Why did I marry him? He proposed to me in Klingon. Back then, I thought that was so cool. We married at a Trek Convention back in the 80s. Captain Kirk was our celebrant. No, not William Shatner, some guy from Fantasy Weddings R Us.

So, at first it was fun, you know? We spent our honeymoon at Vulcan – it’s a town in Canada. We’ve been to Star Trek The Experience at Vegas, we joined protest groups to Save Star Trek and we’ve been to conventions in Australia, Japan and Germany. If it’s Trek, we’ve done it. Then we did it again.

But I got over it. I grew. I got into those reality shows. You know that one about swapping wives? I wanted to be swapped. I applied over and over again. I would have taken any of those loser husbands, just as long as he didn’t have an unopened collection of action figures.

Enterprise was the final straw. Everyone said Enterprise was crap. But we watched it, every episode. He made me sign the petitions when it was cancelled. He made me make a big We Love You Scott Bakula Sign and stand outside the man’s house in LA for a week. Bakula wasn’t even home.

You know what he gave me on my last birthday? The complete set of Enterprise on DVD. What would you have done? I had to get my revenge for all those years I’d wasted watching Star Trek with him when I could been living a real life. On a reality TV show.

I planned it for months. I arranged everything so cleverly, he didn’t even know what hit him.

``Go put on your Klingon suit,” I told him. “I’ve got tickets to a very special convention. It’s being televised.”

He was so excited, you would have thought he was going to get laid.

So here I am, sitting on the stage, and here he comes, striding through the door in his stupid Klingon suit. This is the moment I have been waiting for, when he stops, stares around in confusion, and hears the chant of the crowd.

``Je-rry! Je-rry!”

2006-10-31T02:04:00.000-08:00

Kiss Me, I'm Irish!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

PS: The mask is from Dover Publications free downloads.

Pictures for Halloween!!

2006-10-29T20:47:00.000-08:00

"Yeah, Bustah's back
And now he has a buddy!"

This is who Bustah has been hanging around with recently, meet "Bones", and yes, he is a "Star trek" fan!!

As you can see, Pye does not like witches hanging from his ceiling!!

Halloween is not complete without black cats!!

Everyone has heard of werewolves, they do have a rarer, shyer cousin here in the American Southwest. I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of one, and take it's picture. This is the Werecoyote!!

Here is a wee bat, to carry Samhain prayers to the Otherworld for us.

Spiders, too, are part of a spooky celebration!!

What would this Holiday be without masks to confound and keep the Spirit World at bay?

We must have our carved pumpkins or turnips to keep away unhappy spirits!!

Bunnies are traditionally for Oestre, but, if you look closely, the eyes of these fellows are.. strange... as if there was an internal fire consuming their supposed sweetness.

Spooky Movie Time

2006-10-29T18:44:00.000-08:00

As Halloween grows ever closer, TV channels play the horror films, and review the history of Halloween (All Hallow’s Evening, Samhain, Day of the Dead). I managed to get 50 of the top 100 Scariest Movie Moments. Of course, I had to watch this to see how many of them I have seen. Not too bad, 45 of 50 movies have passed through my eyes and into my psyche.

50) Last House on the Left

I remember this film with marvellous chills.

49) Les Diabolique

48) The Thing

I never tire of this film.

47) Nosferatu (the original)

Always the scariest Vampyre.

46) The Sentinel

45) The Wicker Man (not the remake)

I remember being glued to this film.

44) I didn’t get this title, but I had seen it.

43) It’s Alive

Shiver shiver!!

42) An American Werewolf in London

I never tire of werewolf films!!

41) The Hills Have Eyes (the original)

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkk!!!

40) Black Sunday

39) Dawn of the Dead

Zombie films should be fun and funny!!

38) Peeping Tom

37) House on Haunted Hill

Haunted houses always give me the willies!!

36) Cape Fear (with Robert Mitchum)

How could anyone top Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck??

35) Aliens

The Aliens make this film series, H.R. Gieger’s Alien is CREEPY.

34) The Hitcher

Could anyone pick up a hitchiker after seeing this???

33) The Fly (with Jeff Goldblum)

Even my brothers can’t watch this all the way through!!!

32) Pet Sematary

“Here kitty, kitty…”

31) Friday the 13th

Funny, freaky, a definite carload drive-in movie.

30) The Blair Witch Project

Was it supposed to be scary, I was bored to tears.

29) The Serpent and the Rainbow

28) When A Stranger Calls

I wonder how many kids stopped babysitting after this came out?

27) Frankenstien (the original)

Yes, yes, always the best!!

26) Seven

Very disturbing, and believable. The beast that lurks within man is the worst.

25) Phantasm

Unforgettable, the music is an excellent accompaniment to the tale,

24) Suspira

23) Rosemary’s Baby

Incredible filmmaking, with a well-written story to back it up, the acting was superb. One of the finest horror films to watch over and over.

22) Don’t Look Now

21) Jacob’s Ladder

This is one of the most disturbing films I have ever seen. It still slithers in my subconscious.

20) The Ring

Yaaaawwnnn… wake me up when it gets scary.

19) Hellraiser

I will never watch this film series again, it upset me that badly!!

18) The Haunting

A good ghost story is one that can be retold over and over.

17) A Nightmare on Elm Street

More funny than frightening, but… Freddy is so cool as a nightmare monster!!

16) The Omen (the original)

Gregory Peck is incredible in this film, but then, when isn’t he??

15) Freaks

14) Halloween

How could I be frightened by someone that shares my family name. Mwah-hahahahahaha!!!!

13) Scream

Loved the mask, it still gives me a giggle.
12) Misery

One word… Hobbling.

11) Audition

The people in the Far East are the Masters of the Horror Film, they bring the arts of their heritage to the art of film making.

10) Wait Until Dark

It is bred into our genes to be afraid of the dark, ask anyone that has been lost in the woods!!

9) Night of the Living Dead

Woooo-hooooo!!! The best zombie movie, I enjoyed the heck out of the fact that the hero was one of the first black heroes in film making.8 ) Carrie

Go Carrie Go!!! Who doesn’t identify with Carrie?

7) The Silence of the Lambs

I must admit, there are Hannibal Lecter quotes that have become a part of my family’s history. “Free Range Rude” is so appropriate in the town I live in!!

6) The Shining (with Jack Nicholson)

”Heere’s Johnny!!” Yeeeeks!!

5) Texas Chainsaw Massacre

This film makes me grateful that I live in the desert.

4) Psycho

Did any of you quit taking showers after seeing this???

3) Exorcist

I could not watch this film all the way through without having nightmares until I was in my 40’s!!!

2) Alien

When the baby alien rips out of John Hurt’s belly I think I jumped straight up to the ceiling!!

1) Jaws

“Shark!!!”

Let us know what your favourite horror films are, and the ones that scared you the best/worst.

Halloween on the Town

2006-10-29T15:06:00.000-08:00

Last night, I went with some friends to an old movie house (built in the 1920's) which now houses a Werlitzer organ along with all its pipes. We listened to short organ program with musical numbers appropriate to the holiday. Then we viewed a silent Laurel and Hardy film ("Habeus Corpus") followed by the original 1925 silent film version of "Phantom of the Opera" with Lon Chaney. Both films were accompanied by music from the Werlitzer. Here are some images from last night.

What's Halloween without a Halloween Tree?

Some people know how to arrive in style. This is a 1939 Packard hearse. Note the orbs flitting about it. Oooooooooooo.....

Here is the usher.

Here are a couple of patrons come to watch the film (just for Heather....)

Finally, here is the organ and its pipes. I took this without a flash. In any other situation, this would be a awful picture, but for this occassion, I think it is just totally freaky....

The Cry-An Owl Creek Exclusive!

2006-10-28T08:04:00.000-07:00

AN ARTICLE by BERNADINE SANTISTEVAN, DIRECTOR OF "The Cry"

Bernadine was kind enough to make a trip to my Owl Creek Bridge (anita64.wordpress.com ) in order to share some stories about making her Supernatural Thriller Based on the Legend of La Llorona.

I hope that you enjoy her story and that you are as inspired by her determination to see her creative dreams realized as I am.

amm

I first heard of La Llorona when I was a kid growing up in a small town in New Mexico. Ever since I can remember, we were told stories of a woman who drowned her kids in the river—basically to get revenge from her lover who had betrayed her. But after drowning them, she realized what she had done and let out a horrifying, heart-wrenching cry. From that moment she was condemned to roam the rivers forever, crying and searching for her children.

As kids, our parents always told us that La Llorona would take us away if we went by the river to play alone, or if we misbehaved. On top of being completely scared stiff that La Llorona was going to get me, the whole idea that a mother would kill her own child absolutely terrified me.

When I decided to make a movie, there was no question in my mind that it had to be about La Llorona. On the one hand, I definitely wanted to do something focused on my culture. And from a more personal perspective, having grown up in a very superstitious environment (a combination of old Spanish beliefs dating back to the time of the Inquisition mixed with Native American beliefs), making a movie about La Llorona was a way for me to conquer my some of my fears/demons, with La Llorona being a big one.

Like most of the more than 28 million people in the U.S. who grew up with stories of La Llorona, I originally thought that this ghost was from my small town. After learning that she’s basically everywhere and has been a strong force in the Latino world for five centuries, I set off on a search for her across the U.S. and Latin America. I dug up historical material on her dating back hundreds of years, interviewed people who believe they’ve seen or heard her, and collected stories, artwork, poems and songs about her from all over the continent. You can see some of my research on my website www.TheCryTheMovie.com. I also went on to explore “Lloronas in other cultures,” and found several similar legends from all over the world like the Greek Medea, the Jewish Lilith and the Irish Banshee. In the end, it took me 5 years to get to a place where I felt as though I knew La Llorona well enough to write a script that would truly capture her essence. Then it was writing, rewriting, finding money, shooting, finding more money, post-production, distribution…what seemed like endless work.

Since it’s Halloween, I want to mention a few creepy experiences that I had while making The Cry—moments where I definitely felt La Llorona’s presence.

The first creepy experience happened one day when I was shooting in Spanish Harlem. Some santeros (traditional saint makers) from New Mexico had carved a wood statue of Death in the form of a woman (Dona Sebastiana). It was quite difficult to transport the santo to New York because it was a large, life-size carving and very fragile. In any case, the day my best friend, Horacio, and I were unloading Death from the vehicle, a freak accident happened where I was hit in the head—just a hair above my right eye—

with something flying through the air. It felt as though a brick had hit me, and I almost lost my eye. I remember grabbing my head and seeing blood pouring into my hand. Horacio ran and caught me just as the world started spinning and I was falling to the ground. The experience totally freaked me out not only because it happened when we were moving Death, but also because in The Cry the way that I physically show La Llorona’s curse on people is through their bleeding eyes. A few months later when I was doing post-production on The Cry, one morning my project manager suddenly had some bloody tears coming out of her eyes. She never did find out why that happened.

Another creepy experience happened when I was shooting some of my flashback scenes in New Mexico. Basically, I had spent several days looking for the perfect river location to shoot La Llorona drowning her kid, and found it months before we shot there. The place had a strange, haunting feel to it that made it perfect for The Cry. What was creepy about this was that a few weeks before we shot there, my sister, Rita, who still lives in NM called me to tell me that a woman named Bernadine—my name, which is pretty uncommon—had gone to the same location and drowned her two kids and herself. When I heard this my stomach fell to the floor. As I was shooting my scene I remember looking out over the river and feeling La Llorona’s presence more than ever.

The last creepy experience that I want to mention happened when I was in the final stage of post-production. In The Cry, I am the voice and cries of La Llorona. It took me quite some time to figure out what La Llorona would say, and this is something that I wrote only after digging deep into my knowledge and “relationship” with her. On the day I was in the studio recording La Llorona’s voice, something very strange happened. All of a sudden, something moved through me, taking control of my body and my voice. It felt as though for that slice of time, I was outside of me, hearing someone else’s voice come out of my body. It was a haunting, yet amazingly experience. The sound team that was recording in the control room was frozen stiff with how scary my voice sounded. You’ll get a taste of it yourself when you see The Cry, and you can read about more creepy experiences on my blog www.TheCry.typepad.com/thecry/.

Making The Cry is definitely the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. (Details included in my next horror film.) But despite all the unbelievable struggles, if given the choice, I’d do it all again. The film helped me learn so much about myself—my culture, my power as a woman, how to face and fight my fears—not to mention how to make a film. Though I have to say that perhaps the most important thing I learned by making The Cry is that nothing is more fulfilling, empowering and magical than pouring your heart and soul into a dream and making it come true.

As per La Llorona, we’ve been together for many years now, and I know her well—perhaps better than anyone else on the face of the earth. And although I no longer fear her, I am now more certain of one thing than I ever was before: There’s nothing worse than a mother who murders her child…and La Llorona is real.

I hope you enjoyed Bernadine's article.

Please visit Bernadine's Sites and check out her wonderful work:

www.TheCryTheMovie.com

www.TheCry.typepad.com/thecry/

email: TheCry@LaLlorona.com

And one more true story.

2006-10-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

My Grandpa Roy told me this story when I was a kid.

Most of his adult life, my grandpa worked for the movie studios-- MGM, RKO, Warner Brothers. At various times he worked for them as a horse wrangler, grip, and greensman. Sometimes he just did whatever needed doing on the set. One day, back in the 1930's, he was asked to pick up a truck in Hollywood and deliver it over the hill to the WB facilities in the Valley.

Now Grandpa Roy had a grandfather named James who visited him quite frequently. On this particular day, Great-Grandpa James joined Grandpa Roy for the ride over the hill. Back in 1930's there were no freeways as there are today, and travel to and from the Valley required negotiating narrow, twisting canyon roads. The route they took that day was over Cold Water Canyon Road.

As James sat in the passenger side of the truck, my grandpa Roy began the ascent up the road. James was quiet, as was his nature, but just before the truck reached the top of the grade, James turned to Grandpa Roy and said "You need to check the brakes before you start that downhill grade. You won't make it if you don't."

Grandpa Roy had always followed his grandfather's advice so he pulled over to the side of the road. He got out and slid under the truck for a look. Sure enough, there was a problem with the brakes, and had he proceeded down the grade more than likely they would have failed and he would have careened out of control.

I don't remember what Grandpa Roy said about how he got the truck down the hill. I don't remember because I got stuck on what Grandpa said next about Great-Grandpa James riding along with him.

You see, Great-Grandpa James was dead and had been for many, many years.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Ghost Train

2006-10-25T07:33:00.000-07:00

This is not a horror story, but is true
and could fit into the Halloween
"trick or treat" category.

faucon
..........................................

The Ghost Train Saga

Ely, Nevada is a place ‘too far’ for most people, being about 320 miles away from each of Reno, Las Vegas and Salt Lake City. Those who sojourn there, however, can take a ride on the ‘Ghost Train’ – even today. The story surrounding its name is used by the local Chamber of Commerce in advertising – referencing ‘connectivity’, ‘power of community action’, etc. as hallmarks. In reality, support of the Train is possibly the only thing in history that the residence have ever agreed on!

Up though the Second World War, rail travel and freight was frequent throughout the this country, and Nevada was no exception. The old wood-burning locomotives were a fixture of many communities, though fuel was difficult to come by in the desert mountains. So, the Eastern company that owned the Ely railroad decided to retire these engines in the early 1950’s – and old #40 was designated to travel back East to be housed in a museum of the ‘real West’. Never happened!

Despite a barrage of messages, orders and threats, the engine never left Ely – while the locals attempted to find a way to keep this part of their heritage and local flavor. Finally, a crew of executives and workers came from the home office to seize the engine and ‘put an end to this nonsense’. The problem was – they couldn’t find the train! Each night the engine would puff merrily along some section of track or another to the delight of the residence; but it could never be found during the day! Hundreds of miles of track were searched, with the sheriff and city officials enrolled to ‘get to the bottom of this’. Citizens were brought in to testify as to what they knew – but many denied even knowing of the train’s existence at all. Posters and buttons appeared with the phrase “WHAT TRAIN?” At one station house it was discovered that there were no records of the engine at all – no schedules, fueling receipts – nothing.

