My #Blog “Spirit Writing” and Psychography

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

FOLLOW THIS BLOG !

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

 

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.

 

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.

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

FOLLOW THIS BLOG!

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

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

When #Spirits Invade Your ‘Writer’s Room”

This morning, I was inspired to write a response to Douglas Coupland’s blog “The Writer’s Room” which was sent to me by my friend – and author – Gretchen Houser –> http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/02/14/the-writers-room/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0

The Writer’s Room is that sanctuary space where an author’s imagination has no bounds.  One can close out the world, and enter a safe haven where ideas fly and swirl like witches on brooms to be snatched down and admonished onto paper.

When I left the corporate jungle (four years ago) and began my career as an author, my writer’s room was downstairs in one corner of my husband’s music library with my desk tucked under the stairwell.  The décor of the music library celebrates African cultures and is set off by baskets, various drums, and pipe whistles.  A hunter’s shield from the Masai tribe is the centerpiece of the room.  We bought the shield from a tribal member who was visiting the college my husband taught, part of a cultural exchange.  The tribe member’s ancestors had used the shield for many years, on hunts and possibly even during skirmishes.

My African-inspired writer’s room ~ before The Spirits found me.

Each evening my husband and I would go to bed and after he fell asleep I would slide out from under the blankets and sneak downstairs to my version of The Writer’s Room where I would summon my Civil War ancestors as I penned “The Jenkins of Baltimore.”  In the hours between midnight and 5:00 a.m. my ancestral aunts and uncles would tell me their stories.  I would transcribe as they laughed, argued, and mourned their losses.  I could even hear them, in my mind, discussing our publishing roots and how the Jenkins family survived Lincoln’s shut down of the Baltimore presses. I was entranced, following the Ghosts of Baltimore’s Past.  And, I was comfortably at home with My Writer’s Room for quite a while.

After one vivid incident two years ago, and in spite of its rich African colors, and radiant-heat coziness, I decided that I had to move my writer’s room upstairs to the kitchen table.  It was 3:00 a.m. and I was working furiously on one of my novels, lost to the world around me — in a “zone” as they say.

Suddenly, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, I heard birds fluttering just above my head! The experience was so real I ducked and cowered!

The birds were beating their wings furiously against the Masai tribal shield that was hanging in the music library.  I could distinctly hear the birds thrashing, tangling themselves in their terror. Their claws scratched against the back of the shield frantically.  I was frozen, my heart beat as wildly as the wings of the trapped birds who seemed to be caught between the back of the shield and the flat of the wall.  My hair stood on end.  I broke out in the prickle of a cold sweat. The room was chilled and I drew my shawl around me.  There was nothing I could do to save the birds.  The unworldly noise, contrasted to the quiet of the house, was eerie, unsettling.  I was sure that my husband could hear the birds scuffle for survival, though I had left him sleeping soundly two floors up on the bedroom level.

The birds were caught in a universe parallel to my own — the Masai tribal shield was their portal.  The disturbance went on for about three minutes.  Then, one by one the birds quieted.  My intuition told me they were suffocating, or beating themselves to death behind the shield.

It had been quite a while since The Other World had broken through into mine and for days my nerves were raw from the encounter. But as time continued on, my nerves settled down.  However, I never again felt comfortable or creative around the African relics.

I used the phenomenon that I had experienced in my story, “Haunted House for Rent ~ Seattle” and took up residence at the kitchen table where I could observe the crows fly across our rooftop from the kitchen window.  And it is from this space that the inspiration for my movie-tribute to Alfred Hitchcock “The Crows” struck.

Have you ever had an experience where one of your five senses “reacts” to something so unworldly that you remember the encounter for years after? Tell me about it ~ I’m here. . . waiting to hear from You.

