Tag Archives: ghost stories

Oh! No! A Murder of Crows!!

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG!

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

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

“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!

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!

1 Comment

Filed under Baltimore, Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, ghost stories, Ghost World Tutorials, ghosts, Ghosts' Experienced, Halloween, New Orleans, paranormal, supernatural, Unexplained Phenomenon

My #Blog ~ Conjuring Demons and Beasts for #Halloween

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG!

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

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

 

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’.

The Ghost Chaser's Daughter -- available everywhere books are sold!!

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

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!!

 

2 Comments

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, ghost stories, Ghost World Tutorials, ghosts, Ghosts' Experienced, Halloween, paranormal, supernatural, the unexplained, Unexplained Phenomenon

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

On Amazon in the "Ghost Chaser's Daughter" collection.

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

 

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG!

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

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

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

Leave a comment

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, ghost stories, ghosts, Ghosts' Experienced, Halloween, paranormal, supernatural, the unexplained, Unexplained Phenomenon

My Blog: #Star Children ~ Indigo Child

 

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG !

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

 

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

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.
–> iBooks: http://dld.bz/cSu8G
USA/Kindle: http://dld.bz/djc7P
UK/Kindle: http://dld.bz/djc7Q
USA/Paperback: http://dld.bz/djc7K

Leave a comment

Filed under paranormal, Psychic, Reincarnation, supernatural, the unexplained

Numerical #Intuition: Our Brain “Knows” More Than We Think

11:11 – Hey! There it is again! Whether it’s coming up on noon; or I wake up “in the middle of the night” the digital clock is taunting eerily, 11:11. For a friend of mine, in the waning months of 2001, it was 9:11 – a significant number of times she would glance at the clock, whiling away the hours that seemed to stand still after September 11th and her digital clock would read 9:11. She was stuck in the realm of reliving the terrorist attack on the United States by receiving signals-from-the-Universe that reinforced her thought/worry pattern.

I am a devotee of Kelly Howell who promotes the concept, “The Universal Mind”. That is, that the mind has the natural intuitive power to draw on universal forces [e.g. influences, trends, intuition] to assist us in the pursuit of our goals if we will only recognize and act on the intuitive messages that we receive.

The Universal Mind concept came to me originally while I was studying Kubler-Ross research in the 1970s. Dr. Kubler-Ross’ research centers on the spiritual and biological transitions of death. Her research was dependent (obviously) on individuals who died – clinically – and then came back to tell about their “returning to life” experience. She noted in her book, On Death and Dying, that upon death, “return-to-life” individuals experienced a floating above themselves’ phenomenon that allowed them to visually view and process ‘the setting and circumstance’ of their own death – floating above the scene as a clinical observer. (See the article referenced, “Out of Body” at the end of this blog entry.)

As these individuals progressed toward the finality of death they observed things about them from a telescoping-type process. First they noticed the immediate scene; then the roof of the house/hospital/street at which their death had taken place; some progressed all the way to a celestial night sky from which they observed Earth before being called back to resume their Earthly lives.

Kubler-Ross, and scientists who ask questions related to, “What is death?” began to interview these “return-to-life” individuals and learned that – when quizzed about their surroundings – a death-victim’s (mind’s eye) was able to pinpoint certain incident landmarks such as the exact physical characteristics of late-to-the-scene highway clean up crews, if the person had died in a traffic accident.

Kelly Howell, my new meditation guru, would call this ability/phenom, drawing on “universal knowledge”. So back to the thesis of this week’s blog: Can our brain draw on “universal knowledge”, and how would that work?

To test this question (after it dawned on me that I was repeatedly looking at the clock at the moment of 11:11) I decided to silently, but wildly, congratulate myself if I looked at the clock and the numbers were arranged in sequential order. So – 4:56 worked; as did 1:23; and 12:34 – I even gave myself a spirited high-five if the numbers could be re-arranged into a sequential pattern: like, 3:42; but I was really looking for the “universe” to tell me to look at the clock in an ordered sequence.

