SUPERSTITIONS AND SPOOKY OCCURRENCES - MARGARET TANNER

SPOOKY OCCURRENCES - MARGARET TANNER

Here in Australia celebrating Halloween is not as popular as it is in the US. In fact, for people of my generation, we virtually didn’t celebrate it at all. The present generation are starting to get into it though, and I have noticed Halloween masks and costumes in many of the shops.

I write historical romance, no ghosts in my stories, but there are some strange, unexplained things that do happen in my novel, Lauren’s Dilemma. The really weird thing is that these occurrences or ones very similar did happen, according to my grandmother. I can remember as a child her telling my sister and I about some of the strange happenings to members of her extended family.

One of her stories dealt with a young cousin who was terrified of water and could not swim.  She was a sleepwalker and one night she disappeared from her bed. The parents went in search of her and found her swimming around in a water hole on their farm. The father jumped into the water to get her, the mother screamed out, and the young girl woke up and drowned before her father could rescue her. When she was awake the girl was afraid of water and couldn't swim, but when sleep walking she could swim quite well.

 My grandmother used to say, it was bad luck to bring peacock feathers into your house.  Another of her superstitions was regarding the wattle bush. It was said to bring bad luck and death if you brought it inside. The wattle bush, which is covered in small, bright yellow fluffy balls, flowers in early spring. It is very bad for you if you suffer allergies like hay-fever or asthma. Grandma used to call wattle the death flower because if you brought it inside your house, someone would die.  Needless to say we never picked it.

 Thinking about this as an adult, I worked out that it was a superstition based on fact, even if my grandmother didn’t know it. If you were an asthma sufferer in the 1890’s with no proper medication, if someone did bring in a bunch of wattle and put it in a vase on the sideboard, it could, and probably did trigger an asthma attack.

 Now back to Lauren’s Dilemma. This story is set during the 1^st World War. Lauren’s childhood sweetheart, Danny, is killed at Gallipoli (in Turkey) in 1915. She mourns him but eventually marries another wounded soldier, Blair Sinclair, and they go to live on an isolated cattle property.

 On a couple of occasions, when Lauren (Laurie) has been in danger, she thinks she hears Danny calling out to her, and on these occasions she can always smell the herb thyme. Thyme grows wild on Gallipoli.

“One afternoon in November of 1918, Laurie was in the homestead alone. Her father and Blair had gone into town for supplies, and baby Daniel was taking a nap. The windows stood wide open in the sitting room to let in the early summer breeze. As she sat in an armchair she drifted between sleep and wakefulness.

“Laurie, Laurie.” She opened her eyes and Danny stood near the fireplace. He was in uniform. His head was bare, his brown curls just as windblown and unruly as she remembered.

“The war is over.” He gave a boyish smile. “You can be happy now.”

“Laurie, great news.” Blair dashed into the room and pulled her to her feet. “I heard it in town. They've signed an Armistice at last. The war is over.”

“I know.” She did a little jig.

“What! How could you?”

“Danny told me. He was here a minute ago.”

“Laurie!” Blair was shocked as he stared into her over-bright eyes. “There's only us in the room.”

“He stood over there, by the fire. I know it sounds crazy, but I saw him.”

She smiled. Her face suddenly took on such a serene beauty the breath caught in his throat. She blew him a kiss. Laughing, he reached out and pretended to catch it.

After Laurie left for the nursery to attend little Daniel, Blair suddenly became aware of the bittersweet smell of herbs wafting around the room. Some instinct drew him toward the fireplace. There on the hearth lay a sprig of thyme.”

 

 

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CEMETERY STREET

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The first house I remember well was on Cemetery Street. The high windows of our little 1850’s brick house had a view of the historic local cemetery, complete with the sunken stones of the early settlers and poor folks, as well as Victorian obelisks and rich-family crypts. It was all sheltered by a fine stand of tall hardwoods—maples, beech, sycamore, Kentucky bean trees, and oaks. I often stood up on the couch and peered out the window across the street to see a funeral in progress, the black cars, the black dresses, hats and sad, slumped demeanor of the mourners.  At certain times of year, people arrived and filled the place with flowers—Memorial Day, particularly. We often walked there, Mother and I, with whatever dog we had, sharing the peace with our silent underground neighbors.

Always having an active imagination, I drew many pictures of the cemetery, my notions about  the underground life of the dead, so thickly tucked away just across the street. My parents, of course, found that a little odd, but it seemed perfectly straightforward to me. All those husbands and wives that I’d seen, their gravestones sitting side by side, I figured, were still there, only now confined to a spot beneath the ground. I always drew little rooms, with tables with decorative flowers on top, and sofas and chairs, a picture on the wall and, sometimes, even a pet. I thought it must be a little lonely and boring for them to never be able to go outside anymore, to be staying forever in that underground haven, which was all I could make out of the much talked about “heaven.”  It made perfect sense, when I first heard about ghosts, that the dead might wish to come out and walk around in the cemetery. I spent a lot of night times looking out the front window around twilight, hoping to see one. After all, I took walks there, under those aged trees, listening to the birds and breezes, and it was always pleasant.