~ ~ ~ ~

USA/Paperback: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

USA/Kindle: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

UK/Kindle:  Ghosts of White Raven Estate

iBooks: Ghosts of White Raven Estate

Chapter 6: “The Mambo Hut” #Ghosts #Free Read

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 

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

Thank you for finding your way to the blog of ‘The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter’. As you may know I am running serialized blogs of my most-recently published eNovel, “Ghosts of White Raven Estate”. I have skipped over Chapter 5 because of the adult content. So! Enjoy ‘Jasmine and The Mambo Queen’, Chapter 6.

•*¨* ♠ ☆•*¨* ♠ ☆•*¨* ♠ ☆

Chapter 6

Jasmine Visits the Mambo Queen

The palmetto fronds scratched Jasmine’s skin as she snuck along the trail leading to Widow Paris’ shanty. Her legs itched unmercifully. Jasmine looked over her shoulder imagining that someone was following her, but only saw the outline of weathered oak trees adorned with Spanish moss that swayed back and forth, fanned by the night air. An eerie yellow, pock-faced, moon followed her–its menacing glow casting long shadows. Crickets chirped, and gators lumbered along the banks of the bayou that night – as they did every night. The musky smell of rot and roots hung in the air as Jasmine glanced around as frightened of her surroundings as she was intimidated by her situation. Jasmine had never been to the home of the Mambo queen at night.

Torch fire from flaming spears set in a circle in front of the shanty flashed heavenward. The outline of the shanty was partially blocked by pine boughs. Rats scurried and snakes slithered across the dried mud in front of her. Step by careful step Jasmine moved forward fending off palmetto fronds and tree branches. Wisps of wind cooled the back of Jasmine’s neck.

From somewhere the hoot of an owl announced her journey. She held her breath. It hooted again, calling out from the spooky depths of the pine woods. The warning traveled deep into the swamps and was mimicked by other owls. It was a different noise that caught Jasmine’s attention—the slap of a paddle out on the water. She stood perfectly still and turned her eyes to the gloomy waterline. She stopped breathing and listened. Silence all of a sudden, complete silence; no katydids chirping, no drone from the cicadas. The only sound Jasmine heard was the deafening roar in her ears. Her heart pounded, her throat constricted to the point where a scream would not have been possible. She wanted the sound to be a paddle hitting the water, but she involuntarily whispered, “Loup Garou.” Even better it be a swamp witch than the beast, Loup Garou. Jasmine’s eyes darted from right to left. Please! Please don’t hurt me!  Stone cold silence prevailed. Torturous nothing. She stood waiting to be torn apart by Loup Garou, trying desperately to push out of her mind the vision of the beast with its sharp fangs and its glowering yellow eyes. If attacked she hoped she would die in the first swipe of the creature’s talons. I’m going to die, she whimpered. Damn Zömbi for not bringing Josie back to me so we could get on our way back to Corbeau Blanc.

If the angry swamp monster was going to pounce, with drool hanging from sharp fangs she wanted her death to be instant. She imagined its yellow eyes burning into her skin as it fixed on her—and her fear. She waited, crouching, and listening. The seconds ticked by. Then she heard a second splash further up the banks and wondered; why am I still standing here unharmed? Jasmine then chuckled at her good fortune. Loup Garou had moved along. She wiped the tears from her eyes, “Lawdy, that was close!”

The katydids took up their song again. Now if only the hum of the cicadas would quiet down so she could reassure herself that indeed the creature was making its way back up the shore away from her. But the cicadas would only be silent if the heat lifted – and that wasn’t going to happen.

Jasmine was now within sight of her destination. As she tiptoed closer a board on Widow Paris’ porch creaked. The noise sent a second shock of fear through her body. She held her breath and peered toward the shanty. A man stood on the porch peering out at the darkness, ready to charge any intruder. She watched him crane to see beyond the bright cast of the torches into the shadows where she hid. “Zömbi,” she whispered. With relief she remembered back to the first time they had met. She was seventeen at the time, years ago. He was now at least twice her age.