What are the results after two months? A full eighty percent of the time when I impulsively look at the clock to check the time now — the numbers read sequentially. Does my brain “know” it’s time to look at the clock, and therefore gives me a signal? I believe so.

To push the envelope into full intuition I began paying close attention to all numbers that came at me during each day’s activities. Whether they came at me as grocery store prices, or telepathic signals. I began to only notice license plates numbered 987, and such. One day I looked at license plates with only THAT number sequence (frankly, that disturbed me.)

Then, an incident happened that prompted me to write this blog: Last week as I was climbing the stairs to bed the number “235” popped into my head – VERY, VERY prominently. At first I thought “2+3=5”. Then, I called out to my husband who was brushing his teeth, “Remember when there were 235 houses for sale all over California in the Sixties?” (because THAT was the only other connection to “235” that I could reference; and the signal “235” had grown so strong.

My husband’s mother, who had been ailing, died at 2:35 a.m. that next morning at the age of 88. She had a city-farm, with chickens, in “Pinko-Commie” Berkeley, California. In fact, her nickname was, “Pinkie”. She died on Earth Day. The importance of the ‘signal’ 2-3-5 came to me the next morning; but I had been unable to attach the appropriate significance when The Universe sent me the warning-message of her impending death.

~ ~ ~

Sources:

“Out of Body” University of Oxford Students: http://www.spiritscienceandmetaphysics.com/out-of-body-experiences-validated-by-scientific-study/

Scroll to: “Dictionary of Repeating Number Sequences” http://www.sacredscribes.net/angelnumbersequences.htm

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Emily Hill’s ghost stories and novels are available at the following websites:

Ghosts of White Raven Estate.

iBooks: http://dld.bz/cSu8G
USA/Kindle: http://dld.bz/djc7P
UK/Kindle: http://dld.bz/djc7Q
USA/Paperback: http://dld.bz/djc7K

1 Comment

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, Dreams, ghost stories, ghosts, paranormal, Psychic, Unexplained Phenomenon

Just In Time

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG!

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

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

Brad Evanston craned his neck forward to peer over the hood of his black Packard as he drove the back road leading to campus. He was still chafing from his wife’s taunt that morning, “you’ve become an absent-minded professor,” over his misplaced umbrella and scuffle around the house for his briefcase. Maybe he did lose things, like his wallet last week, but her taunting was unfair and mean. He had skittered out of the house early so that he could arrive in plenty of time to prepare notes for his  8 a.m. music composition class – and escape her relentless harping.

The drive from home to campus usually took sixteen minutes. The remote stretch of road between his house and the campus gave Professor Evanston the time he needed to mentally plan his lecture, so he was assured that no car was approaching. It was 6:30 a.m. and an autumn chill hung in the air as leaves from the deep woods swirled through the air landing on his windshield. The last vestige of an autumn’s full moon stared down at Professor Evanston as the morning sun backed the full-plated orb into submission. Up ahead a tall dark-suited hulk lumbered along the road in the direction of the college.

“What, the hell?” Professor Evanston muttered aloud studying the figure ahead. He slowed his car, with a trace of worry about timeliness and classroom preparation lurking at the back of his mind.

As if on cue, the figure turned around to glance at the approaching car before continuing on, one foot planted tentatively in front of the other.

Evanston glimpsed into his rearview mirror and noted that there were no cars behind him. He saw only his own tire tracks stretching backward in distance and time and marring the frost-covered two-lane road. He slowed his car down to a crawl and guided his car toward the center of the road, giving the man wide berth.

The professor’s car was a length behind when suddenly the man stumbled in the uneven dirt and collapsed to one knee. Evanston stopped his car along side the pedestrian and set his hand brake, leaving the engine running. Exhaust from the tail pipe swirled and gathered, wafting toward the deep woods on either side of the road and creating a heavy white curtain behind the black sedan. His parking lights, glowing red through the exhaust would warn oncoming cars that he has stopped.