One can only suspect a collusion between rail workers and the local citizens; but it is still not known exactly where the engine was hidden or how it was removed from the tracks. The officials finally gave up, writing a letter gifting the “Ghost Train” to the city if it ever showed up – and exempting it from any rail use fees. It is maintained by a team of volunteers and makes short runs every day of the year – and possibly now holds the record for ‘longest continuous operation’ of any engine.

You won’t find it in any book though – since officially, it does not exist.

Welcome To The Danse

2006-10-24T22:21:00.000-07:00

Feeling Brave?

Visit Anita's Owl Creek Bridge to learn the Strange History of
the Soul Food Cafe's Chamber of Horrors at:

http://anita64.wordpress.com/2006/10/15/strange-tale-from-the-chamber-of-horrors/

Shiloh Cemetery, Texas

2006-10-18T18:06:00.000-07:00

Hey! Look, a pic of one of several cemeteries across the USA bearing my name. I'm in with the dead "In Crowd!" Whhooooo....

Horrors!

2006-10-17T04:32:00.000-07:00

I enjoy these stories here as a contracst to normal life ...
making what I live each day more poignant --
yet ...

DAYMARE

Surely, if a Nightmare is portrayed as white (an offense to Epona), then a Daymare would be black – and so it is. I awakened to full expectation of joyous birds and dew kissed leaves now revealing their colored souls; and I wandered to the porch to sing up the dawning as I must. Things were not right at all!

The air was dank and filled with noxious odors – and I could scarcely see across the street, though it was not any faerie mist at all!

The plants were scraggly and not native here at all -- might have been plastic for all I know, except that they were in such dire health, and stricken from some constant whacking and crashing of machines. Even the comforting grass looked like grayish stone!

I ventured out to explore this terrible place – to talk with folks and learn what life was like in this dismal parody of the world of my youth.

I found that my country could no longer be called ‘Christian’ as it engaged in a preemptive war and forces its will on others.

I learned that ‘value’ was what someone wished to charge, not a matter of worth or what someone would wish to pay.

I shudder that useful vocabulary was reduced to what SpellCheck allowed, and that adverbs had been given a silent death.

I came to know that ‘integrity’ was only referenced at election time, and that ‘who to blame’ the protection of decisions rarely made.

I looked for a ‘real world’, but found that term locked in to ‘fantasy TV”, and to ‘get real’ was a term of approbation, given that each person’s view of things defines the universe.

I wept to find that organized religion was only a license for murder in various forms, and that becoming a minister was as easy as registering for the draft (what?)

I experienced that a ‘warranty’ simply means the gadget doesn’t work, and that ‘special of the day’ meant it would cost me more – and be smaller in portion.

At least I don’t have to go to an art museum with all the paintings sprayed about, or go to a zoo with all the pit bulls roaming about.

Shudder …

it’s almost Halloween …

perhaps I’ll stay in bed.

papa

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

2006-10-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

by Anita Marie Moscoso

Slumber Boneset doesn’t celebrate her birthday because she’s not sure of the exact date and that’s always been a sore spot for Slumber Boneset because she’s sure of a lot of things.

She’s sure about what the weather is going to be like, she’s sure of what it is people are thinking even when they’re saying something else and she’s always sure about where her six children and 14 grandchildren are and how they’re doing.

Over the years people have made their way to Slumber Boneset’s House by moonlight and for a few dollars she can help them with solve all sorts of problems.

So to not know something as basic as her own birth date has kept Slumber Boneset humble.

The plus side to this embarrassing situation is that it makes for a good story that her children and grandchildren insist on hearing every November 1st.

That’s when they celebrate Slumber Boneset’s Found Day.

” Oh you don’t want to hear that sad tired old story again! ” she said to her family over the dinner table last November.

” Yes we do! ” the youngest Boneset insisted in a panic “Your story is the best Halloween Story ever!”

Slumber started to laugh and asked her daughter, “ are you sure you want another one these?”

“ More then anything” she told her Mother and Slumber motioned for her grandson to take a seat.

Then Slumber sighed and she agreed to tell her story.

Someone got up and lit the candles and someone else made sure everyone had their spiced apple cider cups filled and then the lights were turned off and Slumber said:

Stonecrop Cemetery and Funeral Home is just a Park nowadays and there hasn’t been a funeral there for years.

Sixty –five years ago though it was still struggling along.

The problem was Stonecrop looked like a page from a Victorian Ghost Story about headless women dressed in white wandering along the rows of tombstones.

No one really wanted to visit there let alone have their remains interred there for all of eternity so business was slowing down and going out to Larkspear which was an up can coming style of cemetery complete with dark green manicured lawns and park benches and reflection pools full of fresh clean water.

Mr and Mrs. Cabbagetree were the owners of Stonecrop and all around they were good people who tended their dark overgrown cemetery the best they could.

But because it was so old already there was little to no money coming in and what repairs were needed they did on their own and they really didn’t mind. Stonecrop was their home and besides each other they didn’t have anything else.

They had each other and if you asked that was all they said they needed.

One morning Mrs. Cabbagetree was out in the Cemetery raking leaves and trying her best to visit the graves as she worked. She was pushing her rake along when a sharp pain raced up her arm to her jaw and it took her breath away.

” I’m only 42 ” she said to no one and then the rake fell from her hands and she died.

Mrs. Cabbagetree was buried on Morningside Hill, that’s where the children were buried in Stonecrop and I’m sorry to say it was an extensive section of the cemetery…infant mortality having been such a problem all those years ago.

” I know she wanted children, ” Mr Cabbagetree told on his friends at the graveside of Mrs. Cabbagetree ” and did she insist or even bring it up? Not once, she knew what this place meant to me, she worked so hard Burke and in the end that’s all she had to.”

” It’s not right, she should have had something of her own. She should have had that child”

Everyone said Mr Cabbagetree wasn’t the same after he lost his wife. He walked slow and talked slow and you almost wanted to reach out and touch his arm to make sure he was there.

He was already a ghost and when he died no one was surprised.

They found him one day sitting by a reflection pool full of leaves and his eyes were wide open and in his dead hands was a baby’s rattle and a black shawl.

After Mr Cabbagetree died the City started to bring in their own maintenance crews to keep up Stonecrop and one day they opened the gates and the first thing they saw were at least a dozen mounds of freshly turned earth dotting Morningside Hill.

Mrs. Cabbagetree’ s grave was opened and when they looked in she had a shovel in her hands and a smile on her face.

It was the Day after Halloween that the work crews returned to Stonecrop and before they could unlock the gates and go in they saw a little box sitting off to the side…. and it was moving.

One of them looked into the box and there, wrapped in a black shawl with a tag sewn onto the collar that said ” Slumber Boneset ” was a baby.

She had black hair and her skin was a soft caramel color and one of her eyes was midnight black and the other was ice blue and besides that she was perfect.

” So that’s my story, I was known for a long time as the Cemetery Baby and some people think I have the gift … but we know better then that, don’t we? ” Slumber asked.

From the other end of the table Slumber’s eldest daughter said, ” Mom, I think it’s time.”

” Yes it is…. please someone get my Shawl from my bedroom closet. Yes, the black one of course. After all, this is a special occasion.”

Slumber raced down the hall to the kitchen and when she returned she had a shovel in one hand and a baby’s rattle in the other. ” Let’s go dear, I’m ready.“

Here comes the circus!

2006-10-12T00:22:00.000-07:00

Circo de los Muertos is coming to Halloween Hill to celebrate All Hallow's Eve and the Day of the Dead! You'll see skull jugglers, bone balancers, thighbone stilt walkers, and many other ghastly - er ghostly - attractions.
Buy your ticket at the door, enjoy the show but get out of there before they bring on the clowns!

Mirror Superstitions

2006-10-08T16:49:00.000-07:00

The Halloween Spirit has visited me a second time, sooner than I thought he might. 'Course, I wasn't sure when, or if, he'd come again. I'm not even sure what his true purpose in visiting me is. I can guess, and I may be right, but that raises the question then of Why me? If his purpose in taking, showing and telling me the things he has and has promised to in the near future is to help get me in the spirit (no pun intended) of Halloween, then he needn't bother. I've never had trouble, once October comes, getting into it. I even have my own Halloween (not the film series) movie collection, which never ceases to be fun watching year after year. Besides which, I'm sure there are others more in need of getting into "the spirit" than I am. So it can't be that.

Maybe it's to show me that Halloween doesn't have to be or isn't necessarily about mythical monsters, although they are part of what makes the holiday fun and scary. To help me remember my time with him, and what the spirit teaches me, I thought I'd write each encounter down, because this is a most extaordinary experience--one that doesn't happen everyday!--and to see what insights come from our nights together.

He came late a couple of nights ago my Spirit of Halloween did. I was sitting in the oversized mahogany leather armchair in the living room, curled up next to the warm golden glow of my favorite lamp as is my wont, immersed in my reading. (I have a nightly habit of reading for a bit before I go to bed; it's my way of unwinding for the day. It's quite relaxing too! I highly recommend it.) Even though I was raptly in the middle of a siege and an attempt to rescue a kidnapped faerie or elf--I was reading Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer then--a succession of yawns and eyes beginning to water signaled I should finish my current section or chapter as quick as I could and head for bed.

Taking my glasses off, I swiped at the tear tracks slowly making their way down both cheeks with my sleeve. Just seven more pages, I thought. You can last that long.

But as I went back to the spot where I'd stopped in the book I held, I became aware of a noticeable drop in temperature. Shivering in reaction, I put my book opened face down on the round side table to my left and rose to check the thermostat. I didn't take more than a few steps, however. For, hovering in the wide doorway and coming closer, was a white ghost ball--I can't describe it as anything else--slowly pulsing and trailing a small tail of energy behind it. Its light added to the lamp's illumination, dispelling a few more of the shadows near my corner of the room.

My eyes widened, my jaw slackened. Within my chest, my heart skipped a beat or two then rocketed into overdrive. Speechless, I stood immobile, unable to even blink. Unable to think coherently. It was as if I'd been turned into a statue.

The ball of energy and light pulsed brighter then coalesced into a tighter ball before growing and taking on a human shape. The white aura flickered as the form defined then became steady as the being solidified. First the partially cowl-covered face became visible, then the black robed body, broad-shouldered, lean torso and narrow hipped. Lastly the arms, the right hanging relaxed at his side, the left carrying an ebony staff. Within the crystal orb on top, black and orange ribbons of light swirled together and parted constantly. I was now staring, stunned, at my new friend, the Spirit of Halloween.

As one side of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile, I released the pent-up breath I hadn't known I held, my muscles simultaneously relaxing with relief. The statue was freed and came to life. With its release went the fear of the unknown, the fear of whatever--whomever--it was. Thanks to the surge of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I was wide awake now, sleep forgotten.

"It's you," I said lamely, unnecessarily to my own mind later on. But I was caught quite off-guard and wasn't sure what I should do or say. What does one do or say when one's guest is a ghost?

Dropping my gaze and looking elsewhere about the room for a minute to regain my composure and get control of my skittering thoughts, I returned my attention to him and said the first thing that seemed relatively logical: "I'll get a flashlight and my coat." I made to move past him.

My ghostly guide just shook his head, stopping me three steps away to his right. I dumbly mimicked his gesture. "No?" I asked, my brows furrowing together in confusion. "Then...?"

The ghost just pointed to my right, through another wide doorway to a short hallway which led onto several other rooms. One of which was my room. I followed the specter's finger, uncomprehending. "But that where my room, the study, two guest rooms and the master bathroom are!"

Still wearing the amused smile the Spirit of Halloween gestured for me to precede him through the doorway.

"I don't understand," I protested. "Where are we going?"

"Are you superstitious, my lady?" The ghost asked his own question in response.

Trying to search his eyes, which glinted within the dark shadows of his hood, I answered slowly hesitant to part with the embarrassing truth. "Yyyeeesss...to a certain extent. I say 'bless you' or 'ghuzunheidt(sp?)' if someone sneezes. I even have a couple of personal mantras or rituals I perform for good luck; and I try to or say 'knock on wood' to avoid possibly jinxing myself." I paused, cocking my head to the left. "Why?"

"They're a part of every day superstitions are, have been since Man first drew breath on this earth." the spirit replied. "They've become so ingrained as habits or beliefs that no one thinks twice about them. Halloween is coming, and people naturally focus on the commercialized or fantastic monsters and legends, such as Frankenstein, the Mummy or Dracula. People forget superstitions are as much a part of the spirit of Halloween as any of those.

"So, if we could adjourn to your bedchamber, my lady, I'll tell you about a few superstitions you may not know of." Once again, he patiently gestured that I precede him.

I moved, but on the way I had to know, "Why my bedroom?"

"You've got a full-length mirror there, yes?"

Entering my bedroom I glanced back over my shoulder at my specter in surprise. "How did you--?"

The Spirit of Halloween smiled again. "I checked before I made my entrance." he admitted.

Once more I felt my jaw slide south. "You were in my room--!"

Eyes glinting inside his cowl my ghostly guide reguarded me impassively. "I needed to know where your largest mirror was."

Disgruntled at the image of him invading my private sanctuary, I flipped the light switch and illumintion from overhead banished the darkness. As we headed towards the wall to our right I groused, "You could've asked."

He didn't say a word as we approached the oval fluted, cherry wood framed mirror in a hand-carved spindle-sided stand.

I stopped in front of the mirror, sea green eyes avoiding the glass. I can say, with some pride, I am not one of those who're obsessed with their appearance. Who're constantly looking in the mirror to see if their reflection is still perfect. In fact, I avoid mirrors if I can. Oh, I look into them when I need to know if I'm mussed or still presentable if I'm meeting with someone. And getting ready for the day, of course. I just don't like staring at myself in the mirror. I'm my own worst critic; I'm vveerryy harsh on myself. And since I'm several pounds overweight, I don't like seeing the depressing reminder.

My ghostly companion stood just behind my left shoulder. Since I'm only 5'3" he stands quite a bit taller at six feet. His white aura and the globe's black and orange colors glowed back at us, but other than that he looked almost as real and substantial as I did.

"Ok," I said, meeting his glinting gaze in the mirror. "I gather, since we're here and not somewhere else, that your superstitions are about the mirror. Right?"

"Right." He nodded once. "What do you know about mirrors and superstitions, lady?"

"Well...I know that breaking one is supposed to bring seven years bad luck, and that in the old days, when there was a death they used to cover up all the mirrors in the house. But I never knew why." I paused. "I bet you know, though, and are about to tell me..."

The Spirit of Halloween's lopsided smile appeared again at my raised eyebrow. He even chuckled, which raised the other brow. "Yes, I do have a sense of humor, madam," he said in his deep and raspy voice.

"Uh hhuuhhh. Good to know. I'd hate to be haunted by a Scrooge of a ghost."

This time he tilted his head back and gave a full belly laugh. "I am no Scrooge my lady, but he himself is a changed spirit. He now works as the Ghost of Christmas Present."

"Oh really?" I folded my arms and regarded him speculatively. "And who were you once upon a time?"

All mirth slowly vanished from his mien, and he once again watched me impassively. "That's a story for another night. Right now, let me just tell you about mirror superstitions."

I regarded him quietly through my glasses. "Please." he entreated quietly.

"All right." I inclined my head then turned and settled on the nearby concord grape and cream striped satin cushion of the cherry wood bench at the foot of my bed. It was in direct line with the mirror. Stretching my legs out in front of me I slid my hands between them. "Go on." I encouraged.

The specter turned around so we talked face-to-face. "Thank you."

With a wave of an elegant pale hand, he conjured his own seat out of nowhere a few feet from the mirror's right. Sitting down he rested the staff he held on his black robed knees. The chair was quite handsome and suited my visitor. It was stately and masculine, but without being throne-like or ostentatious. Carved by hand from one giant piece of cherry wood, the chair stood nearly five feet tall. In a style similar to a Louis XIV arm chair, it was a classic mix of cherry wood and a leather so deep green it could be mistaken for black in the shadows. The back's dark wooden frame followed my mirror's clean design, curving in a complete oval, securing the leather cushion in place. The armrests curved outward from the back frame and down, scroll-like as the carving suggested. The padded seat was square in shape, and the four legs slightly flared out before shooting straight down into clawed feet clutching wooden grinning jack-o-lanterns. I had to smile at that personal touch.