(Here's an Egyptian queen enjoying her own little room inside the pyramid, playing Backgammon for eternity.)

 

For the early part of my childhood, I lived in that rural Ohio town, with a close-knit family around, which made all holidays great fun, but Halloween was special in its own way. My younger cousin, Mike, and I were often dressed to compliment each other—one year we were cowboy and cowgirl, on another we were Raggedy Ann & Raggedy Andy. Once we were Spanish dancers, complete with hats with bobbles dangling beneath the brims. My cousin, now a big time politician, had in childhood a pronounced lisp. I remember him carefully explaining to someone who’d asked that we were “’Panish-tan-sers.”  Our costumes were hand-made by grandmas and loving aunts and we showed them off at what seemed to us an exciting costume parade for children which was held annually at the high school.

 

I also remember one night of trick-or-treating with some older children who lived up the road, away from the cemetery. They were the kind who weren’t entirely to be trusted with a smaller kid who wasn’t a family member.  That night's costume had been spur of the moment, so my mother had turned me into a ghost in an old sheet with a pillow case head. The head, as we ran door-to-door in the darkness, kept slipping, so I couldn’t see.  I was gamely trying to keep up with their longer legs in the darkness, but they only laughed and ran ahead. I remember falling and rolling head-over-heels down the steep grade next to the last house on the block, splintering the warm popcorn ball I’d just been given. Then I had to untangle myself from the sheet. After I escaped from that, though, I was surrounded by night. The  only porch light seemed about a mile away.  It was so scary to be left alone in the darkness that I abandoned my goodies and ran home as fast as I could. 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

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Thankful for Orange Kool-aid by Diane Scott Lewis

With an intense, type A personality, I sometimes find I haven’t stopped to “smell the roses” (or gardenias in my case) much. I stormed through my teens, twenties, thirties…and so on, careening toward something I hadn’t yet figured out. Finally, I decided to embark on the passion of my youth, writing novels. That will be so easy, won’t it? I’m vastly talented and creative, aren't I?

The other day, after tied to my computer screen, I had to let the dog out for his duty, and I sat on my front steps. The weather was gorgeous, no humidity, and I glanced down on my gardenia bush, which has never bloomed (too cold in Virginia, I guess) Update: I now live in Pennsylvania—even colder. I recalled the luscious blooms my mother grew in California. That fabulous gardenia smell I remembered from my childhood.

With Halloween only days away, more of my childhood filtered in to my cyber-fried brain. Our small town came alive—or dead—every Halloween. We children roamed the streets, entered haunted houses, and visited houses where fake hanged men were tossed from ropes off roofs so we could scream. My mother hand-made our costumes, and prepared popcorn balls and caramel apples that no one was afraid to eat, because we all knew each other and felt safe. We gathered tons of candy we weren’t leery about munching on.

One street over, two women who were teachers, wore excellent witch costumes and stirred a huge cauldron that they placed in their lighted garage every year.

Inside the black pot swirled orange Kool-aid, with orange slices floating on top. On Halloween night we children, after stuffing our mouths with sticky candy, knew we could come here and partake of a refreshing drink. I hope I thanked those women, because I always appreciated their efforts. Who these days would bother, because of all the warnings about tainted treats? Plus, some parent would sue if their little darling got cavities or fat thighs—all that sugar!
So I’m thankful for my wonderful, fairly safe childhood, all the kind people I met, my mother’s gardenias and that delicious orange Kool-aid.

To get in the Halloween mood, be sure to check out my vampire novel, A Savage Exile. Were vampires roaming the island of St. Helena during Napoleon’s exile? Is a top official one of them? Or someone close to the emperor? A young French maid is caught up in the dangerous mystery.

Click HERE to purchase A Savage Exile.

If you want to know more about my books, usually historical novels, please visit my website:
http://www.dianescottlewis.org

Ghosts and Hauntings by Stuart R. West

Well, it's Halloween again, the spookiest time of the year. So put the cat to bed, stick the kids outside and grab a nice cup of hot chocolate. Let's chat about ghosts.

Do I believe in ghosts? Not really. But it blows my mind how many grounded sensible people do. Not too long ago, friends of my wife's parents (the names have been changed as per their request) relayed a tale with such conviction it's hard to dismiss out of hand...

Some years back, "Bob" and "Iris" bought a three-story house in Denver, Colorado, so old it had a water closet on the third floor. At first, things were fine. But it wouldn't be much of a ghost tale if things remained that way, of course.