Glancing at his Bulova he noted the time as he pulled on the handle and threw his girth into opening the car door – 6:30 a.m. Drawing himself into a standing position, with foot planted firmly on the pavement he realized that the man, dressed in a black business suit, was doing the same. That is, the man was drawing himself into a standing position – from his stumble just moment before.

“Say! ‘Up kind of early for a stroll on this frosty morning aren’t you, buddy? I almost didn’t see you,” he hollered out, after leaning across to turn the crank on the passenger side window.

That was, of course, a lie – that he had almost not seen him.

The man looked sidelong at the professor as he struggled out of his genuflect. Evanston realized at that moment that he had encountered an older man, broad-shouldered and of generous bulk, though dressed in a nicely pressed black suit. Fascinated, he realized how similar the elderly gentleman’s attired was to his own.

Quickening his pace, he hurried to the old gentleman’s side and helped him into a standing position.

“Thanks, young fella,” were the first words spoken. And, finally the two men stood eye-to-eye staring into the other’s face.

Professor Evanston repeated his query, “Out for a stroll? Where’s your overcoat, my man?” He added ‘my man’ thinking it might sound jolly, less impatient. He felt that a certain decorum was necessary of one holding the status of professor.

His elderly encounter brushed himself off and peered curiously at Evanston, as though looking through a microscope at a caterpillar – or such. “Work. I’m going to work,” he replied.

Evanston guffawed. The elderly gent obviously hadn’t worked in years. Surely he was in his eighties. “Work, you say? I’m sure that’s not quite correct.”

“Home. I’m heading home,” the gentleman changed his mind.

“Ah, I see,” he responded noting the man’s thick black hair, streaked with threads of silver.

In pantomime the gentleman looked at Evanston’s hair and touched his own, possibly comparing it to the professor’s thick black mop, streaked with threads of silver.

“Well, it’s too chilly a morning to be out for a stroll without an overcoat. Let’s see if we can’t deposit you at your doorstep. Okay with you?”

The old man allowed himself to be led to the Packard where he settled himself in the professor’s passenger side front seat. Looking around the automobile’s interior he stated flatly, “Hmm . . . I used to have a car just like this. Back when I still drove.”

Evanston nodded an acknowledgement and hurried back to the driver’s side looking forward to the warmth of the car’s interior. He glanced at his watch, and tapped the crystal face. Hadn’t he wound it this morning? It had stopped at 6:30 a.m.

“Well, let’s see. Which house is yours?” Evanston asked, releasing the hand brake and glancing into the rear view mirror before his car began its slow roll forward. Still, no cars were approaching, and no cars appeared in the oncoming lane.

“It’s along this road,” His elderly companion motioned forward, waving his hand dismissively.

The car moved on, its high beams a beacon as time crept forward, away from the past. The seconds soon turned into long minutes as the professor’s thoughts returned to his students, and the academic progress of each. Not the curious sort, he was not wont toward idle chatter and the two men fell silent. He figured the old man would speak up to tell him which of the widely spaced homes were his.

“Just up a ways, you say?” he asked.

“No, back a ways.”

“We’re going in the wrong direction? Did I pass it?”

The elderly man pursed his lips and seemed to be thinking – as though trying to remember. Evanston pursed his lips and waited.

“I’m pretty sure it is in the other direction,” the man admitted.

His aggravation growing, Evanston blurted, “I don’t have much time, sir. Let’s take a look at your wallet, shall we? Your address will be in your wallet, won’t it?”

The old man fumbled for the worn leather folded into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it over as the professor once again pulled the car to the side of the road. Evanston again glanced at his watch, winding it this time. “Damn!” he thought, realizing he had lost track of time completely. He students could be gathered in the music hall at that moment, waiting for him.