Once comfortable and settled, my visitor began. "The mirror is perhaps the focus of more superstitions than any other object. This is because the ancients once believed the soul was connected to the looking glass or their reflections. Water was the first looking glass. People would look into it to see their fates. If the image was distorted it meant the viewer would soon die.

"As the mirror changed so did the superstitions. People gazed into the mirror and thought they saw the image of their souls."

"After all, it did show their reflections," I interjected. "Why not their souls?"

"Exactly," the ghost nodded in agreement. "Consequently, if anything happened to the mirror--say a shattering--because of the connection, the soul would suffer the same fate and the person would die."

"Not a happy fate," I mused.

"No. But over the years that belief changed to the one you know today: Breaking a mirror brings seven years bad luck to the one unfortunate enough to shatter or to crack it. This was a Roman belief. The Romans also had the remedy to restore good luck."

I cocked my chin in interest at this. "Oh?"

He briefly smiled, a full smile this tiime, showing a row of perfect white teeth. "Aye. They hid the evidence, they did. Buried the broken pieces in the ground."

I laughed and said in mock innocence, "What broken mirror? I don't see any mirror."

The Spirit of Halloween smiled that lopsided smile of his and continued with the superstitions. "The superstition you wondered about earlier...the one where people covered up all the mirrors in the house upon a person's death... This was to prevent the deceased's soul from becoming trapped in one of the looking glasses. And if trapped, then the ghost of the newly departed, if it was of a mind to, could take the soul of anyone else who's admired his or her reflection in the mirror."

I interrupted again, shifting to get more comfortable. "And if he--or she--did that, that would be one crowded mirror!"

The spirit chuckled a second time that evening--early morning? "Indeed!"

On he went, relating other mirror superstitions, almost every one relating in some way to the soul. If a mirror falls from a wall it means someone is going to die. The reason vampires and witches have no reflection is because they have no souls. A mirror framed on three sides means a witch has used it to see over long distances. In some cultures there is a belief that if a baby looks into a mirror during the first year of its life it will die. The ancient Chinese believed mirrors frighten away evil spirits who get scared when they see themselves; and if the mirror was broken the protection was lost. It's considered bad luck to see your face in a mirror when sitting by candlelight. Actors believe it's bad luck to see their reflection while looking over the shoulder of another person.

I wonder why that is? My visitor, as his time was growing short, didn't explain. But he finished with two surprisingly romantic superstitions--one of which I already knew of. If a couple's first sight of each other is their reflections in a mirror they will have a happy marriage. And this one is for the women: To find out what your future husband looks like sit down in front of a mirror and eat an apple before brushing your hair. An image of a man will appear behind your shoulder.

It was three in the morning when my spirit friend left, going the same way he appeared. Except in reverse. We said our farewells then his form dimmed and faded, till it became the white pulsing ghost ball that had frightened and startled me an hour before.

"Till we meet again, lady," he had said. As I got ready for and into bed, I pondered what he had told me, and wondered, as my head found ease on my plump pillow, when that would be. And what he would teach me next.

The Theatre

2006-10-06T09:43:00.000-07:00

The Theatre

The theatre was old and hidden away in an alley that was once a place of high entertainment—a playground of the rich and cultured, with up-scale clubs and restaurants. All that is left now is the alley, a dark and dingy place with crumbling buildings… except the theatre which has managed somehow to hold on to its façade of faded grandeur.

I walk toward the entrance, stepping gingerly through a carpet of litter. The once grand double doors hang crazily on loosened hinges. Though somewhat afraid, I stand in the dim light behind rows of faded, dusty crimson seats where once the rich in gowns and tuxes sat.

What’s that I hear? Can it be music? The sound is so far away that is barely recognizable.
I walk down the centre aisle and take a seat in front, in one of the most expensive seats and stare at a stage festooned in dangling cobwebs that appear to be disturbed by a breeze from somewhere beyond the wings. It is eerie. I want to run, but I am glued to this old seat that when I move it creaks.

Suddenly and from out of nowhere, I hear an overture so loud and clear, and in the pit, an orchestra is playing. The musicians are dressed in tuxes—skeletons dressed in tuxes. Their instruments, though dulled with age, are sweet of sound. And there before me, the curtains of cobwebs part and on stage are the dancers, skeletons dressed in colorful costumes. They are dancing together in pairs and in chorus lines. Then, for the grand finale, swordsmen skeletons, some dressed in shiny white armor, some in dark rush on stage where the battle begins. It was an extravaganza, an opera wherein the white bones fight the dark and evil ones. There is no blood, of course, just shattered bones. Clackity clack... the sounds are deafening, but in the end the skeletons of purity defeat the dark bones of evil.

Then, as suddenly as the show began, it ends. The curtains of cobwebs drop and the stage darkens again, I leave the old and forgotten theatre knowing that always there is something to be learned… even from old bones—

A week or so later, I returned to the alley thinking to photograph the old theatre, but there was nothing left except a pile of rubble… bricks and bits of mortar. The theatre it seemed had not stood the test of time after all—had I?

Vi Jones
©October 6, 2006

The Choice

2006-10-04T13:17:00.000-07:00

I’d had the job for exactly three months and three days when I first heard the sobs, and I’m still not sure if they just started, or if my familiarity with the normal background sounds increased my awareness. No one else mentioned them, so I didn’t ask – a cushy job like this is rare; with my being a student again, and crippled a bit and completely bored by what passes for TV entertainment. Still, sobbing is hard to ignore, especially when there is no one here.

This place is a museum by day – and well suited for it. A pretend Duke had this crumbly castle brought over from ‘the old country’ a century ago and the heirs could hardly to heat the place, no less desire to live in. So, the “Folklore Preservation Society” wound up with it with the proviso that some person must always be on the premises – absolutely silly, but a covenant none the less. Well, I qualify as ‘someone’ is nothing else, and lock myself in from 10 PM each night ‘till 6 AM. Nothing to do but raid the kitchen and wander the halls and read these incredible books. I even get paid – amazing! During the day I teach a course in Creative Writing at the Community College and plunder along on my PHD aspirations. I get by and more, and have little to complain about – except this damnable sobbing.

I’ve checked every room, of course – nada! I take random and quickly darting explorations of the sixty rooms, and have crawled around and perched on ladders – yet have at best determined that the sounds are equal throughout the place. No muffling of cold hard stone. No waning of volume on twisting stairs. No directional intensity nor Doppler shifts. I would guess at faulty plumbing – except that there isn’t any beyond modern stuff in the kitchen and visitor lounge. All my wanderings did produce a nagging sense of displacement, however – as I realized that the reachable rooms did not account for all the space. In the center of the castle there seemed to be a shaft perhaps twelve feet across that spanned all four floors. Yet there were no unaccountable doors and I could but prepare a map of the floor plan. It took a couple of months, working alone with a 25 ft measure and graph paper; but my instincts were confirmed – it was there all right. Now to the roof!

I am not sure that my commitment to be ‘in’ the place allowed for an exploration of the open space up there, but I decided to risk it. One turret window gave a view of part of the tiles – enough to know there were path-like low walls intersecting the patchwork of spires and domes and crenellated edges. The full moon would be enough to avoid a fall and a warm breeze whift around the seams of the wooden door. No lock! Only an idiot would go out there, or no one cared if some tourist jumped, I guess. It was about 12:30 when I stepped out. The sobbing stopped!

Now, you would have jumped back inside, I know – but reading those hundreds of ancient books had driven away all fear from my questing mind. Besides, if ‘going out’ had invoked some curse it was too late anyway—and it isn’t as if the walls fell down or lighting struck or anything. I was on a mission, remember, and it was actually fairly easy to locate the dome over the shaft by pacing from the edges. It was also the only one with a split across the top; just like a telescope observatory except flatter – and it was metal instead of stone. Still time to return to my desk and tea – and I might have save for the sobbing having stopped -- and finding the wheel in an alcove in the turret close by. You know – a large turn-wheel like on a dam or culvert grate. Surprised it wasn’t rusted tight. Oh well. A couple of turns and the dome opened a crack. Enough to look in. Stupid, huh?

I can’t explain how I communicated with it – Jenlish, I mean – the creature in the pit. It was too far down for me to see, or for it to get out. I got glimpses and snatches of images about two inches behind my eyes – pictures of places weirder than any in those tomes down stairs. That and a message – a wave of deepest appreciation and affection – relief. It made no sense but had no fear around the edges either. I knew it was incredibly old and wise and lonely. It did not explain how it came to be here in the pit, or how it survived – and I didn’t think to ask. You see, its entire focus was in broadcasting a request to me – a simple one as it turned out – but I did have a choice. I could meet its plea or close the portal and return to my mundane life – and the sobbing. It would have been easier if it had been ugly or mean or demanding. What would you choose?

I climbed the nearby turret after opening the dome all the way – finding another wheel at the top of the iron rungs. This too spun free – not too strenuous, but endless! Maybe a thousand turns. Slowly the entire conically spired roof jacked up at an angle – becoming precarious in balance – then stopped. I walked to the edge and stared down into the pit below – seeking guidance and assurance. No solace! Just a wafting of affection – and affirmation of the plea. I would have to do the last bit myself – as it should be!

I took more will than strength – more faith in touch of hand that aid from tear filled eyes – more courage than life should demand. I pushed!

The massive stone projectile arched forth and out and down. Its graduated sides served to center its mass on the shaft, and it plunged down with hardly an inch around to spare. I hadn’t though it would whistle -- but that perhaps masked any scream – I do not know.

At least the sobbing is gone now – no sound from the walls at all.

My sobbing will have to serve.

The Ghost Of Anne Boleyn

2006-10-04T12:15:00.000-07:00

Placing my hand in the specter's cold, dry, nearly insubstantial one, I let him pull me towards him and we faded from sight, one with each other. One with the gray mist-shrouded chill night. With a surprising suddenness, darkness instead of the expected grayness of fog enfolded me all around, like a warm and cozy soft flannel blanket. I couldn't see anything for a moment, not even the aura of white light enveloping my ghostly guide. The darkness was that complete. I could neither sense anything below, around or above me. All I was aware of in that moment of utter blackness was a forward motion, the picking up of my heartbeat and the cold, firm grip of my companion's fingers on mine. From his touch, little chills frissoned up my arm and spread along my nerve endings. He was my only anchor.

The darkness was too brief for it to become stifling. It lifted from me, it seemed, in the blink of an eye. At the same time my feet touched solid ground. Disoriented, I blinked several times before our surroundings came to me in pieces. One by one, each invaded my senses, and I knew we were no longer on the long stretch of quiet road where we'd been just a moment before.

Still firmly holding my fingers, the Spirit of Halloween turned me in a half-circle before letting go. We were once again enshrouded by chill mist, its damp density closing 'round, blocking out the moon and stars and nearly everything but what was several feet in front of us. Its light touch on my skin added to the chills already tingling along sensitized nerves. The night was gloomy and eerie and becoming chillier by the moment. I shivered, running my now cold hands up and down my long sleeves in an effort to warm myself and wishing, in spite of my ghostly companion's light, that I'd been better prepared and brought a flashlight. And a jacket! But then, how was I to know I'd have a visitor tonight, or where he'd wanted to take me? The only illumination we had came from the soft glow emanating from my guide and the strange orange and black colors swirling together then parting within the crystal orb atop his ebon staff.

We were nowhere I recognized. He had brought me to some type of ancient place or green. I could somehow feel the age and weight of years and years of history about the place. We were standing on an expanse of lawn and before us, several feet away, through the shifting banks of mist and shadows I saw a brick-paved or cobblestoned cordoned-off area, in the center of which a low rectangular--square?--stone presided. From a distance, slightly muted by the fog, a great clock bonged in deep tones the 10 o' clock hour.

Slowly walking forward to the display and keeping my arms close about me for whatever warmth I could muster, I asked in a low voice, not wanting to disturb the atmosphere or any souls that might--no. Undoubtedly--lingered there: "Where are we?"

"Tower of London," the ghost replied in an equally low, yet deep and raspy voice. It was pleasant to the ears, surprisingly. But then, I've never been around a ghost, so I wasn't sure what one is supposed to sound like. I've heard many stories though...

"The private scaffold, to be exact." He came silently forward after me as he spoke. Not even the hem of the spirit's dark cowled robe made a sound as he moved.

Placing his hand on the small of my back, he guided me around until we stood in front of a silver plaque set in a low cement podium. The plaque glinted dully in the gloom and in his aura. The words engraved there confirmed his announcement.

I looked mutely at the stone block for a moment or more then up at the Spirit of Halloween, waiting for him to explain our journey. His eyes glinted deep within the darkness of his cowl, which hid everything of his face except for the lower half, a firm square jaw and thin well-formed lips. "As you may know, the Tower has a long and bloody past," he began. "And as a consequence, a haunted past. Royalty and nobility alike were imprisoned and executed here. Whether they were innocent or rightfully accused it mattered not. They were considered and dubbed 'traitors to the crown' in any case. Executions of the time (in the 15 and 1600s) were beheadings with an axe.

"Excutions took place here and at the public scaffold. Only six(?) were held here, though," he explained and went on: "This is the place where Anne of a 1000 Days met her end. The unfortunate second wife to King Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn was accused of infidelity by her husband and taken here to the Tower when she bore him a daughter instead of a son. Because in those days it sometimes required more than one blow from the axe to behead a person, Anne imported a French executioner and requested he use a double-edged axe. She was beheaded on that block there--" the specter pointed "--in 1536. It is said that when he held up her severed head, the former queen's lips still moved in prayer and her eyes still gazed around at the astonished crowd.

"Since then, her ghost has frequently been seen both here on the Green and more spectacularly in the Chapel Royal situated in the White Tower. It was there in the locked chapel that a Captain of the Guard, in the 19th Century, noticed a burning light late one night. Story goes after finding a ladder, he was able to look down on the strange scene being enacted within.

"Moving down the aisle was a stately procession of knights and ladies, attired in ancient clothing. They followed an elegant female whose face was averted from him, but whose figure greatly resembled the one he had seen in reputed portraits of Anne Boleyn. After having repeatedly paced the chapel for a time the entire procession, together with the light, disappeared. Of course, with the violent and tragic history of intrigue this place has, she isn't the only one who haunts these grounds. But those are stories for another time..."

Anne Boleyn

Anne's Memorial

**Blogger's Note** I hope wherever he is, King Henry VIII is getting or will get his come Judgement Day. He had several innocent women killed solely because they displeased His Royal "Greatness" in some manner or as an act of revenge on a family member he could not reach. *thinking of the spirited (no pun intended) Countess of Salisbury, who refused to meekly kneel over the chopping block. She ran around the Green, making the executioner chase her, swinging his axe at her all the while, until she died from the wounds he'd managed to inflict upon her. frowns* I hope indeed, the king is held accountable for his heinous and capricious deeds.

Suffer The Children

2006-10-02T21:42:00.000-07:00

At Last!! This tale will be where it was meant to be!!!

PART 1

She hadn’t known a moment without worry since the last of the adults had Passed Over. She alone was responsible for two-dozen hungry mouths, there was never enough to go around, and often she went without so the children wouldn’t be hungry. Food was hard to come by in the middle of nowhere, until she got old enough to move the whole clan closer to a big city they would have to make do.

Food was searched for as often and as much as could be dared; always, always with the fear of getting caught nagging at her and disturbing her concentration. Without her all the children would die, and that was unthinkable, she would die before letting the little ones wither away from constant hunger. With as little food as she was able to find there was never enough to fill everyone’s bellies.

She pictured herself, her translucent skin, depthless black eyes and cloud of silver blonde, wavy hair suited the cast of her features. She closed her eyes; they were what ancient Oriental cultures call ‘Dragon’s Eyes’; long, slanting, heavily lashed, and seeming to be half-lidded all the time. . Her eyes were the sort that compels you to lock gazes and listen. Pursing her lush mouth briefly, the lips startlingly red, teetering on the edge of a smile at all times, with a small frown between her eyebrows she checked every youngling tenderly.

All her clothes were carefully chosen to play off the striking colouring she had, black, deep blues and greens, occasionally crisp white or the shade of a blood ruby. She chose styles that were flowing and made of light, soft materials accentuating the ethereal, almost incorporeal quality to her appearance.