* * *

That day at the open-air market was as clear in her mind as if it had happened yesterday:  “Miss Sophie? Is that you?” his rich baritone voice boomed out over the crowded stalls, calling for the attention of her mother. The year was 1840 and Sophie d’le Blanc had been showing her how to select ingredients for the Calais family’s meals.

Jasmine stood aside as he rushed toward them parting the masses of servants and slaves with his stride. Her momma handed her the bushels and packages she had been carrying and held out her arms welcoming the powerfully built man.

“Rasmussen! Oh, my goodness! Look at you dressed all fine and dandy! You’ve stepped up right nicely, haven’t you?”

“My name’s Zömbi now, Miss Sophie. I changed my name when,” and his brash laughter startled those around him who had been disinterested in the raucous exchange until then, “well, when I changed my face. Didn’t you know that?”

“Hmm, that was a bad stretch, wasn’t it – Zömbi?”

He nodded. “Yes’um. It surely was. I’m a carriage driver for a rich widow-lady now.”

“Really now? Are you?” Sophie looked up at Zömbi, shielding her eyes from the morning sun.

“Yes, I most certainly am.”

“How old are you, Zömbi?” Her mother took his hands and leaned in, looking deeply into his eyes.

“Oh, I’d say I’m more’n thirty–maybe,” he surveyed the crowded stalls. “It’s been sixteen years since Mr. Hawkins sold me, Miss Sophie.”

“Hmm. I guess it has been. The only measure of time I have is my sweet little Jasmine, here. Well, not really little no mo’, cause she’s growin’ up faster than a weed.”

Jasmine remembered the terror she felt over the impending introduction. She looked down at her calico dress and bare feet and jostled the packages her mother had handed her so that she could pat her hair. Zömbi appraised her and that look of appraisal stuck for going on fifteen years.

Their age difference making no difference to either one of them, Jasmine and Zömbi jumped the broom at a celebration in Congo Park not long after that introduction. The ceremony was kept a secret from the Calais household, “No reason to bring up Zömbi and all that nasty past, Jasmine,” her mother wagged her finger in warning. “That is, if you don’t want to be separated—or sold.”

Zömbi’s commanding voice brought Jasmine back to the present, “Who out there in those weeds? You want trouble, or you gonna make yo’self known?”

“Zömbi! It’s me!” Jasmine hurried on toward the shanty and stepped into the light of the torches. “Call our daughter out. What’s the matter with you?”

“Jazzy?”

“Don’t you start that cuddle talk. Josie and I gotta’ long ways to walk before dawn. You know the trouble I’ll have if Mr. Boulware discovers I’m not back!”

At that moment Widow Paris stepped onto the porch, backlit from the lanterns placed around her front room. “Jasmine? Is that you, honey?”

“Yes’um. I’m here for my daughter Miz Paris. We needs t’ be gettin back now.”

“Well, I’m pleased you’ve found your way to my doorstep, Jasmine,” Widow Paris extended her arm, sweeping it toward the door in a welcome. “Come in for a little spell, and join the congregation. So you won’t be late for your chores we’ll have Zömbi take you and Josie back to the Calais’ in the carriage. You can rest on the way.”

“Yes’um.” Jasmine stepped around the vèvè and up onto the porch assisted by Zömbi who pulled her close.  They walked through the doorway of Widow Paris’ home together.

* * *

“Shh,” Widow Paris cautioned Jasmine as she entered, “Iwa is with us. We are trying to reach Bondyé.”

Wide-eyed, Jasmine nodded and looked around at the others who had gathered after the celebration. They sat crossed-legged in a semi circle facing the altar.  Josie was sitting off to the side in the semi-darkness, her eyes closed. Some of the worshippers were staring straight ahead; others rocked back and forth humming. Jasmine picked a spot next to Zömbi.

She matched up one person to each of her fingers. There were not quite enough people to fill the fingers on both hands. Besides herself and Josie; Zömbi and Widow Paris; there was Sarah, Atabel, and Edgard. They seemed focused on Josie, but Jasmine couldn’t determine why.

