Oh! No! A Murder of Crows!!

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“Oh! No! A Murder of Crows”

A flock, a flight, a ‘murder of crows’,

Which word to use?

I’m in the throes!

~ ~ ~ ~

I am both terrified and fascinated by crows, and even used a particular ‘murder of crows’ in my latest novel, “Ghosts of White Raven Estate”.

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ Available where eBooks and paperbacks are Sold!

Yes! That’s what a flock of crows are called, you know . . . a “murder”. But why?

I recently looked up the etymology of “murder of crows” and learned the term is used primarily by writers and poets (not scientists and/or botanists).

According to zBeckabee who posts on FunTrivia, The term “murder” was used to describe a flock of crows as far back as the 15th century, as published by the Oxford English Dictionary. (Here’s a spine-chilling version from 1475: “A morther of crowys.”)

The OED suggests this is an allusion to “the crow’s traditional association with violent death” or “its harsh and raucous cry.” If you’ve ever heard dozens of agitated crows in full cry, it really does sound as if they’re yelling bloody murder.

This usage, which apparently died out after the 1400s, was revived in the 20th century. The first modern citation in the OED comes from 1939, but the usage was undoubtedly popularized by its appearance in An Exaltation of Larks (1968), a compendium of “nouns of multitude” by James Lipton.” ###

Of course Edgar Allen Poe (the poet in residence of my ancestral hometown (Baltimore) uses crows in metaphors, as tormentors, and certainly as messengers; Alfred Hitchcock (my Fave author) uses crows.  And who doesn’t delight in the writing of Joyce Carol Oates and particularly her “Mudgirl Saved by the King of Crows“.

And, let’s not overlook crows at the box office. Oh! Yikes!! Crows don’t seem to fare well on the big screen if 2013 “Wrath of the Crows” directed by Ivan Zuccon is any indication http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2070897/.

But enough about Ivan, more about . . . me!

Let’s take a read of how I used crows to torment-the-tormenter in my latest novel: From “Ghosts of White Raven Estate” this is our beloved anti-hero Father Vivenzio scrapping with the messengers of doom in my novel:

“His breathing quickened; he cautioned himself to not appear fearful. Don’t look over. Don’t look over. A lone howl, long and mournful, emanated from the shadows of the pine grove near the back of the graveyard. The exact source of the howling could not be determined.

The priest clutched at his robes and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. He mopped his brow, patting the beads of sweat from his forehead. The New Orleans heat had been unbearable when he left the rectory that morning. But now, without the protection of his three-cornered hat, the crows might be attracted to the top of his shiny, baldhead, he imagined.

He scurried along Washington Avenue from St. Charles Avenue to Prytania Street. “How could any family live across the street from a cemetery? Even if it is their own cemetery?” Two hundred years of history. What secrets are enfolded in the history of the Calais family? He admonished himself for his uncharitable thoughts and shrunk down into his collar as a raven cackled in the distance. He did not feel inclined to run from the pack of dogs or cower from the crows and ravens cawing their contempt. This damned heat!

“What the . . .?” Father Vivenzio uttered stopping in his tracks. His eyes caught something strange attached to the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence. Something hanging on the gate up ahead? He stared at the object as he approached, trying to figure out what was hanging on the black iron bars. The object grew more distinct as he advanced. The realization of what it was struck him like a bolt of lightning.

” [Dear Reader: It’s a voodoo doll that has been left for the Good Father to find.]

What does happen to Father Vivenzio is revealed at the end – last chapter – no spoilers here.

But, aren’t you marvelously merry that you did the click! click! on “A Murder of Crows”?

Leave your “Hello” in the comments ~ I love having visitors!

Amy Tan Thinks About #Death . . . Daily ~ Do You??

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In a recently broadcast public television production titled, “Boomers” celebrity novelist Amy Tan revealed that she thinks about Death “daily”.

Having lost her heroic father during WWII, Tan was raised by an overly stern mother with whom, as she tells it, “she had a close but volatile relationship  . . .  When Tan was 16, [her mother] held a meat cleaver to Amy’s throat and threatened to kill her in an argument over Tan’s new boyfriend.  Following this dose of ‘Mommy Dearest’, the pair did not speak for a year.

And you?  Answer the poll and then, please Dear Reader, tell us what brings the thought of Death a’clawing to your sweet conscience?

“Ghost Chaser’s Daughter” where Coyotes Bay At a Blood Red Moon

~ Halloween 2014 ~

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My #Blog ~ Conjuring Demons and Beasts for #Halloween

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For decades I have followed, and been followed by, the Garden Variety ghost: The Residual, The Poltergeist, The Hat Man, The Shadow, Doppelgangers – you know — normal ghosts! If I ever think I might be leaving ‘someone’ out of the mix I refer to True Ghost Tales http://www.trueghosttales.com/types-hauntings.php

Although I was introduced to Demons and Beasts while living on Tucson’s Sonora Desert when I was six years old, I have absolutely, and resolutely, avoided thinking about these malevolent forces from The Dark Side knowing that a) Seeing is Believing; b) Quantum’s theory of “imagine your reality; and clichés of that ilk.

My rare run-ins and near misses have invariably been with the Red-Eyed Beast. My playmate in Tucson was Linda deSoto. We ran up and down the neighborhood streets of Tucson, Arizona with all of the other six-year olds, traded the happenings at our houses, and probably attended Brownie meetings together. All of how we occupied our time slips into the blur of the past except for one story that Linda told me, which began with the announcement, “You can’t come into our house. My mother says so.”