Accepting the wallet Evanston nodded at the man, whose languid eyes peered at him balefully from behind thick spectacles. Evanston identified with the old man’s failing eyesight, ruing that he also wore what his student’s jokingly referred to as “coke bottle” lenses.

He flipped the sojourner’s wallet open. The social security card was tattered and faded behind the yellowed sheath that contained it. Evanston held the wallet closer to the dome light of the car, not quite making out the name – or so he thought, shaking his head as if to clear it.

He flipped to the next item in the man’s wallet and felt the heat grow under his starched collar as, at the same moment, a wave of nausea hit him. His eyesight sharpened and his heart quickened as he stared at an old faculty card; much less worn than the social security card. In fact, it was clearly legible. The words lined up in bullet format neatly under the collegiate seal,

Broadview College

Music Department

Professor Bradley K. Evanston

Full-time Faculty

Bradley K. Evanston turned to face his future as an absent-minded professor — personified; at the same instant he heard the crisp tick of his watch take up its time-keep once more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Emily Hill’s ghost stories and novels are available at the following websites:

Ghosts of White Raven Estate.
USA/Paperback: http://dld.bz/djc7K
USA/Kindle: http://dld.bz/djc7P
UK/Kindle: http://dld.bz/djc7Q
iBooks: http://dld.bz/cSu8G

 

Leave a comment

Filed under emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost stories, ghosts, paranormal, supernatural, the unexplained, Unexplained Phenomenon

Readers Ask: Emily! What Have You Done For Us Lately?

Okay, Okay! Busted!!

I’ve been neglecting my blog ~ but that doesn’t mean I’ve been neglecting my readers.

So, you may ask, what have you done for us lately?

Well, just in the past two weeks, 2 radio interviews and “Ghosts of White Raven Estate” has been published in paperback format.

On 13 February I was fortunate enough to be asked to join Chuck G. Gotski on his “In The Dark” radio show. I spent the fastest 30-minutes of my life talking about — what else? — the paranormal.

The link to the interview, in case you’d like to listen to it again, is right here! “In The Dark” radio, hosted by Chuck G. Gotski of “In The Dark Investigations

I enjoyed myself so much on Chuck’s show that I accepted an invitation from Belinda Clark-Ache to appear on “Paranormal Kool-Aid” which she produces. “Paranormal Kool-Aid” is hosted by F. Chris Medina and his friends and has the greatest green room in the world. My 19 February interview in which we talk extensively about the Catholic Church and its ~1830-1865 ties to New Orleans Voodoo is here.

In the meantime, some of you requested that “Ghosts of White Raven Estate” be published in a paperback edition. Voila!! You can now find my New Orleans ‘Addictively Wicked’ novel on Amazon; as well as Kindle, iBooks, Nook and Kobo.

Pretty isn’t it?

"Ghosts of White Raven Estate" ~ Available in Paperback & eBook format.

“Ghosts of White Raven Estate” ~ Available in Paperback & eBook format.

Gift Copies of my paperback and eBook novels have gone out, or are being sent to: Dorothy Beecher, Belinda Clark-Ache, John McCormick, Chuck G. Gotski, and Laura Evans. Thanks to each of you for taking an interest in my writing.

You can always find me on my Facebook page – I’m there every day! Thanks for stopping by ~ leave a note HERE! Say, “Hi!” even if it’s to chastise me for not blogging that often.

Leave a comment

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, Ghost Raven ~ A Prequel, ghost stories

#Ghosts of White Raven Estate . . . and . . . NEW #Book Trailers!

Ghosts! ~ Where eBooks are Sold!

Ghosts! ~ Where eBooks are Sold!

USA/Kindle: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

UK/Kindle:  Ghosts of White Raven Estate

iBooks: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG! And my ghost stories at  . . .  The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter 

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

This has been ‘book trailer’ week at A.V. Harrison Publishing and I’m excited to show You the results!