A trick of light could have her looking old far beyond her years, as though she had already seen how ugly mankind could be. Her habit of ducking her head when she began to smile loaned her an air of old fashioned shyness. Blessed with a soft, sweet voice, her words fell like flower petals to drift slowly into your consciousness.

Tonight it was bitterly cold, and sleet fell, sharp blades of frozen rain that slapped against her cheeks; standing in the night air, feeling numb and woozy from hunger; she looked up at the sliver of a waning moon, distant and uninterested in her situation. There had to be food out here somewhere, there just had to!!

Knowing that she was far too tired, and battered by the elements, she listened, and searched the darkness with desperate eyes. There! She’d located some food; the children wouldn’t be as hungry tonight. Her search was always brief, and carefully orchestrated to avoid damage to the food. It was not enough, but it was all she could get on her own.

Tonight, however, there were problems actually getting her hands on the food; by the time she had it in her hands she knew she would have to hurry to get it home in time for them to go to bed at a decent hour.

Back home, she patiently fed all the younglings while they cried in hunger and desperation. There was barely a mouthful, maybe two, for her when their hunger was muted. As late as it had grown, there was barely time to settle all the littlest ones to sleep, and send the middle third, before she and the three oldest ones bid sweet dreams to one another.

Disturbing her restless sleep, the voice of hunger resonated through her, straining all joy from her dreams, and leaving bitter whey in her memory. Her own voice was slurred, falling upon deaf walls and soundless bed. Over and over she awakened, then, hissing in frustration, struggle to return to her rest.

Another night, the same as any other, except for expanding their search areas, hoping to have the efforts pay off quickly. By accident, she had discovered the diner, and marked it mentally as a place to get food for the younglings. Tonight, everyone had fed well, and she had even managed to soften the hunger-cries in her bones.

The little ones had drifted off with the rosy cheeks of good sleep, still snuggling with the older children. Everyone felt the glow from a truly good meal there had even been laughter, so rarely heard recently.

All the clan had been able to bed down comfortably and drift into restful, healing sleep. She even noted a soft flush in her cheeks, “Now that is better, we’re supposed to look like this all the time.”

”I’m old enough to help Sister, It will get better then.” The next oldest, a tall, lean boy with wavy masses of nearly black hair, and catlike golden brown eyes, already marked by their struggles.
“Not yet love, you’ve still more to learn. If you don’t learn it, you will never be able to make it in this world.” Her voice was soft, pitched low enough to not disturb the young ones.

“Please, you’re always so tired, and pale. I get afraid that you won’t come back some morning. I need to help.” Already the young man knew how to get his older sister to let him do what he wanted to.

“All right, you can come with me, there are things that you can’t understand until you have seen them firsthand” She sighed, and tossed a smile to him. “You must give me your Blood Oath that you will do exactly what I say, without questions.”

He paused for a long moment, he could hear the hum of the power lines overhead. “I give my Blood Oath, I will do as you say.”

Sister sighed, knowing what a shock her brother was in for. Everything he had gotten drilled into him from the very beginning had best be clearly understood. When they were in the middle of looking for food was not the time for him to become rebellious, or worse, impatient.

PART 2

Brother was almost shaking in excitement, anticipating his first time along with Sister, He thought she had taught them well, even the slower children understood what she teaching. This would be the test of her skills, if he succeeded, she would be more comfortable with taking the ones that were old enough to go out and search along with her on a regular basis.

He had so many ideas to help in their unusual situation, yet many rules held them fast in this draining state. How wonderful it would be to see the young ones go to bed with full tummies every night! Ah!!! To finally be able to see them growing, and maturing as they ought!!

Everything he had learned spun in his head, while his pores contracted in excitement, his pale skin appeared to have been polished like marble. At last he would start to help, as he had dreamed of doing for longer than Sister would ever know.

As soon as he would be able to search on his own, the next oldest Brother wanted to go out. That would surely turn the tide, and then they would be able to move to the city. They would have so many opportunities there, far more than here in the middle of nowhere.

Before he was truly aware of it, he and Sister were on their way, moving so easily that he felt as if he were floating a few inches off the ground. A wave of euphoria shook him until he was getting light headed and couldn’t help a giggle of delight.

Sister kept a portion of her attention on her sibling, it couldn’t be predicted how someone would react to their first taste of adulthood. She felt that her brother would take to it so easily that she would soon be taking another sib along.

After they had spent weeks polishing his attention to detail and sense of timing, before they went looking for food. He was pleased that everything he had pointed out was a possibility, surely he would settle into his role fast.

Having both of them working as a team, they were able to find more food, not always what they wished, but there was no more going to bed with empty tummies. At last the younger ones began to grow, still too slowly, but they were growing.

It wasn’t two full months before he was allowed to go out on his own. Determined to prove himself capable of being a provider, he carefully selected the food he knew would be best for everyone. The first time he found good food, he showed up at home with all pomp and circumstance, and found that the smallest of the younglings had Passed Over.

While the others fed messily, and talked between bites, with food smeared on their faces, Brother took the tiny girl and prepared her to be interred. He styled the honey blonde hair, and thought of the times she had look up to him so trustingly, full of confidence in her oldest brother.

When Sister returned she wept openly, bidding her farewell to the child curled in a foetal shape. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy as she rocked the child, crooning broken snatches of song between her sniffles.

Finally, Brother was able to wrest the body away from her, and carry it to the place reserved for those who had Passed Over. As Sister wept softly, with too many young ones crying for her, he placed the Traditional Cover on the Resting Place and whispered a sad prayer.

The clan walked slowly back to their home, and tried to rest, despite the sadness staining the air. Sister heard many restless sounds as she was begging for sleep.

It didn’t take long for her to accept that it was going to be one of those nights. Sighing slowly, she slid, snake silent, from her bed and stole her way to the stereo in the dark. She tapped the speaker button off, and plugged in the headphones.

Part 3

Rapt in velvet darkness she joined with the music, swaying and posturing shamelessly, in the womb of sound she sought surcease. She felt as though she were floating above the floor, and was but feathers away from flight.

A faint, reminiscent smile hovered in her cheeks, and her cheeks were modelled by the shadow of eyelashes, even her head moved with the music.

With her mouth parted a whisper and her hips swaying in smoky counterpoint, the hemline of the faded thin nightshirt began to move as if alive. Were anyone to see her she would seem a vision, something perhaps elfin and fey.

Her big toe and a sliver of sole were all that was connecting with the soft carpet. When she leaned back her hair spread like ice shards on the carpet.

At last, the song arrived; it called to her restless spirit and drew the most sensuous motions from her heart. She slowed, breathing through her open mouth.

She seemed to be rocking herself in the shadows, until the guitar cried through her.
She went from provocative to pleading with a tilt of her hair, and her arms uncrossed. Her hands moved with the sway of warning cobras, slowly moving Heavenward.

“Darkness, darkness,
Be my pillow…”

Robert Plant’s evocative treatment of the lyrics unclenched her heart and she was lost between the notes, begging the presence of each one, moving in a glory of understanding.

“Take my head
And let me sleep.”

Her face was highlighted with tears, and her fragile hands were beseeching blurs of pallor. She looked the ghost of some danseuse, dead of broken dreams.

Limber and utterly focussed, she slid into the harmonics of Plant’s “Little By Little”. Her mind went into deep Alpha state, and the relaxation spread outward to soothe everyone into gentle sleep.

When every breath was slow and even, she began to change her movements until she swayed almost imperceptibly. At last the sweet sag of sleepiness coiled through her muscles, she crawled gratefully into her bed and closed her eyes.

PART 4

He knew they were out there, the orphans, and he knew he must find them before any more younglings were lost. Who would have thought someone that young could have accomplished what the girl was doing?

He reached out, seeking a connexion with her, a way to channel strength in her direction. All he sensed was the sleeping patterns of the orphans.

He sighed in frustration then slowed his mind until he was in a conscious Alpha State. He tasted the restfulness she had created and gifted to her charges.

The rift had gone on far too long, children were never meant to bear this much responsibility. She should be dreaming of the first time she is allowed to be out with a young man, not struggling to feed that many rapacious mouths.

Knowing it futile to rue the past, and practicing it are two very different things. As he walked the streets his thoughts remained on the girl; what she could become, given the chance.

He insinuated himself in the rhythms of her dreams, and sent thoughts of acceptance, and the desire to help. Still, he was kept from knowing where they were.

His own sister had run away with her lover when Father had forbid them to court. As a consequence, the first time his sister had birthed she died of the effort, leaving a mate prostrated in grief.

The loss was felt through all the Clans, so much hope had been focussed on his sister. She had the chance to help secure peace with the Western Clans, she wedded a Western Clansman, aye, but it was a serf, not the heir apparent.

Now, another rebellious woman’s passion, had orphaned her first birthing, it was her eldest, a daughter, that Shone, she had the Gift of the Blood. She should be pampered, and protected; not shivering on shadowed byways struggling to be an entire family through her slight form.

He knew her Blood ran true, he had felt her Dance, and the energy she could harness. For all those years he had always thought no one could outshine their Mother, until he felt the touch of that lovely lass.

“Ah, Damn!!” He scowled at the night and a cat snarled his way up a tree, every hair rigid with fright. A gleam of feral eye and flash of teeth meant to kill, then the cat was gone, fled to another portion of its territory.

His restless wanderings took him to quiet, affluent neighbourhood. Behind doors so quick to open was where that girl should be going.

PART 5

Brother was maturing too quickly, mastering things he should not have for years yet, and he thrived on it. He grew, seemingly, every day. He had flawless taste, and a daring sense of theatrics.

Tonight he looked his ragged best, every inch the lost child he was. She knew where he was going, the truck stop at the far border of the area they could search in one day.

Always, always sneaking, and making do, they were slowly fading towards extinction. Sister was weaker all the time, and as the younglings grew they needed food in distressing quantities.

Already the rumours were spreading, tales of ghosts, and curses were roused and settled into everyone’s thoughts. They would be found out too soon. And that would be the end of everything that they knew.

He carefully faded into the background while he was searching for food. There were less and less chances for good food, and he lived with a grippe of fear niggling at him every second.

Often he let food pass by for one of many reasons, not the least of which was safety. Sister played the Laws almost every time they slept and had them answer questions about them that she tossed at them randomly.

One man watched him every night, noting every detail, his sun blonde hair, sleepy violet eyes, and a dimple clinging to the corner of his full-lipped pout. He had skin the colour of gold dust in the wind, the texture seemed to be burnished, yet he was still pale and delicate of frame.

He wore clothes in shades of butterscotch, cocoa brown, antique gold, and creams. When he wasn’t playing the pitiful stray child, he dressed like a miniature executive, impeccable and immaculate clothes draped elegantly from his shoulders.

His clothes were a camouflage; no one really noticed a well-dressed, polite young man slipping quietly through a crowded restaurant.

Occasionally, someone would feel his presence, and rarely, know, that was when he would put into practice the ways and whys of distraction.

Finally, second Brother was old enough to start looking and he stuck by Sister’s side for as little time as they dared. First brother was free to seek another territory and start his own life. But, he took a share of the younglings with him, to ease Sister’s burden.

Even with the drop in hungry mouths to feed there was still a struggle to stay barely alive. When he could, first Brother brought food to Sister’s brood.

At the same time he worried. He could see the beginnings of The Change coming upon her.

Soon she would have no choice but to seek a mate and who would want her?

She still had so many hungry younglings, and was nearly ready to start on her own clan. First Brother embarked on a Quest, to find a fit mate for Sister.

It seemed that everywhere he went, he could find no one, just hints and half-perceived intuitings. The Moon waxed and waned, then waxed and waned again and no one had appeared that he deemed worthy of Sister.

It was now becoming imperative that a mate be found, the Signs of Imminent Change were clear. Sister began to solidify, despite the denials she had forced on her system. Her figure had bloomed and now she was becoming provocative in her mannerisms.

She was embarrassed, and at the same time sorrowful. She too, knew what was happening. Soon she would have to send out the call. She didn’t want to, she wasn’t guaranteed of finding a fit mate in all this lonesome, or even a poor one.

PART 6

He felt the first ticklings of the girl’s Change arriving, and began to send a matching response. Every moment he was awake he kept thoughts of her in his mind’s eye.

As he was out and about of an autumnal day he stumbled across her scent, ripe and compelling, he began to follow this to the source. At last he saw her, from the way she held herself he could see the worry and doubt in every line of her.

She looked at her latest meal, she had enjoyed every drop, without thought of the younglings. Agitated to the point she was unaware of her actions, she involuntarily hissed at the secrets within the shadows.

The urge rose in him, primal and insatiable, and he fought it down with great effort. He truly enjoyed his time with every female who had accepted his advances, and he was determined to make their time something to be savoured.

There was a quality of childhood games in the suit, advance and retreat, innocent touches. While all clan members could witness the courtship, the consummation would be private and remain so.

But, he must gain her acceptance, and trust, in time for the Change. Her scent grew stronger, and his own desire led him to her Home.

She stood in an open space, alone and aloof, her head tipped back. There were three other men in attendance already, yet two hissed before leaving in frustration.

The one that was left, locked eyes with him, it was perhaps two breaths and the third looked away in defeat, then slid into the shadows.

She turned to him, her eyes were as intense as an Elder’s and an air of distraction swirled around her. “How did they, and you, find me, and…”

“It can’t be that Time yet, I still have younglings to feed!!” Her voice was desperate, the cry of the hunted.

“I want to help.” He offered proof in food, good and fresh, enough to feed them for days.

They were gaze locked, and motionless, then she turned her hands palm up, as the Laws prescribe.

“I accept your Suit.” She would now be with him until her first birthing was survived, and she had enough help without his presence.

Then she would have the option to accept or refuse his suit again. After three acceptances they were legally an accepted pairing.

“Now, my dear, give me nibbles then let us feed the younglings until they fall asleep feeding.” The traditional nibbles were barely hard enough to draw blood. Their blood was mingled, and they were now engaged in the fashion of their People.

He began to feed the younglings with the confidence of experience.

She looked at the younglings, slurping their food greedily. With a sigh of relief she buried her fangs in her scarred wrist and then offered it to the nearest mouth in the writhing cluster of youngling Vampyrs, in the thicker larval sacs their only truly recognisable feature was their gleaming fangs.

Looking Back

2006-10-02T04:42:00.000-07:00

This poem was the basis of extensive analysis
back in my Interpretive Reading Class
(when the taught such things in college)

There is perhaps no greater view of the
loneliness of old age --
a horror that all must face ...

faucon
..............................................................................

Edwin Arlington Robinson

Mr. Flood's Party

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."

Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:"
Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.

"Only a very little, Mr. Flood--For auld lang syne.
No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang--

"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.

The Queen Mary

2006-09-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

What I write here, I am simply tossing out for your consideration. I make no claims for the validity of the stories, and my own experiences and the photographs are open for whatever interpretation you care to give them.

The Queen Mary, the Cunard luxury liner that cruised the North Atlantic from 1936 to 1967, is now dry-docked in the harbor at Long Beach, California. She is a hotel, a conference center, a museum, and a “genuine haunted ship” (with her own paranormal research center).

It is said that the ship is home to about 150 separate ghosts, though I fail to see how anyone could actually ascertain that. But that factoid does add to the ambience of the ship. Actually, the ghosts legends have been turned into an on-board “Attraction,” complete with special effects and dramatic re-enactments of the hauntings. It is oh-so-Hollywood and has spoiled the place for real ghost-hunters who need peace and quiet to “feel the presences.”

Even though I am not a ghost-hunter or psychic, personally, I don’t care for the Attraction much either. There’s so much to be said about engaging the imagination and scaring yourself silly with a good old fashion ghost story —which is what I think happened to me a few years ago when I took one of the ship’s old “Ghost Tours” (before they made it an Attraction).

These tours (sans special effects and weird music) were simply a tour guide taking guests to all the supposedly haunted areas of the ship. There are certain areas of the ship where the hauntings are particularly pronounced. For example, we were taken to Cabin B340, which is no longer rented out by the hotel, because the cabin is subject to frequent poltergeist activity. When our group was toured through, I didn’t observe or feel anything unusual.