This made me sad, and then after she explained, and her edict then made me more scared than saddened. There was a Red Eyed Beast in the house. The Beast caused the eyes of the photograph of the Virgin Mary that hung in the deSoto’s living room to glow red at night. Linda’s sixteen-year old cousin had witnessed the embodiment of The Beast and the priest had been called to exorcise the house.

For the next few weeks the Red-Eyed Beast was all I imagined. Its hooves. Its horns. Its hot acrid breath on one’s face, staring at them as they slept. A year later, after I was visited by the ghost of my grandfather, ancestral visits began to fill my world. We moved to a new neighborhood and I concerned myself with my own family’s ‘skeletons in the closet’.

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It wasn’t until fifty years later, and after I enjoyed my first Amazon Best Seller that one of my readers approached me with her own Red-Eyed Beast story (The Red Eyed Beast of Bodie).

This is a small excerpt of how the Beast of Bodie came about in real life:

As the Sheriff moved to right his mother’s dining room chair, Ruth let out a piercing scream and bit down on her fist.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She tasted blood. Did they see it? She pointed and Samuel gaped. She raised her arm, jabbing with her finger toward the threshold of the parlor – turned infirmary. There, pacing back and forth, between her and her husband, was a foul-smelling animal.

“Jesus Christ! What is that?” screamed Michael as he scrambled to scoot his chair backwards.

It hissed at Michael, and then turned its red eyes on Ruth.

“What the f**k!”

“Andrew!” Samuel admonished, as he rose very slowly, gauging the . . . the. . .

“Is it a black raccoon? The stench is killing me.”

It hissed again, and opened its mouth exposing razor sharp teeth. Glistening spittle hung from its jaw.

“It’s a wolf. . .or rather . . . a coyote!” Whatever it was it paced a line between them and the nearly departed. It lowered its head sniffing the ground, seemingly daring someone to challenge it.

Ruth wailed, “Oh My God! It’s drawing a line between me and my own husband.” Her breath now came in short, sudden gasps. What if that wild animal turned on Douglas! Is it a black raccoon?

“Samuel, Dear God! How did it get in here?” It was a raccoon, wasn’t it? The creature turned a belligerent stare at Samuel. Then, it moved its head in a circular motion, gnashing sharp fangs. It hissed at the Sheriff before staining the polished floor with snot. Its red eyes flashed in the candle light.

“No, it’s not a raccoon! It’s a God-damned reptile! Look at its tail!” Andrew screamed shrilly as he picked up his dinner knife – and held it as though ready to make a stab at the wolf-like beast.

“For Christ’s sake, Andrew. Pardon me, again, Ma. It’s got a wiry black coat!”

Eyeing the diners, the beast turned in a circle. If it were a Collie, or a Labrador, one might imagine it was about to bed down. But it wasn’t – and – it didn’t.

Ruth pleaded, “Samuel, please! Do something! It’s right next to your father!” as her son responded by unclipping the strap of his holster.

“I’ll take care of it, Mother. You and Malika get into the kitchen! Just back away slowly!”

At that instant, the beast bayed loudly. Douglas stirred.

Michael and Andrew traded looks.

“Samuel, I’m saying it’s not a reptile, in spite of its tail. Look down! It’s got hooves, for Christ’s sake,” screamed Michael.

“Michael, try to be calm.” Samuel directed. “Everybody be calm while I get it out of here or blow it away!”

As the beast paced, its hooves clattered on the bare wood floor. It hissed at the family.   Venom sprayed toward Michael, who held his hands up to protect his face. One of the three candles sparked, flared, and died.

Darkness loomed closer. 

~ ~ ~ ~

But what of Demons? The succubus and incubus (and Oh! So! much more) of The Underworld? Liza Phoenix does a wonderful job of categorizing the various Demons for us on her website http://www.lizaphoenix.com/encyclopedia/demons.shtml

But my curiosity about Demons tends toward ZoZo – the Demon of the Ouija world. You’ve experienced the demonic power of ZoZo, have you not? If not – be forewarned by reading about this malevolent force on Ghost Theory: http://www.ghosttheory.com/2011/08/25/what-is-zozo

Two encounters with ZoZo when I was a teen-ager asking Ouija to part the curtain to show me my Fate that convinced me what a ninety-six pound weakling I was when it came to the forces of Malovolence pacing on the Other Side of The Grave.

What about you? “Game” for a little playing with fire? Do YOU conjure Beasts and Demons? Do let us know!!

 

#Free Read for #Halloween Season ~ The Red-Eyed Beast of Bodie

On Amazon in the “Ghost Chaser’s Daughter” collection.

 

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Ghost Stories And Tales of Terror

By Emily Hill ~ The Red-Eyed Beast of Bodie.

Bodie, California is a ramshackle ghost town of wooden buildings that lean toward each other; and dusty roads that warble into the unknown – the unknown world of tales of terror. The sparsely populated moonscape that is Bodie is replete with wide expanses of sagebrush-dotted land, coyotes that howl at a garish moon and disgruntled spirits that roam the night desert in search of a portal to the world of The Living.

I was wandering through an antique shop near Bodie a year ago, edging my way around and over, stacks of vintage magazines and equipment used for panning gold, Victorian style bassinettes, and over-sized pictures framed in ornate gold frames, heavy and overdone. A musky smell of objects long stored in the attics of the elderly hung in the air. Dust particles sparkled as they floated down shafts of bright sunlight coming through the stained glass windows of the shop. I found myself staring at a faded painting in a roughhewn frame – the type of painting that might fill the wall of a dining room of a turn-of-the century home. The subject of the painting was as interesting as it was disturbing. Cherubs dancing, as they curled lengths of ribbon around the ankles of devils – classic red devils with horns and hooved feet, waxed mustaches and tails. The scene took on an air of Spanish surrealism. And the story I was to hear was as bizarre as the painting that caught my attention.