One day, Bob had been tasked with watching their toddler son. With the son safely asleep in his crib on the second floor, Bob tended to business on the first level. Footsteps trampled over his head. He barreled up the stairs. The baby was fine, still asleep. No one else in the house. But the footsteps continued on the third floor. After a thorough check-through, Bob was satisfied there was no one on the third floor. (He sorta accidentally blew a hole in the attic roof with a shotgun, but this part of the story wasn't quite clear. Make of that what you will!)

When Bob's brother and family visited, they also heard footsteps in the night. And they hadn't been told anything about the prior occurrence.

As in all poltergeist-related hauntings, things started small (missing items, a bottle of spice vanishing while Bob's back was turned, the water closet flushing in the middle of the night) before escalating. Hanging pictures were relocated to walls in different rooms. Once Iris searched her closet for a pair of shoes and only found one. When she turned away, she heard a solid clunk. The missing shoe now sat next to its partner.

Most troubling was the day they heard a loud scrape on the second floor. The young boys' bunk-beds had been moved to the center of the room. And the sheets had been carefully cut, an "L" shape meticulously trimmed through both of them. This occurrence kept happening, no doubt pleasing the Denver sheet manufacturing industry.

Fed up, Iris read somewhere to rid a house of a poltergeist, you had to confront it. Up she went to the second floor landing. Shaking her fists, she screamed, "Stop it! Stop it right now!" Silence. Suddenly a bucket worth's of water dumped down on her. No sign of water marks, stains, drips on the walls, the ceiling. Nothing.

First thing she did when she came downstairs is tell her husband, "We're leaving."

Brr. Now, I don't know about you, but that's a pretty spooky tale. At first I admit to being skeptical. But the narrator told it with such sincerity, I had to give it consideration. And his wife backed him up, filling in missing details.

Another friend of mine told me he once had a childhood ghostly encounter in a graveyard. But he won't talk about it. Says I'm not ready.

Honestly, I'm torn if I'd like to experience a spectral visitation. On the one hand, it excites me, gets my writer instincts pumping. But I also know I'd end up shrieking. Watching a 240 pound man shriek is probably not high on everyone's to-do list. Very unbecoming.

The irony is I'm drawn to writing about things spooky and spectral. I suppose I'm living vicariously.

In my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, there're many hauntings, curses, ghosts. Perfect for Halloween reading. But, honestly, with all of the supernatural shenanigans going on in the tale, there's nothing truly scarier than  mankind's capacity for evil and malice. Come for the ghosts, stay for the human characters.

I'm interested, folks...have you had any ghostly encounters you'd like to share?

Ghosts of Gannaway available now in paperback.

And the ebook is available at a limited sale price of .99! Perfect Halloween reading!

A visit to All Hallows Eve in the 18th Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

To celebrate the coming of Halloween, and for my historical novel Ring of Stone, I researched ancient customs in Cornwall. Here is an abridged excerpt where my heroine, Rose, slips out in the night with her brother on All Hallows Eve to witness the rising of the spirits:

Rose opened the back door to the inky black. A lantern winked not far off. "That should be Mr. Poldeen." Her heart skipped and she stepped out into a cold breeze that whipped her face. Her brother Michael rushed past her toward the lantern.

The caretaker, Mr. Poldeen, tipped his hat when she came close. "Are you ready, Miss Rose?"

"Of course, let us proceed." She walked beside him. The lantern bobbed a circle of light as they approached the stream. Poldeen took her hand and helped her over it. Such a casual, polite gesture, yet her skin heated at the touch of his strong callused palm.

"Hurry!" Michael ran ahead, beyond the light.

"Your brother is quite anxious to find out about the spirits this night." Amusement filled Poldeen’s voice.

"I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Poldeen. I haven’t been very daring when it comes to this stone circle. But I’ve yet to understand why." She listened to make certain she still heard her brother’s footsteps.

"It comes from the same feeling as in St. Petroc’s. You should know, as like there, the ring has secrets, but is not evil."

How could rocks and stones have the same aspects as human beings? A tiny part of her worried that they’d experience nothing tonight, and the ring held no magic.

"Well, I’m here, and intend not to demure." She stumbled over a stone. He grasped her arm and held it. Again, she had that urge to lean into him. What had come over her with this man?

They reached the field. The breeze ruffled the grass. The ocean surf slapped the cliffs in the distance, like a living entity, breathing in and out.

"Michael, stay with us," Rose called when her brother, a murky outline, started to tramp over the grass. "Mr. Poldeen, please tell us some of tonight’s custom, won’t you?"

He waited until Michael rejoined them. "This be the end of the old year, or Samhain, meaning summer’s end, an’ the beginning of the new. The Celtic god straddles the two, and hopes to pierce the veil to see what comes."