Another place of ghostly activity is the First Class Swimming Pool. It has been empty of water for more than 30 years, yet women and children in 1930’s bathing attire are frequently seen and heard around the pool. While we were taking the tour, we stood on the balcony overlooking the pool, in the dark, while the guide shared the spooky stories. (If you go to this image of the pool, you can see the railing where we standing). One of my friends, who is a photographer, had her camera with her. For some inexplicable reason, the flash unit on her camera unscrewed itself and fell from her camera over the railing and onto the deck of the pool. As you can see from the image that is quite a drop. The guide fetched her flash and amazingly it was not broken. Maybe she didn't screw the attachment on properly? Maybe something broke its fall? We amused ourselves by speculating on the notion that a playful spirit was having fun with us.

However, the mood changed for me when we entered the Engine Room. The Engine Room had been completely gutted and was simply a huge empty space with a catwalk over it. During our tour, the guide stopped us on the catwalk and began to explain some of the history of this area. For example, during World War II, the Queen Mary had been used as a transport ship. It collided at sea with another ship resulting in the deaths of over 300 people. It is said that the ghosts of the dead sailors can be heard screaming in this area. Also, in the early 1960’s a young engine room technician had been crushed to death by the closing of a water-proof door. It is said that he is frequently seen walking to and fro on the catwalks in this area. As the guide was explaining this too us, I felt myself becoming more and more anxious. Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion, being in a dark creepy room hearing tales of gruesome deaths. All I knew is that I needed to get out of there fast and the guide was just taking too long!

Shortly after this the tour ended, but I still felt disconcerted and anxious. We left the ship, and proceeded to the Skorpion, an old Soviet Foxtrot submarine, also a museum, dry-docked and adjacent to the Queen Mary. (See the photo above). We started the self-guided tour of the craft, but shortly after we entered, I became overwhelmed with anxiety and had to leave the vessel. Did an entity follow me from the Queen Mary or was I merely having a claustrophobic episode caused by being on a very tiny submarine with a lot of tourists?

On another trip to the Queen Mary, just this past year, I and several friends went to Sunday Brunch in the Queen Mary’s Grand Salon, another reportedly haunted area. A “White Lady” is often seen dancing by herself when the Salon is empty. I brought my camera this time and took several pictures. Most of the pictures in the Grand Salon had orbs floating about. Below you will see some of the better one where I have circled the orbs in red. You might explain the orbs as pixilated dust particles or reflections from all the glass and brass; however, in the picture with the harpist at the far right you will see a beautiful brilliant blue-white orb—that just doesn’t look like dust or light.

So, a haunted ship, a tourist trap, overactive imaginations???--- I leave it up to you to decide.

Happy Halloween, one and all!

Full Moons and Wiccan Truths

2006-09-27T23:48:00.000-07:00

What Samhain (Soo-Weeen) would be complete without a full, cold moon hovering deceptively close to the ground, and a Black Cat, to watch whatever events may transpire as the spirits of the Dead walk the earth of a Samhain night??

Since Samhain/Halloween is a traditionally Witchy holiday, what better time to share the the 'real' Wiccan Rede. This is the basis for Wiccan behaviour and morality, not quite the wicked witch in Sleeping Beauty, eh?

Yes, there are bad witches just as all faiths are cursed with bad apples, but they are not all witches. Nor are Wiccan folk Satanists. We do not worship Satan, nor do we wish to. Wiccan folk ( and most Pagan faiths as well) seek balance, harmony with, and a reverence for life in the practice of their faith.

This image calls to mind the term "Fairy Throne", that is a description of the bare patch left in the centre of a patch of mushrooms where the soil had been drained of nutrients by the growth of fungi, and now, perforce, must remain fallow and regain its fertility.

Still and all, to dance in a Fairy Throne, and meet the Queen of the Fairies would be wondrous!! If one wishes to see a non-Hollywood description of wiccan life, find the book "Cat Magic" by Whitley Strieber. You may find yourself very surprised by something much closer to the truth of Wiccan ways.

Waltz With The Devil

2006-09-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

by Anita Marie Moscoso

There’s this expression people use when they’re telling you about some life changing event they went through. Some of them will say, ” I can’t pinpoint the exact time when I really decided to kill my children,” or ” no, I can’t pinpoint the exact time I became addicted to…”

So that little moment in time that changed their Universe and how they existed in it from that day forward is gone.

Kanden Seacross, he’s this logger that lived in a town called Red Root, Washington…he can pinpoint the exact time the world started to end because he saw it start on the day before Halloween last year.

He was driving from one little town to another little town when his car died. There’s no other way to describe it; the power was done, the engine cut off and out there on that old logging road that connects one hidden off road town to another the night sounded very loud.

It was dark and cold and foggy that night and Kanden sat there for about 10 minutes trying to make himself move. Being that he had stopped breathing he thought it would be a good idea if he could take a breath before he passed out from a lack of oxygen.

He unclenched his hand from his steering wheel, but all the while he’s still hanging on to the wheel with his other hand. ” What’s up Kanden, ‘fraid someone’s gonna drag you away? ”

Kanden would have thrown himself down onto his car floor and dug his way to the other side of the world when he heard that voice, but he couldn’t move and he couldn’t scream and he was pretty sure he was having a heart attack.

He knew it, he was going to die and he started to plan his funeral and wondered if anyone would come. He figured Mother would, so would the guy he bought coffee from in the Morning…Clay was his name. Clay was one of those good guys that really meant it when he said ‘ have a good day’

Kanden guessed his kids would show up.

Of course they would probably be listening to their music on those little headphones but at least they’d be there.

His Wife? Yeah, well providing there wasn’t anything good on Oprah she might show up.

There, it was all settled, he was ready to jump on the Pale Horse and ride off into eternity when Kanden realized that was his voice he had just heard.

At that moment he decided at least it was familiar and safe and it reminded his of a world that didn’t resemble the one he was trapped in right now.

So he went ahead and answered back after it asked, ” Come on Kanden, don’t be a panty waist, why are you hanging on for dear life there? Are you afraid? ”

” As a matter of fact I am. This place is creeping me out ” Kanden said.

” Well that’s just crazy talk Kanden…you’ve lived up here in the Olympics for your entire life. I’ll bet you’ve been down this road millions…no billions of times. `

” That’s how much you know Mr. Smart guy. I’ve never been down this road. I’ve driven by it…thought about it and wondered about it but I’ve never actually been on it before.”

Kanden heard a little hiss and the Voice went on full steam ahead.

” We could sit here an let someone find us, but you know Kanden I’m feeling like a bug in a jar here. So reach under the seat and get the flash light and let’s go. Is it me Kanden, or can you feel it too? I mean outside…”

” Something’s out there.”

Kanden heard his Voice get impatient, ” No, go ahead and be more specific Kanden…that something is coming right towards us.”

Kanden let loose of the steering wheel and now he was hanging onto his flashlight and he knew he looked just like one of those guys in the Vampire movies when they held up the silver cross.

To bad most of those guys DIED with those things clutched in their hands.

He flipped the switch and…there was light.

Honest to God light.

He started to cry.

” We have two choices Kanden…we can go forward and up a road you’ve never been on before in your life. We don’t know where it goes or what is at the end of it. Being this is the Hills it could end in a drop off and we could stumble down into a Gully and get mashed into a pulp when we hit the bottom…if we hit the bottom.

Or we can suck it up, and head back from the direction we came and hope for the best.”

” That’s all you can come up with?” Kanden screamed and the Voice didn’t bother to answer back.

” Okay, okay, we go back.” Kanden grabbed his car keys and his baseball cap and managed to do all of this without having a nervous breakdown.

” Good job. Now comes the hard put. We have to leave the car Kanden”

” God. ” he whimpered and he reached over and lifted the handle and his car door swung open.

For the first five minutes of his walk, it wasn’t so bad. It was cold it was foggy and of course it was dark. After the first mile Kanden thought the batteries in his flashlight were dieing because the light was dimming but at that moment his Friendly Companion decided to speak up.

” That’s wishful thinking Guy, it’s getting darker. That’s the problem. It’s getting a lot darker.”

” Of course it is ” Kanden laughed ” of course it’s getting darker ”

Then he heard, from just ahead the sound of crunching gravel, he heard slow easy footsteps. They weren’t cautious or hesitant…just the sound of someone taking a walk with all the time in the world as their traveling companion.

” Don’t run Kanden, it’s always worse when you run ” his Voice whispered into his left ear, ” whatever you do don’t run.”

The Darkness lightened in the form of a small figure with a little skip to it’s stride and then it noticed Kanden because it seemed to slow down a little.

” Keep walking Kanden…just keep walking ”

Kanden did, he walked towards the figure and then the figure was captured in the beam of light from Kanden’s flashlight.

It was a woman, just a woman he told himself. He wanted to make some kind of joke about being afraid of girls because they have cooties…something lame. Something that would say, you don’t have to be afraid…she’s just a woman for Pete’s Sake.”

Then step- by- step Kanden felt a little taller, a little more present, a little more in control and then his Voice all but roared in his ear, ” Listen to me Kanden…before you get us both into trouble.

That Cootie Factory, as you insist on calling her, is walking up a dark road in the fog to a place you’ve never been too yourself…in fact you started to cry just thinking about going there. She doesn’t have a flashlight, she’s not even wearing a jacket and it’s starting to freeze out here. So before you drop your last means of any sort of self defense will you consider those things?”

Then she was coming directly towards him and in the light Kanden saw her dark hair and dark eyes and the way she seemed to be grinding her heels into the gravel with each step she took.

There was something wrong with her walk; there was something wrong with the way she held her head. Her chin was tilted down and as she moved it swayed a little from left to right…almost like it was a little to heavy for her neck.

When they were almost face- to- face she raised her hand and turned her palm upwards just a little. Then she began to turn as she passed him and her shirttails swept up and wrapped around her hips. He could hear her grinding her heels into the gravel as she spun around and he even felt her hair brush against his arm as she turned full circle just inches away from him.

Then she was walking up that road and she was gone.

Kanden was still standing there the next morning; he was clutching his now dead flashlight to his chest and staring down at the ground.

There were little black footsteps going all the way up Brum Road, they moved in a straight line except for one spot when they widened out into a circle and then they moved forward again and up into the hills.

All the trees lining Brum Road were dead or dieing and the air smelled awful. It smelled like rotten eggs and no one would go up there anymore because of it.

That’s the reason people give anyway.

Only a week after they found Kanden…both he and his Voice never spoke a word again, everyone forgot about Brum Road because things started changing for everyone.

You’d think it was a bunch of little things that started to go wrong with the world that’s made it the mess you see now but there’s this man named Kanden Seacross who could pinpoint exactly when it all went wrong.

It all started a day before Halloween on the night Kanden Seacross Waltzed With The Devil.

Enchanteur's Mine

2006-09-18T14:54:00.000-07:00

This is the entrance to Enchanteur's mine in the Olympic Mountains. Will you be brave enough to enter this subterranean world?

On Board

2006-09-18T04:08:00.000-07:00

Everyone called him Andy – though the circle of people who cared had shrunk to a circumspect few. His family has ceased to remember him long ago, though he daily replayed happy memories of his youth. Anything was better than the evening news and a rehash of man’s self destruction. Better to be safe here in this room.

He lay on his simple cot and appraised the myriad dots and splotched on the walls, recalling the warmth and companionship of the knotty-pine planks of his childhood room. Each dark spot unique in its loneliness, and like cloud shapes, they could transport him into fanciful dreams and imagined adventures. Taken together, groupings of knots became like constellations with links to ancient rites and directions for the troubled mind. He had named some of these arrays, but had forgotten – or suppressed such organization of thought. The amber planks themselves were rich and beautiful in their severity, but lacked character without the random hints of severed branches – flaws, if you will, but made better for it.

He searched these new marks upon the walls, yearning to find meaning and adventure – and peace. They were art work, he mused – making as much sense as expensive modern paintings on office walls. “Perhaps I should cut up the walls and frame sections and make a fortune,” he chuckled inwardly; as he rarely spoke out loud any more – who cared? Time to get up – get to work – get it done. He slipped on his laceless sports shoes, nothing more. Cloths only got in the way. The room was bare also, save a huge refrigerator, deep sink and commode -- and the immense oak table, of course, where he crafted his paintings. His meal was simple – tasteless. Vegetable juice, granola bar and cold tea. He was ready.

There was no TV, radio or computer – nothing to detract the artist – no windows either. A gigantic mirror dominated one wall. He had learned to ignore his reflection, though – preferring his mental view of a younger self. “Let see what they have given me to work with,” he chortled, and opened the gleaming white door.

The leg had been severed crudely at the thigh – good! A woman’s most shapely and smooth extension – even better! He pointed the oozing stump at a fairly barren patch of wall. The heavy cleaver poised in anticipation. Muscles rippled beneath the neon glare.

THUMP! -- SPLAT! -- AHHH!

Orbs

2006-09-17T19:00:00.000-07:00

One evening a couple of years ago I was walking around my neighborhood with my camera. I was looking for interesting night shots for a montage I was planning. I snapped this picture of the bell tower in a church (not mine). Look at those orbs flitting about the spire. Now, I have read that this is merely dust pixelating the reflected light from a digital camera flash.

Or they could be angels watching over the church.

Hmmm...

(PS: If the dust theory is correct, then my apartment should be full of orbs...but it's not.....)

Nothing But The Night

2006-09-17T17:03:00.000-07:00

NOTHING BUT THE NIGHT
by Anita Marie Moscoso

It was only five doors down to her own house; a three minute walk on a well lit street on a quiet cold night last October.

But that didn’t matter because Damiana Dergmuse knew she was in trouble the minute that door shut behind her and she heard the tumblers in the lock grind together and hold.

With that sound that half block turned into miles and she was going to have to walk it all alone.

” There’s nothing to be afraid of, ” she told herself out loud. ” There’s nothing out here now that isn’t out here when the lights are on. ”

Then she took a deep breath and it froze in her chest and she was about to run back into the house she had just come out of because that rah-rah speech she had just given herself wasn’t going to work.

In fact she was about to have a nervous breakdown right there on the street and how would that look?

It was settled she was turning back.

She could do this, she told herself.

After all it was only five doors down and she’d be there in seconds, minutes if she could just put one foot in front of the other and move.

Then each of those steps would add up until she would be through her own front door and she would find herself in the safety of her own room and the cinnamon smell that always filled her house during the winter months.

Wouldn’t that be better then sitting in front of a neighbor’s fireplace, in a neighbor’s chair, petting a neighbor’s cat in a neighbor’s house?

Of course it would be better to be in her own home so Damiana started to walk and as she passed the first house she heard a thump, thump and then a drag and a hiss and she realized that was the sound of her own heart stopping and starting in her own chest.

” Stupid woman ” she told herself.

She put her hand to her heart and felt to make sure that it was still beating and when she felt it pound against her hand she started to walk again.

And almost hidden under the sounds of her own foot steps and rapid breathing she heard something sliding across the pavement behind her.

What she heard was a dragging sound, metal against concrete and as much as she wanted to stop and turn around to find out what could be making such an awful sound she couldn’t because now she was three doors down from her own home and in the horizon she could see a thin line of orange in the skyline.

Damiana was sure of one thing, that’s not the last thing she wanted to see on this Earth, so she walked a little faster and as she did the sky filled with crows, hundreds of them and they were flying east.

The sun was coming up, and the thin line got a little wider and Damiana could hardly breath and behind her the dragging sound got a little louder and a little heavier and she was determined that sound wouldn’t be the last thing she would hear in this life so she picked up her feet and ran.

The scraping sound got louder and she heard a whoosh and she flew up her stairs and to her door and she pushed it open and without turning around slammed it behind herself.

It was morning and the sun was coming through the windows and outside she could hear birds singing and with that sound ringing in her ears she ran faster up the stairs to the top floor of her house.

” Made it!” she cried with relief, ” I’ve made it!”

Then she laid down on her bed and she said as slammed her coffin lid shut over her head. ” There’s nothing out there to be afraid of…not now anyway.”