“The séance has not begun,” Zömbi leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Shh,” he advised, although she had not said a word.

She nodded and settled in, picking out the trinkets and other objects on the altar as her eyes adjusted to the candlelight thrown by the white tapers. One shiny charm, placed among the beads and burning candles caught her eye—an amethyst in a silver setting.  She thought it looked familiar, but decided her suspicions not possible. Although it looked like the ring worn by Miss Victoria, she decided her impression must be the result of fatigue and a night of celebration.

A bullfrog belched a deep, repetitious rumble that Jasmine had not heard as she crept toward the shanty. She found the refrain soothing as she relaxed into the call while the mauby gourd was passed around. The stir she had created by stepping through the brush toward the shanty was settling down outside. As she took her swig the sweet root that tasted strongly of rum, burned her throat. She passed the gourd on to Edgard who looked down at her but continued to rock hypnotically. His gnarled fingers wrapped around the neck of the gourd. His thumb was missing—from a machete accident, she’d heard. He balanced the gourd in the cradle of his hand and drank hungrily. The congregation was silent up until the moment Zömbi picked up the agogô and began the entrancing rhythm of the campana. The bells would call Iwa to them. Over and over, the same five-beat pattern, as the congregation rocked back and forth.

Minutes ticked by as the white candles that circled the altar burned down. She heard a whispered prayed off to the side. Oh, all-powerful Iwa, we call on you. Keep hidden from us trials and misfortune. We offer what is now yours, your cigar, and your liquor. In return keep our church safe from any calamity that may wish to cross our path.

In unison the worshippers hummed their assent, and the prayers continued around the room as the single drum beat of the agogô continued.

* * *

It was two or three hours past midnight when Jasmine narrowed her eyes and peeked at her surroundings. Widow Paris’ boa constrictor had wrapped itself around the beam in the far corner of the front room, leaving the worshippers to their conjuring. She stifled a yawn and stared into the flames of the candles. Their wax had spilt over creating puddles on the white altar cloth.

Jasmine felt as though she were still entranced; her only reference to the real world was the repetition of the agogô beat outside the shanty. She was carried far away before she realized that Josie had begun to slap her thighs. Softly at first, rocking all the while, her head thrown back. Jasmine brought herself slowly back taking notice that while she was in her own trance, Zömbi had moved.  He was now sitting behind Josie.

“It might be Ogoun, we’ll see,” whispered Widow Paris. “Ogoun,” was what her congregation whispered in agreement.

The surroundings were unnervingly quiet when Jasmine finally woke up. The earliest beginnings of morning would come within an hour or two. She looked around at the worshippers. Five members of the church were sprawled out on the bare floor, sleeping in a tangle of limbs as gossamers of smoke hung in the air. Jasmine looked around for Widow Paris and saw that she was sleeping under mosquito netting in an alcove at the back of the shack. Thick pillar candles burned on either side of her bed. Her snake had moved along the beams and now wrapped itself around the corner beam above Widow Paris’ bed. It was the first time Jasmine had seen Mambo without her characteristic headwrap. She was beautiful.

“Zömbi,” Jasmine shook her husband awake. With his eyes still shut he reached for her hand and patted it, smiling.

“I’ll get Josie. Let’s get you back,” he reassured her.

As they trundled the fifteen-year old into Widow Paris’ carriage, Zömbi asked. “Were you there? Iwa appeared.”

Jasmine shook her head and climbed into the passenger compartment.

“What did he say?” She whispered.

“You’re going to be free—you and Josie. Mambo said that was his message.”

“That’s not possible, Zömbi. Unless she and I both die.”

* ~*~ *

I hope you’ve enjoyed THIS peek of ‘Voodoo Vision’. If you’d prefer not to wait to find out what happens next, full edition copies are available at: 

Ghosts of White Raven Estate  ~ on Kindle

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ on Nook

Ghosts of White Raven Estate ~ on Smashwords for iBooks

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

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

•*¨* ♠ ☆ 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’, 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!