The shopkeeper stood at my elbow, eager – it turned out – to share the tarnished history of the painting.

“Odd subject matter, isn’t it?” I solicited her opinion, curious about what she would offer.

“Yes, as odd as the story of how it came to be here.”

Are all writers naturally curious? I bit. “Really? Do tell!”

And she began. “Well, this is what I was told by Malika Browning’s granddaughter last year when she brought it in. Evidently it had been stored in the crawl space of her grandmother’s home for many years.”

Bodie had been a gold mining town during the California Gold Rush. The saloons were full, the dancing girls were generous with their charms, and the whiskey bit the lips of anyone who sampled. The cacophony of rinky dink player-pianos drifted out over the wooden buildings on Saturday nights and toward the home of Douglas and ­Ruth Browning. Mr. Browning was in the newspaper business. He and his wife settled in Bodie in 1859. It was back in 1919 when he lay dying that this incident occurred.

Douglas and Ruth’s son, Michael, was married to a Hungarian girl, Malika. Malika was superstitious and frequently sought out the advice of a Hungarian Shaman who lived on the other side of the rail tracks. She visited him against her husband’s wishes. That her father-in-law lay dying, rasping out his last breath, propped up on pillows on the day bed in the parlor was extremely upsetting to her. As her husband stroked his father’s silver hair and her mother-in-law cooed at the dying man, Malika decided that something must be done. So, she tiptoed around the house gathering candles and divining a plan.

That late afternoon as the sun fell toward the horizon, and the desert cooled, Malika’s brothers-in-law arrived – Andrew from Prescott, and Mathew from Phoenix. Andrew was an accountant – Mathew a Sheriff. Ruth and her sons took turns comforting each other and soothing Mr. Browning. He didn’t look good; his white hair matted, his skin molted. Mr. Browning’s eyes darted from one family member to the next, his eyes wide with the terror of knowing he was about to enter another realm. At each breath, the four family members braced themselves, waiting. But, Mr. Browning continued to breath

By early evening Malika began setting the dining room table. Surely they would all sit down and eat a proper meal, even if Douglas could not join them. But, what would compel her mother-in-law, husband, and the two brothers to leave the patriarch and have a meal together? Malika possibly recalled her own grandfather’s death and the rituals the shaman performed during the old man’s last days. And then, she knew what she must do.

She went into the big 1890s era kitchen and got out pots and pans. She stacked the china, and set the table with Mrs. Browning’s fine china. Malika also set out three white tapers, arranging the candles in a triangular pattern in the middle of the table. As she worked she cast worried looks over her shoulder, knew that death was creeping closer. Over the next hour, Malika hurried from kitchen to dining room, back and forth, busying herself setting out a very special meal.

It was a meal intended to fortify her in-laws for the days ahead. And, to whet Mr. Browning’s appetite, she encouraged the aroma of simmering bay leaves, onions, and veal. Malika chopped the veal and built a thick lamb stew one layer of fragrant ingredient at a time. Chop! Chop! Chop! Everyone in the house was taking notice, everyone.

Nightfall approached slowly and with it the unsettling rasp of Mr. Browning’s breathing. He remained alive – on this side of the living.

“Please, won’t you come to dinner?” Malika asked standing in the archway leading to the parlor. “We can gather as is the custom in my family,” she pleaded.

Ruth Browning patted her husband’s hand and placed it gently on his chest. The matriarch then led the way to the dining room. Her sons undoubtedly took turns to looking back, and cast furtive glances around the table. She sunk into her chair, facing Mr. Browning’s cot. She looked into the faces of each of her sons, before smiling at Malika. They began to pass around a basket of warm, yeast-fragrant bread.

Malika ladled the lamb stew, stirring up the onions and bay leaves, causing the paprika to swirl through the thick mixture. She handed the first serving to her mother-in-law.

“Thank you, dear. You’ve done a nice job. Even the candles are a nice touch.”

“Andrew, would you please light the candles?” And the youngest member of the family leaned over and held a match to each wick. The candles flared, and each flame burned strong and bright. Ruth watched in fascination as Malika bowed her head and began an incantation.

“What was that, Malika?” she asked.

“A prayer, taught to me by the Taltos. I prayed that the portal of the Upper World would open and Douglas’s journey would be made easier.”

“Oh, Malika…how sweet.”

Just then a bolt of lightning lit the desert floor creating an instant of daylight. Ruth yelped, and Mathew half-rose, reaching for his holster.

“It’s alright, Ma,” he said.

But it wasn’t. The fuses blew as a roll of thunder crept along the desert floor and approached the house. Then, the mourners were cast into sudden darkness – except for the illumination from three candles.

Ruth looked around the table at her family. How macabre. Her children’s profiles appeared grotesque to her. Each face was half lit by candle light and half cast in darkness – a contrast of good and evil – of heaven and hell – and so on.

Ruth Browning stood up, scraping her chair across the plank flooring, the leg of the chair caught in a groove. Then the chair clattered to the floor and the bereaved woman, soon to be widow, stumbled backward.

“Ma!”

But for the quick action of Mathew, she knew she would have taken a bad fall. Her oldest son had saved her.

“Thank you, Mathew. Michael, the fuse box. . .”

“Andrew, check on your father. It’s too dark. . .” Ruth peered at her husband who lay in the darkness of the parlor. Just beyond the glow of the three candles.

As the Sheriff moved to upright his mother’s dining room chair, Ruth let out a piercing scream.

She tasted blood as she bit down on her fist. Did they see it? She pointed and Mathew gaped. She realized that Andrew was staring at her instead of in the direction of her husband. She raised her arm, pointing to the threshold of the parlor – turned infirmary. There, pacing back and forth, between her and her husband, was a foul-smelling animal.