Halloween Hill by another name"An Inconvenient Truth"

2006-09-11T21:03:00.000-07:00

I sat in the dark picture theatre
Outside the day was bright and sunny
It was spring,people sipped coffee and ate cake
on the chairs and tables of sidewalk cafes
Others browsed in shops with 50 PERCENT off,marked prices
A book launch by a famous author Kerry Greenwood
was taking place in the foyer
Sipping wine and eating savouries
laughter and chatter abounded

We entered the picture theatre,wishing it was later
in the night so it was dark
"Too nice to be inside" we said to each other.
It was cold in the large Art Deco theatre
beautiful comfy seats,plenty of leg room,
little timber shelves for our coffee.magical old fashioned
lights softly lit just enough to see our seats

We were only 2 of 6 patrons in here at 1pm on a Sunday
I was surprised as this was a special showing
Many invitations were sent out,I thought the theatre
would be full or nearly full.
No trailers shown,straight into the film

For 100 minutes I was transfixed by this documentary.
I strained to take it all in
I tried hard to remember all I was seeing and hearing
You could not hear a pin drop in the empty theatre
From outside we caught voices, laughing children running
up and down the large art deco stairway
But no one else came in ,the door stayed closed.

Why do I liken Halloween Hill to the film/documentary I saw
Well I saw were hills...I saw the tops of the world's mountains....I saw the tops of the world's largest glaciers,I saw the largest mountain ranges and deserts in the world.
They were bereft of snow,vegetation,beauty..they were a horror
I saw hundreds of shots of the past 50 years
I saw hundreds of shots of today 2006
I saw hills,mountains,rivers,deserts,oceans who resemble
nothing like they were 20,30,50 years ago

I see all of them as Halloween Hills of Horror
Halloween terror not able to be written about
for it is too real to even contemplate it being true
But..........It is as science backs up the facts
not in dispute ....only by those who refuse to
believe ...or have to change the way they live,or question
the powers that be...governments etc

But that was not the message in the film/docu of this horror
The messages were reminiscent of what I feel about at the Soul Food Cafe

Sharing ,caring,loving,respecting,learning,and above all
feeling good about what we do
So I feel I have seen my Horror of Halloween Hill
only mine was real
I could not have written horror like this
I also see hope ..for that is what the film is about
Changing is what my life has been about
Changing much that took time, took effort, took pain
Not quickly,quite slowly but the outcome
was.... for me.... who I am ,and where I live, and what I do,what and who I care for,
matters more than anything else I have ever done before.

I have grown more since seeing the film/doco.
I have become more informed
I have become more aware
I will put into practice
what I observed and heard
I am of this planet
I am part of the global world
I owe this to myself
For I must return some
of what
has been given to me.

Lois(Muse of the Sea) 12.9.06

Dust to Dust

2006-09-11T12:52:00.000-07:00

No Bones About It

Anyone who acquires an old house knows of hidden treasures and mysteries. Why did a child cram a doll behind that board? Did they search long for the brooch sequestered in the heating vent? That painting behind the stove – placed or fallen?

After a year, Jacob thought that he had found most everything – his remodeling taking him into every attic corner and cobwebbed corner. He had even reopened the ancient kitchen chimney vent, beneath which he planned to place a pot-bellied stove – just for fun. He could imagine the immense wood burning range and oven that once stood there and came to sitting in a rocker of an evening as if the edifice of chrome and iron still dominated there. It was then that he noticed that the cats never walked across the space, carefully defining in a lazy way the dimensions of the stove. At first this cause amusement and he would toss ‘Cuddles’ into the space just to see her leap high and spin about. Then it became a curiosity. Then a vexation. Surely the cats had no ethereal memory of that roaring blaze. The problem had to be something in that space right now! Or below it.

Jacob rationalized that he would eventually replace the linoleum anyway, and set to work with knife and scraper. The revealed floor boards were in such good shape he considered sanding and finishing them instead – except … There is the middle of the space once claimed by the stove was a section of cut boards – not a trap door – just a section cut and replaced. Now a sensible person would have left the mystery alone and just worried about the floor; but there was this cat thing, after all. So, with regret that he would destroy that section of clear cut spruce, he gouged and pried up those old planks just to see what was hidden there.

He instantly recognized the tarnished urn for what it was – still sealed with wax and all. He shook it just to make sure it didn’t hold coins or jewels and weighed it too. It seemed about right for the ashes of a smallish man or woman – he wasn’t about to look inside for sure. Satisfied, he considered the options. No reason to contact the police as it seemed the workings of a legitimate crematorium – Smythe and Son’s was engraved on the bottom. He could put it back under the floor and suffer feline indignation - no. So he set it upon the mantle in the parlor, and found the cats would not enter that room at all! “Guess I’ll bury it,” he mused. “But where?”

It should be no surprise that everywhere he tried led to disaster. The nearby plants withered and died. Birds no longer chirped in the overhanging branches. Even the poison ivy shriveled – well it was good for something. Toss it in the garbage? – didn’t seem right and proper. Inspiration! He carved a deep hole under the concrete driveway and pushed it in with a hoe handle. Trouble was his car sputtered and died every time he backed out – sigh.

“Well, I will just have to live with it,” he pondered. So Jacob tried various places in the house and discovered a small shelf high up over the basement steps – just behind the chimney. The cats took no notice, but the step vibrations threatened to walk the urn off the shelf. “A few screws and some wire will fix that!” A few boards were laid out to make a platform to hold the step ladder and he set to the task. The mystery may not be solved but the pesky thing would be out of mind forever.

We all know better! A board cracked, he teetered, grabbed and failed. The whole Rube Goldberg affair came tumbling down – ladder, urn, Jacob and tools. He was a little overweight, but didn’t bounce well on the wooden steps, and the concrete floor at the bottom did not help at all. The injuries may not have been fatal save that the lid came off the urn and dumped ashes over his face pinned beneath the collapsed ladder. His mouth and throat was filled with cloying, fetid dust. He cried out – only to make it worse. He knew he was going to die and slowly gathered his memories. The last thing he saw so vividly was the spinning lid coming to rest before his eyes. There was an inscription inside – the name of the deceased and a date. He screamed, of course, but only inside and forever.

for the date was that very day,
and the name …

new windows for the Chamber of Horrors

2006-09-07T06:14:00.000-07:00

If you look carefully at the windows you will see that they are not what they seem. The images used to decorate them have come from X-rays of the human body and the leading on the windows does not follow a conventional format ....
Window no. 2 has a pelvic girdle at the apex and cloned images of the upper torso, including skull and ribs, repeated over the rest of the window. If you click on each image you can see a slightly larger version. These are just 3 windows in a fretted metal chapel which is one of the exhibits in our new museum of modern art

Rain on my Roof

2006-09-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

Here is another of my poems from the dark side. It is strange, is it not, what the mind does while lying on that cold steel bed as it enters the sterile environment of the tube, the scanner that hides nothing and reveals all? The mind panics and fears the worst … that is the nature of the human psyche.

Rain on my Roof

Darkness closes about me
like a solitary cell.
Large drops of rain upon my roof …
a steady splat, splat, splat.
Imprisoned as I am,
confined within a body
that no longer works as it should.
I seek escape
but have not the key.
No longer is my world one of sunshine.
of hope.
Within this body’s prison I languish alone,
without soul.
My heart beats cold and stony,
no love to keep it warm,
no joy to give it hope.
Only the rain upon my roof,
a steady splat, splat, splat.

Vi Jones
©September 4, 2006

Being Objective

2006-09-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

Many people have fixations with objects; a totem, a memento -- perhaps a song. For others it is a certain car, a favorite hat or a lucky stone. Eldon was unique. He was in love with a bathtub. Not all tubs, you understand – nothing related to the tub of the candle evening. No, this tub was called Eramus, and was a gigantic, claw-foot antique. It had belonged to his Aunt Sandy. Now it was his.

As a boy he had pleaded to go to her crumbling mansion to play. There he would climb inside the tub, barely able to see over the lip. And Eramus became a source of dreams – a stallion racing from Indians – a spaceship fighting brigands of Mars – a Spanish Galleon on treacherous seas. The tub’s four feet were lions claws, of course; and made him king of the jungle – master of everything. Its iron sides protected him. There he felt save – no one could get him!

Well, sometimes his Aunt actually put water in the tub and Eldon had to change his dreams. At ten he could still float in the nurturing pool. At seventeen he dreamed of other things – but the soothing waters quenched his fire. At twenty-four his feet stuck out while he lay under the water as long as possible – pretending to drown – to become one with the tub. Then Sandy passed away and Eldon went into the Army, and all his dreams went ‘down the drain’. All except one – getting possession of that tub.

It wasn’t easy. Her mansion was to be torn down and everything sold – an estate auction. Surely someone would want his tub. Eramus had to be saved! Eldon arranged some leave and returned home. No one knew he was there. His old friend Jasper owned a tow truck which Eldon borrowed. Since the keys were inside he didn’t bother to ask. The coveted tub was on the ground floor at the back, so Eldon needed little stealth. He wound the tow cable through both windows and simply pulled out the entire wall! You have seen those new tow trucks. The bed flows out and back and the car is guided up and on – no backward dragging through the streets. The tub was no different. Within minutes Eramus was secure on the truck, truly flying down alleys and side-streets – defying angry stop-lights and squealing tires. A derelict barn gave refuge. They were together again.

“I’ll paint him red,” shouted the victorious dreamer. People who see Eramus with think it is blood, and imagine terrible things that have happened in the tub – chopped up bodies or suicides or strange ritual rites. “Let it be so, Eramus. Together we will be joined in blood!”

At that moment Eldon was dancing in the tub – not strange at all – considering. Over the years the ancient iron tub had rusted a bit – not strange at all – and Eldon’s foot broke through the bottom, and half his leg. It didn’t hurt and Eldon laughed a bit at his folly. But then he attempted to pull his leg out.

I won’t describe the flesh torn by jagged metal. You can imagine how the edges sprang back together as effectively as a bear trap. His place of refuge was so remote no one heard his screams. And he became one with the tub and his dreams flowed down – slowly down. When they finally found Eldon he was very pale and wrinkled like he had soaked in a bath for weeks – and the bottom of the tub was very red.

It seems that Eramus had dreams too.

faucon

Another true story

2006-08-31T21:57:00.000-07:00

The church that I attend meets in a wooden building that is about 60 years old. By the standards of the area, this is an ancient structure. It is a pleasant building in the day time— well kept and conservative. When it is full of people, it is a cheerful place, as it should be.

However, at night, after the congregation has gone home and the lights are extinguished, the building sits in darkness, its bell tower and spire looming over the neighborhood. Several people have told me that they have seen the lights flipping on and off as they’ve driven by at night. Of course, this could simply be our pastor who comes and goes at all hours. Also, lots of people have keys to the place and being volunteers they work on their various projects and ministries whenever they can, including after dark. So it wouldn’t seem strange for lights to be flipping on and off at night.

Several people have told me they have heard all sorts of odd sounds in the building. Well, wooden structures creak, pop and thump with temperature changes. Also, in the winter, when the steam is turned on, the pipes rattle and shimmy. Finally, the noises could be raccoons, ‘possums and pigeons banging around in the walls of the church.

So you see, everything can be explained.

I’m one of those volunteers who sometimes works alone in the building, and for some reason I avoid going up to the sanctuary by myself. For reasons I can’t explain, I always have an odd feeling that I’m being watched particularly from the balcony. I keep looking over my shoulder. Perhaps I’m just remembering the story I heard of the homeless man who broke into the sanctuary a few years ago and who slept in the pews at night. This homeless man leaped up and scared the pants off the pastor one night when he was discovered. Maybe that’s what I’m remembering.

Oh, did I mention that I never, ever go into the sanctuary alone at night? Ever.

One day, late afternoon, just as darkness was falling, I was in the basement of the church, setting up for a meeting. I was alone. In the basement, I don’t get that same feeling of being watched, that feeling that someone else is there when they aren’t. So I was fine, happily setting out chairs and getting ready for the others who would be coming in another half hour.

A few minutes later, however, to my chagrin, I discovered that the laptop computer which I needed for the meeting was not downstairs. It was upstairs, in the sanctuary where I never, ever go alone at night.

I hesitated for a moment but then realized how incredibly stupid and silly I was acting. So I took a breath and charged upstairs. I hurried through the sanctuary, fumbled with my keys to open the appropriate doors as quickly as I could, grabbed the laptop and scampered back down to safety of the basement. See, silly, there’s no one up there, I told myself.

I placed the laptop on the table and continued to prepare for the meeting. I sat there for just a little less than a minute from the time I came downstairs.

Then, I froze and caught my breath. Slowly I looked up at the ceiling. I heard what sounded like footsteps, the floor boards creaking above me. There were only a few steps, but they sounded like they were moving down the central aisle from the platform towards the narthex. Only a few steps. Then, nothing.

I felt my skin goose and the hair on my arms stand up. I had just been up there in the sanctuary! There had been no one up there! There were no other cars in the lot, and even if there were, no one would be coming in the upstairs doors—they would come in the downstairs entrance for the meeting. There should be no one up there!

Just as I was about ready to leave and wait in the parking lot, I heard a car door slam. To my relief, another committee member had arrived. When he came in I asked him if he had seen anyone leaving through the upstairs exits. He hadn’t. I explained that I thought I heard someone upstairs. He looked at my strangely but said nothing. At that point, I began to feel silly and embarrassed again, and decided that I wouldn’t say anymore about it.

It’s just the physics of an old building I told myself.

But to this day, I will not go upstairs by myself. Never, ever, and certainly not at night.

The Bridge

2006-08-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

The Bridge

The fog cool and grey
wraps around me like a shroud.
Nearby a foghorn sounds its mournful dirge
while far below
the water cold invites me to her bosom.
I stand beside the rust red rail
watching traffic passing by.
Where are they going
all these humans in their steel cocoons
who pay no mind to me?
And why should they,
who are my to them?
I have nothing to enrich their lives
any more than I have anything to offer mine,
except the water far below.

There are bridges everywhere.
The Bridge of Sighs in Venice,
romantic,
but hardly adequate for what I have in mind.
The Lion’s Gate in Vancouver,
now that one would suffice.
The Tower Bridge in London Town,
a bloody scene in times gone by.
The Brooklyn Bridge, no good,
they sold it for a nickel.
This one is the only one for me—
The Golden Gate
with its red towers floating
in the damp grey evening fog.

Others have left this span before me,
a few have even lived to tell the tale.
To me it is a fitting end
for a life no longer worthy of its breath.
It’s later now and traffic less
so quickly over the rail I go,
flying through the darkness,
dropping like a stone—
Please God, I want to stop, go back….
I think I’m screaming
but the wind tears the sound away.
In the darkness the water soon I’ll meet,
soon, too soon, here it is—
cold and wet and dark and dark and dark.

Vi Jones
©August 29, 2006

THE 477

2006-08-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea

-The Garden of Prosperine
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Clover Boonan takes the bus to work, she's taken the same bus..the 477 for the passed ten years. Before that it was called the "S-4" but it was the same route and much like the town of Larkspear it hadn't changed much in a very long time.

She tries to sit somewhere in the middle and she listens to tapes she recorded herself; they don’t follow any musical style or artist. They’re just sounds and voices and phrases that the Mortician likes to fill her head with before she turns the key to the Prep Room at the Funeral Home she’s worked at for over 20 years and disappears from the world of the living into the home of the dead.

When she was about 12 Clover wanted to be a writer, she wanted to write about demons and ghosts and cemeteries and the living dead. She wanted to dress in black and never smile and she wanted to live in one of those old Victorian style Mansions on Basam Hill.

Then one summer, after she turned 18 her Mother’s friend offered her a job at the Leaning Birches Cemetery in Larkspear.

Had Clover thought it was cool in those days to smile she would have.

Instead she looked up from her book (must’ve been something by Anne Rice…of course) and she shrugged, “Sure.” Was all she’d said from under her heavy black shadowed eyelids. “ I think I’d fit in there.”

That of course turned out to be so far from the truth it was a joke.

The Morticians Clover worked for were two brothers that inherited the Funeral Home from their Father.

Hunter and Calvin liked to sing Elvis and Frank Sinatra Songs while they worked, they attended every single Science Fiction Convention to come to town and they always dressed up as the bad guys from a show called “ Doctor Who”

“ You know Clover, “ Hunter suggested one day “ you’re looking a little pale around the gills. Why don’t you go out and walk through the Memorial Park? All that sun, all that white marble. That’s put some color on you really fast.” “ No thanks” Clover said from the supply cabinet where she was taking inventory.