First of all though, let me announce a BIG Switch in the title and design for my NaNoWriMo novel 2012. Same synopsis, New Orleans poltergeists and apparitions tangle with Haitian Voodoo as Forces from ‘The Other Side’ wrestle over the riches at White Raven Estate in New Orleans’ Garden District.

New title! “Ghosts of White Raven Estate”. New Design! [Thank you Kathi Humphries Design and New Media].  Book trailers that I’ve produced and am thrilled to Premier here on my blog:

#1  –>  click! to view ‘A Classic Ghost Story’  book trailer:

#2  –> click! to view ‘NEW Book Trailer: Ghosts of White Raven Estate’

I’m keeping them both — but which one do YOU prefer?  Let me know!

Polldaddy will keep our tally!

Come back and see if YOUR choice is leading!

~*~  ~*~  ~*~  ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

On Amazon ~ Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~

a NaNoWriMo 2012 winner!

1853 New Orleans  ~
The frenzied drumbeats of Voodoo ceremonies vibrate over the city of New Orleans following the 1853 Yellow Fever epidemic.  Ghosts now roam the near-empty halls of White Raven Estate, where nearly all of the members of the wealthy Calais family have died.
Father Vivenzio, an opportunistic New Orleans priest, with VERY close ties to New Orleans’ Voodoo Community scurries back and forth from his parish to White Raven Estate where supernatural forces thwart his attempts at skimming the riches of the estate from the two surviving members of the Calais dynasty–ingenue Victoria Calais and her French-Canadian grandmother.
Frustrated by his inability to gain control over his supernatural nemesis, and hounded by crows, and wild dogs that roam the cemetery across the street from the Calais’ Garden District estate, the priest calls on Widow Paris – New Orleans’ Mambo Queen.
Destiny meets with Death in a carriage-race finish as Faith, Voodoo, and Supernatural Forces collide during Mardi Gras 1853.
☆ Actual Voodoo Spells revealed!
☆ Action and Mystery on every page!
☆ A Beautiful Mambo Queen!
☆ A Death-defying Carriage Race!
☆ Revenge – served New Orleans Hot!

5 Comments

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, ghost stories, ghosts, Ghosts' Experienced

Chapters 2 – 3 ~ #Free Read Excerpt #Ghosts of White Raven Estate

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

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

USA/Kindle: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

UK/Kindle:  Ghosts of White Raven Estate

iBooks: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

FOLLOW THIS BLOG! And my ghost stories at  . . .  The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter 

╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

 

Now that my 2013 novel, “Ghosts of White Raven Estate” is published, I’ve chosen to introduce, in this blog entry, Chapters 2 and 3.  It gives the reader insight into the relationship between Victoria Calais and her sister, Evangeline; and the tension between them that reaches into Victoria’s life from beyond the grave.  