“Jesus Christ! What is that?” screamed Michael as he scrambled to scoot his chair backwards.

It hissed at Michael, and then turned its red eyes on Ruth.

“What the F**k!”

“Andrew!” Mathew admonished, as he rose very slowly, gauging the . . . the. . .

“Is it a black raccoon? The stench is killing me.”

It hissed again, and opened its mouth exposing razor sharp teeth. Glistening spittle hung from its jaw.

“It’s a wolf. . .or rather a coyote!” Whatever it was it paced a line between them and the nearly departed. It lowered its head sniffing the ground and seemed to be daring someone to challenge it.

Ruth wailed, “It’s drawing a line between me and my own husband.” Her breath came now in short, sudden gasps. But if that wild animal turned on Douglas. . .Is it a black raccoon?

“Mathew, dear God! How did it get in here?” It was a raccoon, wasn’t it? The creature turned a belligerent stare at Mathew. Then, it moved its head in a circular motion, gnashing sharp fangs before it hissed at the Sheriff staining the polished floor with snot. Its red eyes flashed in the candle light.

“No, it’s not a raccoon! It’s a God-damned reptile! Look at its tail!” Andrew screamed shrilly as he picked up his dinner knife – and held it as though ready to make a stab at the wolf-like beast.

“For F**k’s sake, Andrew. Pardon me, again, Ma. It’s got a wiry black coat!”

Eyeing the diners, whose meal it was interrupting, the beast turned in a circle. If it were a Collie, or a Labrador, one might imagine it was about to bed down. But it wasn’t – and – it didn’t.

“Mathew, please! Do something! It’s right next to your father!” Ruth pleaded with her son who responded by unclipping the strap of his holster.

“I’ll take care of it, Mother. You and Malika get into the kitchen! Just back away slowly!”

At that instant, the beast began to bay loudly. Of course it would disturb Douglas. It was obvious its intention was to upset everyone – including Mathew.

Ruth noticed Michael and Andrew trade looks.

“Mathew, I’m saying it’s not a reptile, in spite of its tail. Look down! It’s got hooves, for Christ’s sake,” observed Michael.

“Michael, be calm. Everybody be calm while I get it out of here or blow it away!”

As the beast continued patrolling, its hooves clattered on the bare wood floor. Once again it hissed at the family, this time causing venom to spray toward Michael, who held his hands up to protect his face. It seemed to be claiming the territory between Ruth and her husband. The fiend was winning. One of the candles sparked, flared, and went out, catching everyone’s attention. Darkness loomed closer.

Mr. Browning continued to take tiny breaths, the shallowest breathing possible for a living soul. Ruth wiped her nose on an apron in the kitchen and clutched at Malika, “What is it? Get it out of my house before it hurts Douglas,” she begged Mathew.

Malika cried out, “Ördög!” “Édes Istenem” Dear God, indeed! The evil Ördög is causing a visitation on my husband’s father who was suffering so much – but why?

Everyone turned. They stared at Malika.

The creature bayed, answering Malika’s prayer.

“Malika! What in hell are you God-damned chanting?” Michael demanded.

“Please, let’s not be cross with each other, children,” Ruth pleaded afraid of anything that would distract them from the stench-laden creature that was taunting them.

“It’s evil, from the Under World,” Malika was sobbing, her face contorted.

“It’s a god-damned racoon and I’m going to shoot it!” answered the Sheriff.

“Mathew! Are you nuts? You’re going to shoot that thing in mom’s house with dad laying there on his death bed?” Mr. Browning stirred.

The beast snarled, and the Sheriff backed away. As it became more excited, the devil-being emitted the smell of rotting meat. Andrew gagged and backed into the kitchen away from the sickening odor.. Then, a second candle flickered, no flare this time, it simply fizzled out. One candle remained as the family’s sole beacon. Mr. Browning now lay in complete darkness. The only indication of his waning life was the rasp of shallow breathing, somewhere beyond the meager light.

“Mother, where are the fuses? Michael asked. “This candle won’t last long and then we’ll be in the dark with this thing!”

Ruth began sobbing as the reality sunk in. Malika stood to the side biting her nails.

“I don’t know, for God’s sake. Your father would. . .know. . .” her voice trailing.

“Michael! Move to the kitchen with the rest! I’ll hold off this thing while you fix the fuse box,” instructed the Sheriff. Michael moved away from the dining room table and skittered into the kitchen.

Ruth shifted from watching Michael rummage frantically through drawers and cabinets to hoping that Mathew would not be forced fire the gun so close to her husband.

“I trust your judgment, Mathew,” she whispered as she coaxed Andrew away from the sink where he had just finished vomiting. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

“The fuses have to be somewhere close. . .logical,” Michael offered weakly looking over his shoulder toward the thing. It wasn’t coming closer, was it?

The Sheriff put his hand on his gun, but kept the weapon holstered.

“Michael, I’m sorry. I was praying, but I don’t know. . .” Malika offered.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The shaman, the prayers we would recite…in. . .my father’s country.”

The last candle sputtered, as if joining in the conversation. And, then, it slowly dimmed, and went out. The family was left in total darkness with the Sheriff stumbling around the dining room table in the direction of the pacing beast.

“Son of a bitch!” he tripped on an over turned chair. The rest of the family cowered in the kitchen. No one rushed to his rescue. He, after all, was the one in possession of the gun.

In the absolute pitch black, the only illumination came from the angry, possessive red eyes of the monster. No one dared let it out of their sight. Then, in the pitch black, the eyes began to rise. The beast was levitating.

“Douglas!” Mrs. Browning screamed for her husband’s safety. Malika wailed.

