March Madness

 

Available in print and ebook at 

https://books2read.com/Game-of-Love

            March has come in warm but windy, yet so much better than our February. And for those in the US, it brings with it March Madness, the annual NCAA men’s basketball scuffle to determine the national champion. Even those who never played the game usually have a favorite team and fill out brackets with friends; brackets that often run amuck after the first round as top seeded teams get upset before they really get started.

            When I started writing “A Game of Love” and realized it started in March, I couldn’t help but add a little bit of basketball madness, even though my main character, Megan, has no interest in the sport. She’s much more interested in her best friend’s older brother, and is soon entangled in romance, until a murder rather disrupts things. If that isn’t bad enough, she has to contend with a ghost who has chosen her to haunt.

            Enjoy the opening chapter of “A Game of Love”, a contemporary romance revolving around the history of Boston, a cyber treasure hunt and a two hundred year ghost longing to find her lover.

***

Megan tilted her head back as far as she could, and still the chimneys of the three story mansion were hidden from view. It stood separate and majestic among the brick row houses in the heart of Beacon Hill. More than two hundred years ago, it had been the only house at the very edge of Boston by the Charles River; home to a tea merchant during the Revolutionary War.

Stacy, her best friend since grade school, actually lived here now. When they were young they had called it the Castle and had often pretended a prince would ride up on his white horse and carry them away. Even now when she had outgrown childhood fantasies, Megan felt the house held secrets lost to time.

            The wrap-around porch and tall front columns were painted a dark cinnamon red to blend with the brick. Comfortable wicker chairs graced both sides of the door, their cushions covered in bright flowered fabric that coordinated nicely with the rest of the furniture. Stacy, or more likely her mom, had redecorated since her last visit. All along the front were the rose bushes for which the Castle, actually named the Blue Rose Bed & Breakfast, was famous.

The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face and sending a shiver down her spine. March in Boston was not yet time for roses. Though there was no snow on the ground, it still felt like winter. She hurried up the steps to get out of the wind just as the door opened.

“Megan!” Stacy’s exuberant hug nearly knocked her over, which was hard to do given Megan stood six foot tall in her stocking feet. “Come in; come in!” She grabbed Megan by the coat and practically dragged her into the house.

“My suitcase.” Megan turned back but Stacy snagged it and rolled it inside, closing the door with a slam.

Stacy, only five foot two, with blonde hair and blue eyes, had always reminded Megan of Tinker Bell. Even more so now as she fluttered around. “I am so excited you’re here.”

“I can tell.” Megan shrugged out of her coat and automatically turned to hang it on the coat rack to the left of the door.

“There’s just so much going on,” Stacy continued. “After a rather slow winter, the Castle is starting to fill up on weekends, and the summer months are practically all booked. But all that can wait. Come on back to the kitchen so we can talk while I make a few appetizers for happy hour.”

Stacy turned and Megan followed, the Bed & Breakfast as familiar as her own home. A wide staircase ran along the right side of the hall up to the second then third floors. When they were little, Stacy’s bedroom had been upstairs along with her parents’, and her two brothers had shared the huge loft on the third floor. After everyone had grown and left, her parents had converted their home to a Bed & Breakfast, adding bathrooms and dividing the loft into two airy suites. When her parents retired and moved to Arizona, Stacy had used their room as another suite and had moved to the basement, which was just as roomy and well-appointed as the rest of the house.

Immediately to the left of the entryway was a small library with a desk and computer, complete with Wi-Fi connections. It allowed guests a little privacy and quiet. Next was a sitting room, open to the guests and housing a big screen TV and several sitting areas. Megan remembered the winter Stacy’s parents had taken out the wall between that and the dining room, opening the space to accommodate more guests when needed.

Now they cut through the dining room and around the table, easily able to seat twenty. The table held a pretty arrangement of foliage, complementing the dark wood of the buffet and sideboard. Their childhood nickname of the Castle was totally appropriate given the size of the house itself, full of antique furniture and gilt trimmed pictures. The spacious gardens to the back, complete with gazebo, added to its appeal. And everything was spotless.