•*¨* ♠ ☆•*¨* ♠ ☆•*¨* ♠ ☆

Chapter 2

Where the Bones Are Buried

Victoria placed the marker ribbon at that day’s journal entry and closed the leather bound book. After rummaging to make room, she slid it into the top drawer of her writing desk and locked the drawer with the tiny key strung on the gold chain that she wore around her neck. Pushing back her chair, Victoria felt her way to the bedroom window and strained to see across Prytania Street toward the scene that just two months earlier she could easily make out—the Calais Cemetery and Mausoleum. The foot traffic along Prytania Street that day would have observed Father Vivenzio on his way from St. Ann’s Church to La Maison du Corbeau Blanc. The priest smirked, The House of the White Raven, or simply Corbeau Blanc—how pretentiously mysterious. He was practicing his lines aloud as he stepped gingerly: “Madame Calais, I want to ensure that your wishes for Victoria are met.” Thinking of a better approach, he started his speech anew. Father Vivenzio continued up the curved carriage drive. Lanterns affixed to the side posts of the wrought-iron gate adorned the entrance to the driveway. He avoided the cold stare of the alabaster lions. At that very instant a crow swooped down from behind the priest. Father Vivenzio heard the flutter of wings as the vagrant soared toward him. He winced, fearing that the bird would graze his ear. The terror of rabies clutched at him as the scavenger cawed loudly, landing on its intended perch—the lantern to the right of the carriage drive. “To Hell! To Hell!” The bird responded to the banishment by turning its head left, then right, and examining the priest with one eye, then the other. Its squawk sounded a call to arms, and four more crows swooped down. In horror, the priest rushed toward the porch. He scampered up the steps and pulled on the heavy cord, sounding the bell – that announced his arrival. The door creaked opened. There stood Jasmine, imposing, judgmental. Humph! Jasmine! The slave’s face was sullen, as she looked the priest up and down. She was the one woman in the Calais household who didn’t greet the priest with adoration. No sweeping gesture that he should enter. In fact, she usually left him to close the door on his own—unless Madame Calais was standing in the foyer upon his arrival. Then it was “Father Vivenzio! I’ll be tellin’ Madame that you’ve arrived!” All nicey-nice on those occasions!

* * * 

“Father Vivenzio! I’m in here! Do come in,” Madame Calais sang. “How is Victoria? Maybe she would care to join us?” the priest inquired of his generous benefactor. “I’m sure she would, Father. But first, I’m hoping I can confide in you. I’m concerned about Victoria and her loss of vision. The epidemic that nearly wiped out our family is undoubtedly the cause of Victoria’s vision loss. I have a lot to consider, and I may need your assistance planning a course for her future.”

* * *

Victoria crossed the parlor into the conservatory as Jasmine fell back where she stood silently in the shadows of the parlor. “Victoria, darling, sit down with me and Father Vivenzio and have some lemonade. I’ve barely seen you all day.” Father Vivenzio moved to the high-backed chair across from the two women. “If I may, Madame Calais. Shall I begin?” Madame Calais patted the sofa, and Victoria took the cue to sit down as the priest began speaking. “Victoria, your grandmother has made a very generous financial gift to the church. She and I agree that the funds that she has given at your mother’s behest would best be used to renovate the convent where you stayed when your family fell ill.” Victoria gasped. “Shall I continue?” Victoria nodded. Madame Calais held her breath as Victoria glared at the priest. Then she dropped her gaze to the cat. “Bon-Bon?” The cat was flexing her claws in the hem of the reverend’s cassock. “Bon-Bon!” Father Vivenzio looked down and snatched at his robe. “Bon-Bon! No clawing!” The priest stomped his foot at the cat. It raised its back and snarled before darting back to Victoria. He shrugged his shoulders at Madame Calais, grinning sheepishly. Suddenly, with the swiftness of a panther Bon-Bon bounded from Victoria’s lap and, in one wild leap, landed at the pontiff’s feet. The feline then made a mad scramble up the front of the priest’s robe, batting and snarling. The priest screamed, a girlish cry of distress. Madame Calais let out a shriek, matching the cat’s snarl to a pitch, causing Jasmine to rush in from the parlor. The matriarch jumped up. Her teacup clattered, breaking in half. Hot rooibos tea spread over the rug like a bloodstain. “Mon Dieu! Someone, grab the cat! Dear God, what’s got into her! Get her before she scratches Father Vivenzio’s face!” “I should take my leave. Really, I should,” promised Father. As Father Vivenzio left the estate and walked along the towering wrought-iron fence, his thoughts turned to the appointment waiting for him at the rectory. He chuckled as he quickened his pace. Approaching Prytania Street a pack of dogs began to bark and snarl at him from the grounds of the cemetery. Fear danced in tiny prickles up his spine as he imagined the fangs of angry dogs tearing at his garments, biting into his skin. 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.