“Jesus Christ!” It was too dark to determine who had uttered the epitaph.

“Please, pray everyone. Please,” Malika begged her relatives.

The creature’s eyes glowed like embers, hot, angry, coal-burning eyes, wanting to claim its prize. The Sheriff fumbled for the serrated bread knife and swiped the air toward the foul monstrous being. Nothing. He hadn’t stuck a blow at all. It was too dark – his depth perception was non-existent in the blackness. Something slapped against his face – in the dark. Bristles. His face stung, blood was drawn. The Sheriff turned to his right. Two angry red eyes floated directly in front of his face, he stumbled backward away from the rotting stink of death. He swiped the air again. The creature moved back, drawing the Sheriff further into the living room.

Moving around his father’s sick bed, the loyal son stabbed the air, again hitting nothing. The ferocious red-eyed beast swirled in front of him, emitting a piercing, mocking squeal.

Ruth screamed, and Malika cried even harder, covering her ears. The Sheriff imagined Andrew untangling from his mother’s grasp and sinking into a chair at the kitchen dinette.

“Andrew, where are you?” he hissed, impatiently.

“Over here! Just kill it, or something!”

There was frantic shuffling in the kitchen, drawers opening and shutting. The Sheriff couldn’t really concentrate on that now. He couldn’t take his eyes off of this, this – no longer did anyone believe that it was a raccoon. Something stepped on his foot, something possessing the weight of a horse, crushing it painfully. But it seemed that the beast was across the room. What pit full of imps had invaded the sanctity of his parents’ home?

Not sure whether he was backing this evil into the corner or being led to its lair, the Sheriff hoped for the former. And hope caught up with him just as the fuse box door slammed shut, and that tinny metallic sound reverberated through the house. Suddenly the lights came back on.

The Sheriff was blinded by the sudden glare and stumbled backward. There were no glowering red eyes floating before him. He spun around full circle just to make sure. His eyes passed over his father who lay perfectly still; his mouth gaping open, his wide eyes blind to the deep crevasse of death he had fallen into.

“Is it gone, Mathew?” Ruth whimpered.

“I don’t know.”

Her nerves shredded, she leaned on Michael and made her way back toward the brightly lit parlor to stand beside Mathew. There was a rustling sound from under the coffee table. She grabbed Mathew’s arm, and flinched.

The mother and her two older sons stared in disbelief as the bristled beast skittered across the parlor, suddenly on the move. It began dodging furniture and scattering the throw rugs. They trembled in horror as the shadowy creature scampered over the back of the sofa, clawing its way forward. It vanished into the landscape of the painting that I was now standing in front of.

Unless the shopkeeper has sold the painting that was removed from the home of Ruth and Douglas Browning I’m sure that it remains right where I saw it; in the antique store to the east of Bodie, California – a virtual ghost town. # # #

Want more Ghost Stories by Emily Hill? They are available on Amazon

Why Do Creepy Dolls Scare Us So Much? A Reunion (with Death) Maybe??

 

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As All Hallow’s Eve creeps closer, and the winds begin to howl, whistle, and moan we look at the traditions of Halloween with a shudder – but still fascinated, all the same.

 

My short, sinister story, “Dolls Watching” tells a tale of reunion – between college girlfriends, the present  and the past — and destiny.

Antique dolls arranged on the guest bed of protagonist, Cassandra, bear witness to the horrors of daily life in a desert ranch house that had been deserted after the tragedy of death.

Clocks tick, tock – tick tock – away the time waiting for the one person who has lived close enough to the other side of the grave to still have the ability to see . . . into the past.

And isn’t that what we expect of those creepy dolls that claw at our attention this time of year? Don’t they speak to us from their cracked porcelain faces and stained couture that spell out the ravages of time?

Wiki explains that, “Dolls have traditionally been used in magic and religious rituals throughout the world, and traditional dolls made of materials like clay and wood are found in the Americas, Asia, Africa and Europe.” Indeed! Some sources even go on to explain that dolls were originally used as Spirit Containers for the deceased. You’re an Egyptian maiden who wants her mother around for all eternity? Have your artisans fashion a clay likeness, conjure her spirit – and Voila! (well, maybe “Voila!” is not the appropriate Egyptian exclamation – but you get my drift.)

Have YOU been stricken, smitten, or out-smarted by a creepy doll? Oh, do tell!! We’ve circled our chairs and are waiting for you to tell us ALL about it.

My Blog: RIP #RobinWilliams

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And my ghost stories at  . . .  The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter 

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In 2007, I was working as a movie set Extra for the talent agency “Foreground/Background”. As I watched the job postings that summer one came in for a movie being shot in Seattle starring Robin Williams.

Of course I wanted to be in that movie and excitedly let the agency know that I was available that afternoon to work as an Extra for “World’s Greatest Dad,” directed by Bobcat Goldthwait.

I was not only hired for the gig – as an extra in a restaurant scene — but had the wild good fortune of being placed at the table right next to Williams as he romanced his co-star, Alexie Gilmore.

I remember reporting to the cast pen with my head shot and particulars, including a wardrobe change. The casting director’s assistant decided I should wear a tan suit and my make up was toned down for the shoot. After trading movie set war stories with the other foreground actors on a particularly hot summer evening, 30 of us were called to march single file from about a block away into the restaurant. I was giddy!

Most of the movie was shot in Seattle’s Wallingford neighborhood and this particular scene took place at the Rusty Pelican on 45th Street  (same owners as the Edmonds restaurant). At 3 p.m, after the set crew totally transformed the restaurant from a family-friendly dining destination into a chic, hip date-night place, the set was ready! Somehow, (no wise cracks, please!) I landed first in line as we were counted off for restaurant seating and directed to a particular table in the restaurant. My new BFF – Stephanie – pinched me and nodded her head toward the next table. We had been instructed to not stare, ask for autographs, or otherwise engage Williams — a subtle nod was all it took . . .