She followed Stacy through the half door into the kitchen. This was the one room of the house that had been completely modernized. State of the art appliances included a sub-zero refrigerator, six burner range and two ovens. Here, too, everything gleamed and the scent of rich coffee filled the air.

“How do you keep up with all this?” Megan asked.

“Sheesh, it’s not like I do it,” Stacy saucily replied as she reached above the counter and grabbed two coffee mugs. “You know how much I like housework.” She handed Megan a cup and spoon then turned and grabbed a bottle of creamer from the fridge.

Megan laughed as she poured a goodly amount of creamer into her coffee and stirred. “If I remember right, your mom always made you keep your door closed, even if there wasn’t any company. And she didn’t even venture to the loft where Cal and Jeff slept.”

Stacy’s voice was muffled, head buried in the refrigerator. “I hate to say it, but we never changed. At least Cal and Jeff moved out after college.” She pulled out a tray of cheese and salami, and another of pickles, tiny carrots and olives, setting them on the counter in front of Megan.

She automatically reached for a black olive, munching slowly; hoping having her mouth full would keep her from asking about Cal, Stacy’s oldest brother and Megan’s teenage crush.

Stacy dumped a tube of fancy crackers into a pottery bowl that was lined with a pretty embroidered napkin. “Help yourself.” She shoved everything closer. “I know they don’t feed you on airplanes anymore and,” she paused, glancing at the clock, “what time did you leave California?”

Megan groaned. “Seven this morning. Even with the plane changes in Denver and Chicago, there wasn’t enough time to grab anything.” Stacking salami and cheese on a cracker, she munched happily as Stacy continued her preparations.

“You haven’t started serving all meals, have you?” she asked.

Stacy shook her head. “Just breakfast, but not long ago I started having happy hour. Most of our guests come back from their meanderings around four or five to change before they go out for the evening. Well, at least in the summer that seems to be the pattern. Right now, the three registered couples told me they had late lunches while they were out sightseeing. So now, they’re probably in for the night. They seem to enjoy having a little snack and a glass of wine.”

She cocked her head to the side, and when Megan listened, she heard the television and a lot of yelling. Stacy smiled. “I dare say the ladies weren’t as ready to return as the guys.”

Megan sent her a questioning look.

Stacy sighed. “Honestly, Meggie. March Madness; college basketball?”

Megan shrugged.

“I can’t believe you have lived this long; especially hanging around here with Cal and Jeff, and have no head for sports.”

“I did watch the Super Bowl this year,” Megan replied defensively.

“Only because you were on a date, as I recall from our texting.” She raised a brow as only she could. “How is Brad, by the way?”

Megan snagged another piece of salami. “I wouldn’t know. The Super Bowl marked not only the beginning and end of my foray into sports, but the end of our relationship, if you could even call it that.” She had dated Brad for six months and finally asked herself why? She decided that was enough.

“And you never called?” Stacy grabbed two of the plates and swept around the counter. “Hold that thought; I’ll be right back.” Megan thought to help, so picked up the cracker bowl and followed Stacy into the dining room.

“Hi, everyone. This is my good friend, Megan.” Stacy waved in her direction and Megan nodded in recognition of the “hellos” from the couples sitting in the adjacent room. “Here’s the wine. Please help yourself, but no throwing things at the TV. It’s only a game.”

“Only a game?” One of the guys echoed. “First time in years Iowa made it to the sweet sixteen.”

“But you’re from Chicago,” Stacy replied.

“I know, but I thought about going to school in Iowa.” He grinned as he stacked some of the snacks onto a plate and grabbed a napkin. A yell from his friends had him hurrying back to the TV.

“They’re good for now. Come on,” Stacy said as she went back into the kitchen, closing the top of the half door so they could talk in peace.

“You still like doing this, don’t you?” Megan could tell her friend enjoyed her role as hostess, as she had when her folks first opened their home to strangers.

“I love it, but don’t think you can change the subject so easily. What happened with Brad?”

Megan sipped her coffee before answering. “There was just no spark.”