Rose stared toward the cliff outline where the ring stood shrouded in darker shadows.

Poldeen set down the lantern. The light spread over their shoes. The salty wind flapped their coats like night birds. "The living can travel to the underworld, but all must return to their rightful place at cockcrow. If you have faith in the legend, this be the perfect time for your ancestors who died here to search for you."

"Senara died somewhere else. But Mrs. Trew insisted she was buried here." Rose shivered as the wind cut deeper. The darkness pressed in around her.

"Let’s walk over to the stone." Michael hopped up and down, rubbing his hands together.

"Let us do that, if you wish, Miss?" Poldeen picked up the lantern and crooked out his arm. Rose took it and they stepped across the damp grass. Michael again hurried ahead.

The cliffs were framed against the starry sky. Poldeen lifted the lantern until a blot of light trailed over the crags and across the stone circle, which looked quiet, innocuous.

"I read," Rose absorbed the heated closeness of his body, yet his nearness made her jittery—or maybe it was the unusual situation, "that the ancient Celtic view of time is a cycle. So tonight, this eve of the new year represents a point outside of time, when the natural order dissolves back into primordial chaos, and prepares to reestablish itself in a new order."

"’Tis true. The Celts see tonight as the time when they can view any other time, past or present. But the church, now they say not to hold a feast for the unblessed dead, only those hallowed, made holy. That’s why she’s All Hallows Eve." He halted. They stood only a few yards from the ring. The wind whistled through it like a flute.

Rose inhaled a deep, slow breath when the whistle turned to a moan.

"Can you hear that?" Michael leaned forward. "Is it Malscos calling to Senara?"

"Of course it isn’t. I want to step closer to the circle." Rose slid her foot forward in the grass. Hand fisted, this was her moment. She’d touch the ring and banish her qualms.

A flapping noise sailed over her head. Rose blinked and stared up. A bird or bat of some kind—wings fluttering in the shades of blackness. Her bonnet slapped at her cheeks and she stifled a gasp.

A figure, hunched over, hair flying, moved along the cliff top. A loud laugh sounded. Or was it more of a cry?

More rustling sounded, then feet running. Rose squeezed up against the caretaker before she realized she’d done it.

"It’s a woman." Michael ran up and grabbed her other hand. His fingers felt cold and trembled a little. "Senara! Is that you?"

Footsteps raced by, leaving the scent of herbs. Poldeen swung up the lantern.

The figure darted closer. Hair streamed in wisps about a round face, an arm thrust up to shield their eyes.

"They were here! The spirits have gone back now!" rasped a voice. "You be too late."

To find out what happens, purchase Ring of Stone.

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Jason Voorhees, Jaime Lannister and Me by Jamie Hill

Ah, October. Leaves are changing color, and everyone is talking about football, or the return of The Walking Dead. (YES!) Halloween is just around the corner. As a child I loved everything about Halloween from making decorations to dressing up to trick-or-treating and bringing home a mountain of candy. I didn’t particularly like being scared, but a little bit was okay—the kind of scared when I knew I was really safe, such as a tour of a haunted house, or going to a scary movie. (These days, the prices of the ‘good candy’ alone are enough to scare me!)

We love scary movies in my house. I married a man who grew up watching Vincent Price and shows called Chiller and Thriller and even Twilight Zone. Movies back then used to advertise that there would be a doctor in the theater for those who might find themselves in need of one. One oldie I watched even had flashing lights and a clanging bell when something scary was about to happen, in case the viewer wanted to avert his or her eyes. *snort*

On our first date, my future husband took me to the drive-in movies to watch Friday the 13^th, the first movie starring villain Jason Voorhees. It scared me sufficiently that I spent the second half of the show much closer to my date (possibly his ulterior motive for choosing that movie?) My mother nearly passed out when we told her later. Much later.

That was the beginning of our relationship, and our joint love of scary movies. We’ve seen a good share of them. Many were really awful. Some were just gory. A few were top notch, such as the first Halloween movie. (The sequels slowly went downhill.)

Hubby doesn’t like demonic or satanic themes, so we don’t watch those. I don’t like violent gore-fests where bad things happen to good, innocent people for no reason. (This does not include those teenage camp counselors in the Friday the 13^th movies. Those kids should have known better.)

These days we are slightly choosier about what we watch. We know many scary movies are going to be silly and/or stupid, and if we don’t expect too much going in we aren’t disappointed. That’s part of the fun of it. 

I am guilty of recently watching the 2013 supernatural thriller Mama because it starred Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (Jaime Lannister from Game of Thrones). But that’s a whole ‘nother topic, right there. And don’t even get me started on The Walking Dead. Best zombie show ever!

Happy October and Happy Halloween to those who celebrate it!

Jamie Hill

www.jamiehill.biz
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