Robin Williams’ DOUBLE was seated NEXT to us! Which meant that Robin Williams would be sitting next to us! OMG!

My full role was to walk across the restaurant with my dining partners to our table as two little siblings (seated with their parents at another table) fought and made a scene to which the director would “let” Williams ad lib about what little monsters they were. “Let” is the operative word here because Williams stole the whole evening — much to Goldthwait’s seeming delight.

In this movie trailer I am being seated in the restaurant at 1:41 (for three seconds!).

For the first 45 minutes after being seated, I was simply smitten over Robin Williams. He was pleasant and friendly to everyone seated at adjoining tables and easily put everyone at ease. As we relaxed, I looked forward to a full evening with one of Hollywood’s greatest stars.

 

Death waits for no man. My photo from a cathedral in Barcelona.

On the nine-hour shoot there were several pages of dialogue between Williams and Gilmore that had to do with Williams making cracks about what was going on in the restaurant; also, they shot the “panty picture” scene, and Williams’ flirted with Gilmore, making lewd night club act comments (in his typical shtick format). When the movie came out I was shocked over how much of what was actually shot was left on the “cutting room floor.”

“Quiet on the set!” was a joke as Williams’ called out one-liners one after another the entire evening during the otherwise silent sound-checks. After three hours I was growing apprehensive by the maniac-tension that was growing on the set, and amazed by the tornado of energy that Robin Williams was able to conjure.

Ultimately Williams said he needed a “break” and decided to greet the huge crowd gathering outside the restaurant. That resulted in a whole nightclub act, which the cast and director Goldthwait sat through. Williams delighted the folks outside by becoming a ventriloquist talking to a little purse-sized dog that someone in the neighborhood had been walking when they discovered that a movie was being shot in their neighborhood.

When Williams tried to end his street performance and slip back into the restaurant, the crowd rushed the Rusty Pelican and police had to be called because the crowd turned into a mob. Those outside began banging on the windows to get Robin to come back out to the street and there was fear that the plate glass would shatter.

Williams double lamented out loud, “Oh no! Why does he always have to do this?” After the police came, things settled back down and the filming continued. It was 9 p.m. and I was growing concerned about how excitable Williams was becoming – he seemed unstoppable as his patter continued at almost everyone’s urging.

Several times at that point his assistant came over to brush his hair, sit on the chair adjoining his, and talk to him. Finally about 11:30 p.m. she announced that the limousine was at the back door of the restaurant to take Williams back to the Four Seasons where he was staying.

The most interesting part of the whole evening was Robin Williams’ ability to “grow” his energy as the crowd, crew and cast egged on his antics.

I hoped that he was enjoying his own celebrity, but felt he was being used for the amusement of others.

I never stepped onto another movie set as I found the atmosphere of that evening disturbing. On the other hand, Goldthwait didn’t seem to mind the manic intrusions to his directing — at all; he rather seemed to enjoy letting Robin be Robin.

I hope that Robin Williams was OK with that.

My Blog: Why *DO* I write about the Supernatural?

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And my ghost stories at  . . .  The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter 

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I am a member of Werner’s “Supernatural Fiction Readers” group and group members were recently invited to introduce themselves. The following is what I wrote.  If YOU are a Goodreads member, please come find me, and let’s be friends and trade book suggestions!

My post on “Supernatural Fiction Readers”:
“Thank you for the invitation to introduce ourselves. I am an author who writes under the moniker “The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter” because, well. . . err. . . my mother WAS a ghost chaser! And I, of course, I am her daughter.

The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter — available everywhere books are sold!!

My mother should have been born during the Spiritualist Movement of the 1880s because there was little she would NOT do to attempt to commune with the spirits.

It seems this was all brought on by a brush with Death during a bout with malaria. She saw “the light” and heard the voices of her ancestors calling to her. But in the farmhouse parlor where she lay with chilled packs on her head (her grandmother’s attempts to break her fever) she also heard the voices of her grandparents as they fretted over losing her. She remained on THIS side of the grave for sixty-two years beyond that moment — always fascinated about what lay beyond the grave.

My own polio crisis (with last rites administered at Mercy Hospital in Springfield, Ohio) provided me a similar experience; and not surprisingly — a similar outcome. Over the years my mother and I were simpatico in our collection of Katrina dolls, Ouija board sessions, and Tarot card readings.

I came to writing by way of genealogy.  In 2009 I wrote a novel about the day-to-day life of my father’s ancestors as I heard the voices of my ancestral aunts telling me the story during midnight writing furies. I felt that I could actually HEAR their voices, and typed out the dialogue as they spoke. The result, published by A.V. Harrison Publishing,  is “Jenkins: A Family Saga” about the life of an 1830s Baltimore household during the long trudge toward Civil War.

After “Jenkins” was published I felt it only fair to write SOMETHING about my mother’s family, thus beginning my odyssey as “The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter“.

Several years later I entered “NaNoWriMo” a global author’s challenge to write one novel — in one month. A year of polishing, editor’s help, and book design efforts resulted in “Voodoo Vision” which was re-named to “Ghosts of White Raven Estate“.

Reading is the primary joyful pastime of my life — I would love receiving the comments of my blog visitors on why THEY came to a love of reading and/or the supernatural. Please let me know!