“ Hey Clover” Calvin said with no room for debate “ why don’t you go out to the Memorial Park and do some maintenance? Rake up the leaves, clean up the dead flowers. That sort of thing. In fact, you should probably hop to it before you loose the Sun.”

Then Calvin opened a package on his desk and pulled out a little toy space ship that hoped you would live long and prosper when you pushed a little button on its underside.

He held the toy up to his brother, “ Score.” He said with awe.

Score. “ Hunter echoed back with reverence.

Clover was odd and pale and wore too much black but in the end it was got hard to be around Hunter and Calvin Larkspear and not end with some color in your life.

It took a few years but Clover made it all the way through Mortuary College, she attended Comic Book Conventions and she even got it into her head that she might start writing some day.Mysteries were her thing now and the only horror books she read anymore were true crime novels.

Over the years she couldn't read or watch a horror movie with out laughing out loud, so she have them up ages ago.

But when she put her headphones on and took that bus ride to work it was music she thought about. She loved the way the notes went together and the stories the songs told and she loved the voices, those lively colorful voices that wanted to tell you their secrets.This was the world she was in the day the lady in the gray linen shirt dress got on the bus.

The woman dropped some change into the fare box and carefully made her way down the aisle as the bus pulled away from the stop. As she walked towards Clover Boonan, something about the dress yanked out of her day dream of rock stardom and to the little black belt that circled the woman’s dress.

It looked like one that Clover use to own.

The edges of the belt were finished off with purple thread and because of that the belt had been considered flawed and she had bought it for less then dollar.And the dress…that dress looked like one of four shirt dresses her Mother had donated to the Funeral Home last winter. They had a closet full of donated clothes that they dressed Jane and John Does in. Jane and John Doe were people the County brought to Leaning Birches, which had some years back devoted at least 20 acres of the Cemetery to the surrounding cities less then fortunate citizens to be buried.
Calvin and Hunter had started the “ Closet” because the idea of burying people in sheets and plastic bothered them. “ I’ve buried Gold Fish with more dignity then this, “ Hunter had mumbled one day as he prepared John Doe 21704 for his casket.

The next day the brothers brought in some clothes and the closet grew from there.

Clover decided it was nothing, the belt and the dress weren’t unique. But the thought raced around her head all the same, “ no they’re not unique but those things are yours Clover. You know it…that’s your Mother’s dress.

The woman took a seat across the aisle from Clover and she smoothed her dress out before she sat down and Clover just knew the woman was going to look over at her and smile.

She snapped her eyes forwards and tried to concentrate on her tape where a man was growling into her ears that he could do dirty deeds for cheap.

Clover could smell the faint sweet odor of Jasmine, her Mother’s perfume. The thing of it was Clover’s Mom has worn that scent for so long she can’t smell it on herself anymore and she has a tendency to wear too much of it now.

So all of her Mother’s clothes, no matter how many times you wash or dry clean them the always smell like Jasmine Delights by Lucia.

Lots of ladies that age wore that scent, Clover told herself, lots of women that age wore that style of dress and lots of them had that hair style too. Clover did hair and makeup at the Funeral Home and of all the things she had to do that was the task that worried her the most.

“ It’s cinchy Clover,” Hunter explained on the afternoon she had finally run out of excuses for not doing hair “ it’s a pretty basic style just take the small barrel curling iron and make three curls on the top, two on each side and brush it out.”

It was called it the Granny Brush Out and even though it turned out it was an easy do Clover usually had to cheat and use bobby pins to hold the waves above the ears to hold the hair up.

Clover’s eyes shifted to her right, and of course right above the woman’s ear were two crossed bobby pins with a tiny bit of cream colored thread to hold them in place.

As the bus slowed down and pulled over to the next stop Clover hoped the woman would do what most of them did when someone got on the bus, the seated passengers looked out the window. And the Grey Lady was no exception. She turned her head too as the next passenger started towards the back of the bus and when she did Clover’s eye went to the woman collar bone.

Just under her white linen collar it was there, just like clover knew it would be because she was the one who put it there.

The little line of puckered skin held together with string.

Clover had made that incision herself and she had gently reached inside of this woman and found the artery .

And then Clover embalmed her.

She was sure of it as the woman turned and looked at Clover and smiled and when she did Clover decided she knew this woman.

Clover after all had shaped the woman’s mouth into a small smile with her own hands and she had brushed her hair and put blush on her cheeks and colored her pale lips with a soft shade of red.

The Gray Lady was a dead Lady and she was riding the bus with all of the other morning commuters like she belonged there. She fussed a little more with her dress and her hair and then she reached up and pulled the yellow cord and the bus slid to a stop.

She got up and before she could pass Clover, Clover reached out and touched her hand, still bearing traces of the power she had dusted on to give the woman’s hand’s some color. “ Where are you going? “ was all Clover could think to ask.

The Gray Lady looked down at Clover and smiled and she leaned towards Clover a little and said, “ I’m just visiting dear, just like everybody else.”

“ Just Visiting. “

Real Terror

2006-08-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

I'm not much on horrer stories,
though I think I did passible faire
in last year's challenge -- the evening news
being terrifying enough for me ...

but m'lady Em placed a seed in my craw
and you'all get the dregs ..

............................................

There is a crossroads, they say
near the twixt of when
where a man dances ‘neath the moon,
with nary a foot nor hand in prayer,
but three choices tween thee and dust.

He danced to the twilling magic,
three steps from which to choose;
one for beauty and one for trust,
and one for the dreams of troven;
but the Prince would not tarry
and cut off his legs
to twitch in the sands forsaken.

There is a crossroads, they say
near the twixt of when
where a man dances ‘neath the moon,
with nary a foot nor hand in prayer,
but three choices tween thee and dust.

He offered fine songs in the market
three tunes from which to choose,
and each could cast their fate wisely
‘neath the stare of the stars and the mist;
but they commanded his heart
and chopped off his hands
to twitch in the sands forsaken.

There is a crossroads, they say
near the twixt of when
where a man dances ‘neath the moon,
with nary a foot nor hand in prayer,
but three choices tween thee and dust.

There is a man they say in a basket
who nudges stones with his nose –
to give you choice of beginning
and a stroke of life at its finest –
one for beauty and one for trust,
and one for the dreams of troven;
but the sword is swift and final

and nothing in the dust
but thee.

MY OWN HALLOWEEN HILL

2006-08-24T01:26:00.000-07:00

Long,long ago
Way back in 1948
Perhaps before many of you ,were not yet born
I was 12 years old
Full of adventure,light of heart,energetic
As any young city girl would be
who had come for her Christmas holidays
to the country.

My Grandfather had his House on The Hill
He called it Necton
after the village of his birth in England
It was a 4 room weathboard with a big built in front porch
That's where we 5 kids slept,my brother and my 3 cousins

Our only neighbours lived on the down slope of Eastern Hill
in the country town of Whittlesea
There was a boy called Roger and girl called Bibby
A few years older than us
They (we thought) were so lucky ,they each had their own horse
And rode bareback every day

They let us ride their horses every Christmas
bareback of course ,no money for saddles
My turn to ride a horse came just after we spent the day
with cousins who came to visit.
I set off after a whole year of never being on a horse
(The only ones I saw delivered our bread,ice and milk).

Half way down the high hill the horse stumbled
either in a hole or on a rock I don't remember.
I went straight over the head as the horse went down on its front legs
My front teeth hit the hard ground and 6 broke off in various
size pieces
I suppose it must have been painfull ,again I can't recall

Rushed to the town Doctor in the cabin of my uncles truck
A towel mopping up the blood....he ordered I be taken at once
to the Melbourne Dental Hospital some 2 hours away
This was done ,my Father accompanying me ,my Uncle Sid driving the truck
I was given an anaesetic and woke up with no front teeth left at all
I suppose in 1948 this was the way it was done I don't know
I stayed there for a whole week,therefore cutting short the family holiday.

Luckily we lived only 10 minutes away from the hospital in the city
so I had visitors everyday,coming in on the bus
Some wishing they were me....
And having jelly and custard every day
I returned in the middle of the year
to have a a partial denture made which clipped onto my
back teeth

Now over the years I have new dentures every 20 years or so
and have never known anything else
When people say they have spent millions on saving their
teeth I look puzzled
It is not a something I have had to worry about
It was not a good thing at the time,but it happened

I often pass Eastern Hill, Whittlesea
The old house called Necton no longer there
In its place is a made road and hundreds of houses
on small blocks of land
Only a few sit on top of the hill
They have the best view of the Great Dividing Range
In Victoria
The same view we children and our family had
all those years ago
And not a horse to be seen.

The adventurous life we had is no longer
possible for those who have made their home there
They live in a suburb of house tops and small back yards
We were the lucky children
We had times that will not come again

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 24.8.2006
Is now a suburban

Ghost Gums

2006-08-23T03:15:00.000-07:00

Here's an Australian ghost story for you...loosely based on an Australian legend of the Quninkan, a ghost spirit of the bush. I wrote it after I read about how some young women who come to Australia in search of a better life are abused by their Australian husbands. As we have much loved Phillipino partners in our family, I was deeply touched by this and wrote my revenge on those worthless males...

Ghost Gums

Corazon stood on the veranda and gazed out over the alien Queensland landscape as it sloped away from the house.

It was what her husband Reg called a ``long block” that rolled down the hillside to the front gate, marked off here and there by broken down fences. The block was disected by a winding driveway from the gate to the house.

The paddocks on either side of the driveway held nothing but clumps of spiky grass, a couple of deep, dark dams and thickets of trees, strange white-barked trees. These trees grew no fruit. They simply existed, looking like dancers in veils, their long tortured limbs stretching up to the sky, shrouded by shreds of bark that moved gently in the breeze.

Corazon thought it strange and wasteful. Reg did nothing with all this land. He parked his semi trailer and his ute in a big shed nearby and let nature have the rest. Her father would have cried to see this sloping hillside untilled, untended, where there could have been terraces of rice paddies.

And this waste went on all over. The rest of Australia crouched like a sleeping beast, never rousing itself to produce anything she would regard as edible.

Some of the neighbouring farms, which she could see in the distance, looked more productive. Some had fruit trees, others grazing cattle. But Reg was no farmer, he was a semi driver, He laughed at her attempts to grow herbs at the back of the house. He wouldn’t let her cook the Filipino dishes she had learned from her mother. When he was home, she cooked slabs of meat in the electric frypan, beat potatoes to a mash and defrosted frozen peas.

But when he was away, she ate dried fish and rice, chillis, and coconut, which she had smuggled home in the monthly shopping and hid at the back of the kitchen cupboards. She grew a lemongrass plant in the backyard and inhaled the scent deeply as she chopped the leaves and tossed them into the rice. She took her meals out onto the veranda when he was away and watched the stars blaze overhead.

Reg was often away for days at a time with the semi. She saw no one when he was away. The post was left by a van that pulled up and sped away in a cloud of dust, and the neighbours, none within hailing distance, kept to themselves.

She heard the semi approaching, the sound of the engine going down through the gears, and then its snub nose appeared from behind the trees and stopped at the gate.

She watched Reg climb down from the cab of the semi and unlock the gate, then drive the semi through, get out and lock the gate again.

She never understood why he kept the gate locked. He said it was to stop someone stealing his vehicles, but the semi and the ute were already locked up in the shed. Surely anyone who wanted to come in would just climb over the gate.

She guessed it was to remind her that she could not leave, or perhaps it was Reg’s way of telling the world to keep out of his private domain. But she never challenged him about it.

The semi roared up the long drive. Too fast, Reg always drove too fast, although not as fast in the semi as he did in the white ute, skidding and skipping over the rough track. The semi disappeared into the shed and she waited for the whistling.

If he was whistling, he would be in a good mood. She would go back into the kitchen and start dinner.

If he was not whistling, he would in a dangerous mood. She would go back into the kitchen and make dinner. But her shoulders would be hunched, and her eyes darting about to see if anything was out of place.

Once he came home and found that the beer fridge on the back veranda was unplugged. She must have accidentally knocked the plug out when she was cleaning down there. He beat her with his belt for that.

Another time there had been flies in the kitchen because the fly screen had fallen off its hinges. He hit her, sending her crashing into the kitchen bench.

But if he was whistling, if the trip had gone well and he had no speeding fines, he didn’t notice little things.

``That’s my girl,” he would say, and slap her on the rear, leaning appreciatively over the frypan where his steak sizzled. ``that’s my good little girl.”

Big things still annoyed him, like his steak not being perfect, or lumps in the mashed potato. But she was a master with these big slabs of meat now, even though she still hated to eat them, the blood oozing out of the centre, the mash and peas stained red with it. And she beat the potatoes until they were smooth as butter.

She heard his tuneless rendition of some pop tune echoing out of the shed and her fingers relaxed their grip on the veranda rail. But the steaks had better be frying before he got into the house.

``That’s my girl,’’ he said as he came in. ``That’s my good girl.”

After dinner he watched TV for a while, until she finished washing up. Then they both had a shower before bed. He was very particular about the shower. He had to wash her body and hair himself, ``to get off that Filipina stink,” he said, although he never explained why he had flown to the Phillipines specifically to buy a Filipina bride if he thought they stank.

``No offence, love,” he said, as he soaped her hair with a shampoo that smelled of flowers, ``it’s just that curry shit you lot put in your cooking. Fair oozes out of your pores, it does.”

When he was satisfied that she smelled like an Australian woman, he took her to bed. Her mind never dwelled on what happened there. It was mercifully quick, for that she thanked God.
``Better take yer shopping,” he said next morning.

Every now and then he took her into town to shop. He gave her a list of things she had to buy and the money to cover it. She quickly learned that actual prices differed from those he wrote down – the shop keepers sold marked down goods and she could save a little money on these. She bought a little food for herself with what she saved.

She was not allowed to talk to anyone while they were in town. If they met one of his friends, she had to stand behind him and keep her head bowed. If she looked up, he accused her of flirting and beat her when they got home.

`Town’, as he called it, was about ten miles down the dusty track that led to the property. After a mile or so, it smoothed out into a bitumen road, and more houses started appearing along the roadside, gradually thickening into a suburb. The road continued through town, forming the main street, then split at the end of town, one road leading north, one south.

Reg parked in the main street, cruising up and down until he saw a gap. There was a pub across the road from the shopping centre, and he would go in there, and give her an hour to finish the shopping.

``Don’t forget the barbecue sauce,” he said, as he slid out from behind the driver’s seat.

The shopping centre was air conditioned, and had several shops beside the supermarket itself. One of her favourite shops was tucked away down the end, near the entrance to the car park. It was a junk shop, run by a young man called Gino who always seemed to be unpacking boxes behind the counter, filling the shelves with old books, vases and other things picked up at auction. Corazon was allowed to buy clothes here, from the racks of cheap second hand clothing.
She always called in after she had finished the grocery shopping.

“Hello,” Gino said. ``I’ve got something for you.” He dived into one of the cardboard boxes behind the counter and came up with a couple of magazines clutched in his hand. ``Filipino,” he said. ``Would you like them?”

Corazon nodded, and reached into her handbag to pay for them, but he stalled her, shoving the magazines into the shopping trolley.

``Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep an eye out for more,” he said.

Excited about her magazines, she didn’t notice the way he looked at her, admiring her pretty face with large dark eyes and full lips, her slender figure not quite disguised by a shapeless t-shirt and stretch pants. Back home, she would have noticed, and returned his smile. Here, she dared not.

He returned to his unpacking and she had a quick glance at the new stuff piled on the shelves. There were several paintings, stacked untidily near the counter and she paused to look at a small unframed canvas, which featured ghost gums and a white splodge of something whirling around in the centre.

``Awful, isn’t it?” Gino said conversationally. ``I picked them up at a garage sale. The artist used to live round here, but she left in a hurry a couple of years ago. Couldn’t stand it any longer, I guess.” He sounded as if he had some sympathy with the woman. “That’s supposed to be a local legend, something called a Quinkan.”

Corazon’s ears pricked at the unusual word. ``What is that?” she asked, too interested to be cautious.