* ~*~ *

Excerpt Chapter 3

Before the Epidemic

When Victoria awoke, Evangeline was standing at the bedroom window, looking out over the rose garden. Moonlight flooded the room, casting her sister in profile. Evangeline’s white nightgown was no more than a gossamer veil over her young body. Everyone in the Calais family was either tossing and turning or fully awake as it was too hot to sleep in the early autumn before the Yellow Fever epidemic hit. Every creature moved about under the bright glow of the harvest moon. Katydids sang. Beetles skittered through the warm earth; spiders dropped from stalk to leaf, anchoring their glistening webs; garden snakes slithered languorously through the dewy grass, and the spirits floated back and forth between La Maison du Corbeau Blanc and cemetery, catching up on family gossip. It was too hot for all of them. “Evangeline?” “You’re awake, Victoria?” “Yes. What’s out there?” “The night voices are murmuring. I can hear them.” “Whose voice are you hearing tonight, Evie?” Victoria asked, propping herself up on her pillow and winding her long hair up off her neck. “Grandpa’s. I saw him today.” “You did?” “Oui.” “What was he doing?” Victoria fanned her sheets as Evangeline continued to look out over the tea roses, flooded in light as though it were midday. “Sitting at his desk, doing his books.” She brushed her bangs away from her forehead and pricked her nightgown away from the curves of her body. “Was he happy?” “No, he looked sad. Victoria, he looked straight at me.” “Did he say anything?” “Yes. He said one thing.” Evangeline turned to face her sister. Victoria thought how much her sister looked like an angel at that moment. “He did, Evangeline?” She pulled her knees up to her chest, waiting. “What did he say this time, Evie?” “He said, ‘I’ll see you soon, mon cher.” “He’ll appear to you again?” “I don’t know, Victoria. I just got the sense it was actually a warning.” “Why do you say that, Evie?” Evangeline looked out the window and stared, for a moment, at the full moon that hung in the indigo sky before responding, “because as the vision faded, it was replaced by a death mask.”

* ~*~ *

I hope you’ve enjoyed THIS peek of ‘Ghosts of White Raven Estate’.

Ghosts of White Raven Estates ~ on Kindle

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ on Nook

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ on Smashwords for iBooks

Leave a comment

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, ghost stories, ghosts

•*¨* ♠ ☆ New Novel: ‘Ghosts of White Raven Estate’ Parties its Way onto The Book Scene

FOLLOW THIS BLOG! And . . .  The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter 
╰☆╮☆♥*¨*• 💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮💕💕 •*¨* ♥ ☆╰☆╮

This is a very exciting week for me, and I have All of You to thank.

☆♥*¨*• So, Thank You so Much!

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ Where eBooks are Sold!

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ Where eBooks are Sold!

‘Ghosts of White Raven Estate’, my NewEST novel partied its way onto the eBook scene with Mardi Gras spirit!

I am so proud of the production team that helped me bring to my readers the first full-length novel that I’ve published in three years.  (‘The Jenkins of Baltimore’ another family-saga— with Civil War overtones—was my 2010 novel.)

‘‘Ghosts of White Raven Estate’’ is a NaNoWriMo 2012 winning submission to the eBook world, published by the A.V. Harrison Publishing team of Linda Hope Lee, editor; and Kathi Humphries Design and New Media as contributing designer.

This wild-ride of a New Orleans Garden District 1800s family broke into the Amazon Kindle TOP 4percent within 48 hours of publishing; ranking 45,300 with dozens of sales around the globe!

‘Ghosts of White Raven Estate’ is available where books and eBooks are sold.

Kindle

Nook

 Smashwords for iBooks

•*¨* ♠ ☆•*¨* ♠ ☆•*¨* ♠ ☆

And, once again, Thank you for your support and encouragement over this past year as my newest novel took shape.

I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing the story!

2 Comments

Filed under Books by Emily Hill, emily hill, ghost adventures, ghost hunter, ghost stories, ghosts