My #Blog “Spirit Writing” and Psychography

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Instructions:

Place yourself in a near-meditative state so that you can commune with the Spirits in the evening before bedtime;

Speak with them about how you are laying out a pen and paper for their use;

Summon them into your space in a warm and reassuring manner;

Leave a light on when you retire for the evening – one that will provide a soft welcoming glow

In the morning, if you are most fortunate, you will have waiting for you a written message from The Other Side.

– – – –

Instructions:

Create a soothing atmosphere in your home, or in your room for this exercise.  I suggest soft lights, ethereal music, and symbolic objects.

(In my bedroom, beside my bed, I have Day of The Dead wall hangings.  My bedroom is always prepared in case “Someone” wants to step over.)

In my bedroom I have Day of The Dead icons to welcome The Spirits.

While sitting comfortably at a writing table with a pen and sheet of paper in front of you summon to your conscious mind The Spirit World while in a near-meditative state.

Do not pick up the pen until you are summoned by sheer will to do so. The ‘overwhelm’ of this supernatural occurrence may take several sessions – relax and wait for your Visitor to arrive.

Although it may take several attempts on your part until your Spirit finally finds the courage to step into your realm The Spirits will begin the long journey back in order to tell their stories – by your hand.

They will compel your hand forward, writing their life story, their fears, and maybe even their frustrations of not being able to move through their “chained to Earth” state to the Greater Beyond.

– – – –

The first published account of Spirit Writing, or psychography is a reference to this supernatural phenom by Hyppolyte Taine in 1878.  During the height of the Age of Spiritualism the French skeptic makes reference in the 3^rd edition of his “De I’intelligence”.  Not much to go on until the dramatic accounts of Fernando Pessoa who murmurs to his companions that “he felt owned by something else” when his fountain pen would scrawl words across a parchment.  These occurrences of the Portuguese poet took place between 1912 – 1914.

The Spirit Writing of Pessoa. Courtesy of Wiki.

 

In thinking back over my own writing I often feel a sense of having the words placed at my fingertips as I type. Most particularly this phenomenon overtook me when I was writing of the relationship between two sisters – ancestral aunts of mine – in my novel, “The Jenkins of Baltimore”.  What is noteworthy about these two sisters is that, as I typed their story between the hours of midnight and 3 AM, I could quite distinctly hear the dialogue between them in the “authentic period” style of the 1820s.  Most curious is that the two sisters – who each married brothers in the Baltimore Jenkins clan – died in childbirth less than 24 hours of each other. The obituaries in the novel that marks their lives are the authentic obituaries published in 1826:

[Page 65] “ . . . The tears came later.

OBITUARY

Baltimore Gentlewoman Mourned by Family

Anne Marie Wells, consort and muse of William Valentine Jenkins,

Died the 25^th instant February;

Leaving one daughter and ten sons motherless.

Known for her beauty, kindness and gaiety this pious woman has departed, at a most vulnerable moment, immediately following the birth of her eleventh child—a son. Gone from those who will love her eternally; Her disconsolate husband mourns bitterly his fate and seeks solace in his family, the kindness of his community, and the wisdom of the Almighty while attempting to understand the cruelty of this most unjust misfortune.

– Baltimore Gazette and Daily Advertiser, February 28, 1826

~*~

OBITUARY

Complications from Childbirth

On the 27^th Instant of February in her 28^th year, Harriet Wells,

Wife of Mr. Frederick Jenkins

Unexpectedly departed the loving arms of her family, to join her

Sister, Anne Marie, in Heaven.

We forever struggle to understand the mysteries of the Lord,

As Two families face a dark future as a second Wells’ Daughter,

Wife and Mother enter the Kingdom of Heaven in the same week.

These two lovely women leave behind thirteen children, and now

Two devout families must now make the journey through

Life without the calming serenity of a Mothers’ gaze.

~ Baltimore Patriot, March 02, 1826

~*~

The Jenkins of Baltimore. Not an account of supernatural occurrences; but written from the benefit of Spirit Writing.

My words in “The Jenkins of Baltimore” are no more than my ancestors coming back to tell me of their vivid experiences.

And, in some ways, that is the reason that I write of the supernatural – to reach into The Beyond to commune with . . . . The Dead.

 

My Blog: #Star Children ~ Indigo Child

 

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GIFTED SOULS are reborn to Earth every day – as Star Children.

These “gifted souls” – hyper-aware and independent to an adult level – were first noticed in mass in the 1970s and 1980s. It is theorized that their arrival to Earth was spawned by the Harmonic Convergence of 1978. Arriving in three waves the Indigo Children of the 1970s were followed by Crystal Children (first noted in 1990s) and Rainbow Children (who began arriving on Earth in 2000).

A Star Child Arrives on Earth

 

In 1982 leading researcher and parapsychologist, Nancy Ann Tappe, developed a classification for personalities based on auras and devised a label for the first wave of Star Children — “Indigo Children” based on the predominant aura-hue of these little beings who possess incredible psychic abilities and past-life knowledge.

According to Doreen Virtue, PhD these Indigo Children are humans with, “a warrior personality. Someone who is “here” [on Earth] to lead.” Neale Donald Walsch describes Indigos as, “Children with an extraordinary sense of self; and a dramatically expanded awareness of things around them.”

For the past forty-some years legions of extra-ordinary children have made their mark on society, globally, according to Rev. Sally Kirkland who says, “What’s happening now, is that there are masses of children being born who are, in fact, already spiritually enlightened.”

What are the traits of an Indigo Child?

Simply . . . children who are gifted, hyper-intuitive and speak frequently – and in verifiable detail – about incidents that took place before their birth to the family units to which they were born. Like the child who informed her mother –at three years old – that she was in fact her own predeceased grandmother, and went on to describe intricately the moment-by-moment events of her (own) death (i.e., being chilled [placed on ice to preserve the body for her own wake], cremated) and then waiting for her reincarnated mother to be born so that she could return to the family. All of this from a three year old!