``Quinkan? It’s a spirit – an Aboriginal legend – the hills are supposed to be full of them.”

``Like a ghost?” she said.

``Yeah, I suppose.”

She looked at the painting again. The white splodge did have a human form in it as it whirled through the ghost gums.

``How much?”

``Two dollars?” Gino said, almost apologetically.

She paid for the painting and hurried toward the exit. But before she got there, she rearranged the shopping in the bags to conceal the painting and the magazines. Reg barely glanced at her, except to grunt, ``that took long enough,” as she stacked the bags in the tray of the ute.
He left her to take the shopping into the house as well, while he went off to get the semi ready for his next trip, so she was able to hide the painting and the magazines in a cupboard until he was gone.

He left two days later, and she stood on the veranda and watched him lock the gate before he drove away, the semi charging up through the gears as it gathered speed.

Corazon tended to some neglected chores, watering the lemongrass and weeding her herb plot, before she dug her treasures out of the cupboard and went back to the veranda to examine them.

The painting she propped up against the veranda rail, looking first at the ghost gums growing in a clump near the house, then back at the painting. Her first impression in the junk shop had been right. They were the same ghost gums, in the same position. The picture had been painted on this very spot.

She knew Reg hadn’t owned the property for long. He had told her father, when they were doing a business deal for her future, that he had just bought a house where she would live. He had made it sound like a palace, or so her younger sister Marisol had said. Corazon had been at work in the factory when the conversation took place.

``He is an ugly man,” Marisol had reported, ``but he is very rich. A rich Australian.” She had sounded envious.

Corazon settled back on the broken down sofa and opened one of her magazines. It was in tagalog, and she read one of the stories, savouring the sound of her own language in her mind. Back home she wouldn’t have read this magazine. It was dry, and political, and there was nothing about movie stars in it. The other magazine was in English, and was more like the kind she would have bought.

But as she was flipping through it, she found advertisements for Filipino brides.

``Filpino Hotties for sale,” said one. She threw it aside.

That was how Reg had found her, through an advertisement. Her father had spoken to a man who put her picture on the Internet, and she had been put up for sale. They had told her it was her one chance to get out of the factory, out of Manila, and into a life of luxury. She could send money home to her family, her bride price would send Marisol to school.

But she couldn’t send money home. She wasn’t even allowed to write letters home, or go into a post office. She always ran for the mail when it was dropped off, but there were never any letters with a Manila postmark.

She burned the English-language magazine in the incinerator behind the house. She kept the tagalog magazine – it reminded her of her childhood, before her family moved to the city and became just another poor rural family lost in the scramble for money.

The sun had reached the top of the sky and beat down on the house, casting no shadows. Even with all the fans going, it was too hot in the house for comfort, so she went back to the veranda to look at the ghost gums and imagined the dancing movements that caused their twisted shapes.
The leaves rustled as an eddy of warm air passed over them, and Corazon felt it caress her face as it moved over the veranda. She leaned on the rail, watching the trees, her eyes half closed.
The breeze returned, this time picking up a handful of leaves from the ground and swirling them around in a funnel that spun up toward the lower branches of the ghost gums. For a few moments it hovered there, spinning the leaves in a wild dance, then skittled across the ground toward her.

She had seen this before. Reg called it a ``willy-willy”, and laughed at her alarm when she had first been caught in one, the leaves swirling around her as she tried to escape it. But now she watched as it skimmed across the ground and danced about in front of the veranda.
She went down the wooden steps toward it, but it moved away from her in a teasing fashion. She followed, and then it suddenly changed direction and flew at her, catching up her hair and slapping her face with the dancing leaves.
In the centre of the willy-willy, she felt the soft currents of air brushing her body, enclosing her in a cocoon that made the world outside seemed very far away.

Then, with a last playful tug at her hair, it was gone, skittering across the grass to disappear altogether, the leaves finally settling yards from where they started.

``Quinkan,” she murmured, and a shiver went up her spine

That night she slept poorly. She seemed to hear the wind beating on the windows, trying to get in. She got up and went outside, but the night was very still. The ghost gums shone in the moonlight, and seemed more disarrayed than usual, as if she had almost caught them moving.
Reg was away for three days, and he returned in a bad mood. He had ``copped”, he told her, two speeding fines, and this was clearly her fault. His steak was too dry for his taste, and she hadn’t bought the right frozen peas. She knew he hated the mint flavoured kind.

She slept out on the veranda, nursing her wounds, while he snored in their bed. The moon was waning now, but still bright enough to see by.

Her face felt numb where he had hit her with his closed fist, and there was a welt on her arm where the belt buckle had bit in. She couldn’t do anything about either of them, because he would know if she went back into the house. He placed a bucket inside the door which would fall over and wake him if she tried to open it.

For a while, she tried to take her mind back to her childhood, back to the days before Manila, when even poverty didn’t seem so hard, when her mother was alive and would take her and her younger sister for walks, pointing out anything of interest along the way.

But even that had no power to comfort her. She wept for her mother and the younger brother she had never known. It was after they died, the night the much long-for son was being born, that her father had changed, become a bitter, angry man, and announced they would be moving to Manila, where they would have a better life.

Unable to make herself comfortable on the sofa, Corazon sat up, and stretched her stiff legs. The ghost gums rustled as a night breeze passed through their leaves. She watched them, the leaves blowing about like fronds of hair, the tall white trunks turning gracefully to music she could not hear.

She did hear another sound, though, a ripple of woman’s laughter, carried on the night breeze.
The silver white trees shimmered in the moonlight. Corazon fancied she saw a long, slender limb move, as if tired of holding its position.

Then the leaves on the ground sprang into the air, and started to dance in capricious circles around the sinuous shapes of the trees.

Corazon forgot the pain of her wounds. She hurried down the veranda steps, across the grass and into the group of trees, trying to catch the little whirlwind as it bobbed about, teasing her, sometimes coming close, sometimes flitting away.

Then she was in the centre of it, and she felt long arms fold around her body, and warm breath on her face, and she closed her eyes and let the Quinkan dance her round and around. She felt the touch of other hands, soft female hands, caressing her as they moved between the trees, heard the silver laughter again and she opened her eyes and they were swirling around her, their white bodies shining in the moonlight.

She was lying on the sofa when she woke with the dawn. Her sore arm was stiff, and her face still felt puffy. She could hear Reg moving around inside the house. The front door scraped open.

``Get in here and make me some breakfast,” he said.

Frying bacon and eggs in the kitchen, Corazon kept out of his way as he stormed around the house.

``Where’s my clean clothes?” he roared.

Corazon scuttled down into the back yard, and dragged his clothes off the line.

``I forgot,” she said breathlessly as she carried them back up to the kitchen.

``Just give me clean pants and a shirt,” he said. She handed the clothes over and then rushed back to the stove, where the eggs were curling up at the sides.

``You’d better have yourself sorted out before I get back,” he said. ``I didn’t even want you, I wanted your sister. But she wasn’t old enough.”

Corazon dished up his breakfast in silence.

``Burnt eggs,” he said. ``I hate burnt eggs. You could take some cooking lessons from my old mum. Beautiful cook. Beautiful.” He sliced the bacon with relish and shoved a forkful into his mouth.

Corazon made coffee and sat down. She watched him eat, slicing and shovelling, and occasionally pausing to denigrate her cooking.

``I gotta go into town,” he said. ``You need to shop?”

``There is no meat left,” Corazon murmured.

``Get changed then.” He glared at her across the table. ``And if anyone wants to know what happened to your face, you walked into a door, right?”

``Right,” Corazon said. She hadn’t seen her face yet. When she did, it didn’t look so bad. Her eye was discoloured, but her cheek not as swollen as it felt. She bandaged her arm, and wore a long sleeved blouse to cover it.

No one at the supermarket did comment on her face, although the check out girl gave her a sympathetic look and when she said, ``have a nice day”, she actually sounded as if she meant it.
But Gino blanched and asked her if she was all right.

``I walk into a door,” she said.

``Yeah, right,” he said. ``Took a swing at you, this door?”

``I am all right,” she said. ``I want to ask you about that picture.”

He looked blank for a moment. ``Which picture? Oh, the ghost gums. What about it?”

``I think it was painted where I live. What happened to the lady – the artist?”

``I don’t know,” Gino shrugged. ``She just left, that’s all. The local cops were a bit concerned about it for a while, but it seems she did that often – just up and left without telling anyone where she was going. Artists are like that,” he added.

``Can you tell me about the Quinkan?”

Gino shook his head. ``I don’t know much about Aboriginal stories,” he said.

``Do you know anything about that one?”

``There’s all different ones, some are nice spirits, some are not – I heard about a Quinkan, called Yuki, when I first came here. The locals say he turns women into trees.” Gino laughed.

``This place is full of stories like that.”

``Into trees – ghost gums?” Corazon said.

``Could be.” Gino leaned closer. ``Look, why don’t you come for a cup of coffee with me? I can close the shop for a while.”

``No, I can’t.” Involuntarily, her hand went up to her face.

``You should tell that bastard where to go. Leave him.”

``I must go.” Corazon headed for the door, dragging her shopping trolley, avoiding Gino’s eyes as she left.

The next day, Reg drove away in the ute. He was doing a small job, he said, moving some furniture for a mate who lived down the coast. He would be back in the morning.

Corazon watched him go, watched him lock the gate, and thought about Gino. ``Come for coffee,” he had said, and ``leave him.” But how could she do that? She was married, and the only place she really wanted to go was home.

Corazon spent the day attending to anything that might aggravate Reg when he returned. But then the wind sprang up in the trees again and she was filled with a longing she could not name, a longing to dance in the moonlight, and laugh.

She bathed carefully that evening, using the sandalwood soap that Reg hated, brushing her hair until it shone, pulling a dress from her wardrobe that she had not worn since she left home. It floated around her like a mist.

Stepping out into the waning moonlight, she paused only to take a handful of jasmine blossoms from the vine that grew over the veranda and tucked them into her hair.

They were waiting for her, the white slender women and the dark man, his eyes flashing in the moonlight, his wild black hair whipped by the swirling breeze. She felt her feet leave the ground as he caught her up and whirled her in his arms, and her laughter joined that of the silver women.

Reg unlocked the gate and drove the ute through it. He had trouble focussing on the key as he tried to lock it again. It had been a heavy night, he had drunk a lot of beer. Somewhere inside his thumping head was a niggling thought, that something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

She’d better not have stuffed up again, he thought as he back into the ute. He scowled as he accelerated the ute up the driveway. Should have held out for her sister. He remembered Marisol, young, sweet and pliable. That was a proper woman for you, young enough to train. Corazon had picked up too many independent ways working in the factory. Her father had cheated him. She was no good and he had a right to take her home and demand his money back. No – he wouldn’t demand his money back. He would demand Marisol instead. She’d be 16 now, old enough even for the nit picking Australian authorities.

It would be different with Marisol, she would do as she was told – she would –

Reg never finished that thought, nor any other. He barely had time to register shock before his ute slammed into the tall silvery ghost gum that had grown, quite inexplicably, in the centre of his driveway.

Some 'new' Halloween Music

2006-08-23T00:57:00.000-07:00

To get the Halloween Spirit bubbling away, Shiloh and I 'wrote' this song today, enjoy!!

All right, Altos be ready! Sopranos, take a deep breath. Baritones on three. One... Two... Three!!

On the first day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the second day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
two chilling tales
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the third day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the fourth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the fifth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the sixth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the seventh day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
seven chains a -rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the eighth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
eight owls a-hooting,
seven chains a-rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the ninth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
nine spirits haunting,
eight owls a-hooting,
seven chains a-rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the tenth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
ten monsters mashing,
nine spirits haunting,
eight owls a-hooting,
seven chains a-rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the eleventh day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
eleven vampires biting,
ten monsters mashing,
nine spirits haunting,
eight owls a-hooting,
seven chains a-rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the twelfth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
twelve bean sidhe's wailing,
eleven vampires biting,
ten monsters mashing,
nine spirits haunting,
eight owls a-hooting,
seven chains a-rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

On the thirteenth day of Samhain
My ghoul-friend gave to me
thirteen cauldrons a-bubbling,
twelve bean sidhe's wailing,
eleven vampires biting,
ten monsters mashing,
nine spirits haunting,
eight owls a-hooting,
seven chains a-rattling,
six wolves a-howling,
five hissing cats,
four cawing crows,
three tombstones,
two chilling tales,
and a brown bat in a dead tree.

Legend of Halloween Hill

2006-08-21T10:47:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up I learned this story about an abandoned logging camp ( it didn't have a name, just a number ) and it was called SE-158.

Anyway one day, it was late summer this guy got caught cheating at a game of cards and he was hung up on the hill behind the camp and left there to rot.

Being that it was Summer...well.

A couple of weeks later his wife came into town to claim his body ( they made her cut what was still left of him hanging down herself ) and on her way out of town she stopped and told these people at the side of the road, " I'll be back for you next..."

Pretty soon people started seeing this woman with her horse and cart riding up and down the road and within a few hours there would be a death somewhere in town.

When the supply train came in later that fall no one was there waiting on it.

Everyone was gone.

So no there's this story that this woman and a horse drawn cart are out on Highway 158 looking for one thing-she's looking for people who have less then a day to live and from what I understand she's pretty good at it.

So that's the story behind the Real Halloween Hill- there's a church and a school and and a saloon and an old lumber mill and houses and even a graveyard.

Lots of things happened when Halloween Hill was alive and lots of things have happened since it 'died'

Will you take the Challenge?

Will you go up to Halloween Hill and find your own story?

The Brave, The Curious and The Foolish can post their findings here on the Halloween Hill Blog

On October 31st We'll all meet here to see what we've found...I hope.

Anita Marie

Just rockin'

2006-08-20T14:19:00.000-07:00

I do not have a lot of memories of my grandfather’s farm, but of his/their house I recall a rocking chair. It was larger than most – a man’s chair, yet finely turned and a compliment to any room. It disappeared with the sale of the farm and subsequent moves to an apartment, nursing home and on. It is the only thing I remember as being ‘his’.

When I was approaching 50 and having difficulty with various pains, I thought a stiffer chair might serve, and searched the ‘old shops’ for a rocker like his. I found one in Sacramento – a hundred miles from where he had been, but seemed the proper type and fit. Too expensive, but I claimed her anyways. When I moved to Tennessee she came too, wrapped in plastic and sticking out from the rear of my Toyota like a carbuncle or caboose.

Now she sits in out family room called ‘Cozy’ (seen above) and behaves herself.
When I had her in the upstairs room she didn’t rock proper at all. Now all rockers ‘walk’ a bit, sometimes across the room – sometimes in a circle. Well, this old chair would wander about while I was reading and bring me before the portrait of my grandfather on the northern wall. I thought maybe it was me – you know, subconscious control. So I tested her out. Starting from different places in the room –with my eyes shut – I would rock. Always would up in the same place! I let others try it. Doesn’t matter age or sex or religious persuasion. If you get in that chair, close your eyes and rock – you will always wind up with your nose in front of grandpa.

Now you might recon that somehow I wound up with his old chair. You might fancy to his being a presence and trying to communicate. You might project that anyone who likes rocking chairs deserves what they get. Doesn’t matter. Down in Cozy the chair doesn’t wander at all – happy before the fire and near Em and Branwen, cats and me.

Course – if you get up in the night when only the moon-shadows are about – that chair is a rockin’ all by itself. But you knew that, didn’t you – if’n you had a grandpa.

faucon

Let's start with a story

2006-08-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

No Halloween gathering is complete without a few scary stories. Since my story is true, I thought I would just tell it.

When I grow up what will I be?

2006-08-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

Gee Anita Marie, wonder what I shall become now? This is WAY outside my comfort zone and I have no ideas whatsoever who I will be or even what I shall wear.....might be time to track down some shadows....ooooh help me out here please....someone...anybody....!!! Off to sleep, perchance to dream.......can't you just see those nightmares heading this way....

Baba love Halloween

2006-08-15T19:55:00.000-07:00

Baba loves Halloween and is sure to be there, in full flight.

Partay, partay!

2006-08-15T18:54:00.000-07:00

All right, let's party. I'm here with my jalapeno bean dip and rubber chicken. Let's get this party started!

:)