A frequent topic associated with Indigo Children is reincarnation, documented here about a child in the UK in the YouTube video titled, “The Boy Who Lived Before”.

“My daughter tells me that she waited a long time for me to have her, so that she could come to Earth,”  says a mother who describes her Indigo daughter as “an old soul.”

One mother describes the phenomenon this way: My daughter says that “before she was born, she used to watch me from the heavens.” And as soon as she could talk she began describing incidents that took place in our family before her birth.”

Quite often references to incidents in past lives are detailed and vivid (and brought up spontaneously, not in context to the setting the child is in with the parent). A child may casually and quite suddenly, while baking cookies, describe the attributes of the daily life of Michelangelo for instance.

There have been incidents of children begging their parents to drive past the child’s “old house” – the one from a past life (which they describe in minute detail). Some Indigo Children draw maps to get back to their “old house” in order to ultimately show their parents to a house that exactly matches (architecturally) a house in a terrain that has been pre-described. These are Indigo Children.

Often Star Children are lumped in with, and labeled as: disruptive, dyslexic, ADHD and autistic. In fact the converse is more accurate. These behaviors can be a part of a Star Child’s composite; but not every disruptive (etc.) child is a Star Child.

Not since the age of the Gnostics have “we” seen such a abundance of Star Children arriving back to Earth. Why are they here now, in this day and age? According to songwriter, rapper, Elijah+ “We are here to bring the new language [of light and sound].”

Alexa Falk, singer, advises Indigo Children, “Live your gift.”

Self-aware Indigo Natalee Falk explains Indigos as “someone who comes into the world with a “knowing” a gift”.   Mine’s music.”

What to watch for if you suspect you may have an Indigo Child to guide to adulthood? Indigo Children are gifted. They are often musically inclined and disciplined on an adult professional level. More difficult traits include that they often hear voices “around them” – from outside their head. They frequently have nervous tics, are fidgety.

Grandparents:

But what caught my attention when researching this topic is that Indigo Children frequently describe communication with grandparents whom they seemingly have not had the benefit of meeting – and/or other proxy spirits who bring messages of reassurance from their grandparents.

Once more the link between the just-arrived soul –and the just-departed soul secures itself – like the clasp of a well-worn bracelet.

~ ~ ~ ~

Emily Hill is the author of many ghost stories. Her latest novel is based in New Orleans, during the “Voodoo Years”

#Ghosts of White Raven Estate.

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This Is Not a #Ghost Story ~ Or Is it?

I have invited Nicki Chen, a good friend, and talented writer, to guest blog today.  Nicki blogs at “Nicki Chen Behind The Story” here on WordPress.

Nicki’s debut novel, Tiger Tail Soup, pays tribute to her husband’s Chinese heritage.  The novel’s beautiful design is inspired by Nicki who is an artist, as well as an author. Tiger Tail Soup is available now on Amazon in paperback.

Unsettled Spirits? The ghosts of war? Here’s Nicki’s story, “This is Not a Ghost Story”

~ ~ ~ ~

“When war invades a country and many people die before their time, ghost stories multiply. They become part of the landscape. So it was inevitable that in my novel, Tiger Tail Soup, I would mention ghosts. They’re not a big part of the story, but I couldn’t avoid them. The unsettled spirits of those who died too soon were just one more thing my characters had to contend with.

I personally have never seen a ghost or received messages from beyond the grave. But, yes, I have experienced something not easily explained by the ordinary laws of science.

We were living in the Philippines when it started. It was 1976, before email and Facebook and cheap long distance calls. So I kept in touch with my parents who were in the United States by mail, one letter every week.

One evening in April (It would have been daytime on the West Coast of the United States.) I was walking though the family room, feeling fine. The kids were in bed. My husband was in Mindanao on a business trip. Suddenly I wasn’t feeling fine. I was sure I was about to die and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t breathe properly. My chest hurt. I couldn’t think straight.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was my husband, calling from Mindanao. I couldn’t concentrate as he talked about his work and his travel plans.

“Can’t you come home?” I asked, interrupting. I knew he couldn’t. I’d never asked anything like that before.

For the next three months the anxiety attacks continued. They were always with me, rising and falling, striking hard without reason. I got a prescription, which helped … a little.

Then it was time for our home leave. My husband, our three daughters and I flew to Seattle. When our plane arrived, we were expecting my parents to meet us at the airport. Instead, my aunt and uncle were there, waiting for us beyond immigration and customs. “Your mom and dad couldn’t come,” Uncle Joe said, grabbing a suitcase. He didn’t tell us the rest of the story until we were all in the car.

My aunt finally broke the news. My dad had lung cancer. He’d been diagnosed three months earlier, at about the same time I’d started having anxiety attacks. Mom hadn’t said a word in her letters. She didn’t want to worry us.

I stayed on in Seattle for a while after my husband and children left. I cooked and took walks and accompanied my parents to doctors’ appointments. All the while I continued to be plagued by anxiety attacks, now with good reason.

After a few months back in the Philippines, I received a call from Uncle Joe. “The doctor says you should come back,” he said. I knew what that meant.

On the plane, I felt the same ever-present anxiety I’d been experiencing since that evening in April and the constant pressure to keep it under control and avoid a full-blown anxiety attack.

But then, a couple hours before we landed in Seattle, it left me. Completely disappeared.

When I saw Uncle Joe at the airport, I knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, giving me a hug. “Your dad died just a couple of hours ago.”

Do you have any ghost stories or tales of the unexplained? If so, leave your message for Nicki and me here and follow this blog.

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And Emily Hill’s ghost stories at  . . .  The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter

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