“But he was a doctor,” Stacy exclaimed. “We were always going to marry doctors or lawyers, or international celebrities, remember?”

“Yes and here we are. You as the very congenial hostess of a very successful B&B, and me…” Her voice trailed off.

Her friend reached across the counter, her small hand covering Megan’s. “What is it, Meggie? You said when you left Boston after college that you’d never come back. Yet here you are.”

Megan scrunched up her face. Her parents had died when she was a teen. There had just been nothing here for her. But now, when push came to shove, the Castle was the only place she had to go.

“I quit my job,” she said. “Or rather, my job quit me.”

Stacy squeezed her hand, then spun around. “This calls for more than coffee.” She grabbed a bottle from the cupboard and two shot glasses from another. Quickly she poured two shots, held one up and nodded to Megan to get the other.

Only Stacy, Megan thought, picking up the shot glass, tapping it against Stacy’s and downing the clear liquid.

“God!” She gasped as liquid fire raced down her throat, hitting her near empty stomach with a splash. She nearly dropped the glass onto the counter.

“It gets better,” Stacy said as she poured them each another shot. “Bottoms up.” When Megan didn’t immediately pick up her glass, Stacy added the inevitable, “Dare you.”

She had no choice, and licked her lips after downing the shot, the peachy flavor lingering. When Stacy started to pour a third round, Megan put her hand over the glass. “No more; not until I get something more than crackers in my stomach. Besides, aren’t you on duty?”

Stacy shrugged. “Not really. I serve an evening snack as a little plus, so it’s not like they expect any special service. Actually we could go downstairs, but let me fix you some dinner first.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. Just no more shots.” Megan turned the bottle around. “Cruzan peach rum?”

“Who’s drinking that sissy stuff?” A deep voice came from the back porch just as the door opened. A tingle of awareness raced up Megan’s spine. She didn’t have to see his face to know it was Cal. A tall frame filled the doorway as he shrugged off his jacket.

 His voice had always drawn her; deep and gravelly and totally seductive. She hadn’t seen Stacy’s brother since high school, and his gangly but athletic high school physique had certainly filled out in the years since. As her heart thudded erratically, she thought some things never changed. The crush she had all those years ago still morphed her back into a tongue-tied teenager.

“Well, well. If it isn’t little Megan Sue, the fourth but unacknowledged Garrett kid. Hey, sis.”  He actually ruffled his sister’s hair as he headed for the sink, his back now to Megan.

Which was just as well because she knew she was staring. Cal had been good looking in high school, but now he was devastatingly handsome. Completely opposite of Stacy’s fair complexion and blonde features, Cal’s hair was darkest brown, wavy and just to the shaggy side of too long. Broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist. Tight jeans covered a butt that was…oh, so fine. The glimpse she had gotten of his face was all she had needed to fully recall his dark eyes, high cheek bones and strong chin, covered with dark stubble that was so sexy nowadays.

“Megan?” Stacy’s voice broke through her reverie. Megan swallowed and forced her gaze from Cal’s back. It was the one secret she had from Stacy, because how could she ever tell her best friend that she had the hots for her brother for the past fifteen years?

“What made you bring out the hard stuff, Stac?” Having dried his hands and tossed the towel aside, Cal turned around to lean against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest. He was casually dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, and while his pose might appear just as relaxed, Megan knew he was always watchful.

“Megan quit her job,” Stacy began, and Megan couldn’t see correcting her.

With a harrumph, Cal reached over Stacy’s head to the liquor cabinet and pulled down a different bottle. “Then you should be drinking this.” He quickly poured shots, raised his in salute and downed it. Megan lifted hers to delicately sniff.

“No way.” She set it back down. When Stacy shot her a questioning look, she added, “Do you remember the last time we drank tequila?”

Cal laughed when Stacy smacked him in the chest with her hand. “She just got here, Cal, don’t be chasing her away so fast. Besides, what are you even doing here? Aren’t you on duty?”

“It was quitting time so I just thought I’d stop by and see you.” He gave her a grin that would stop the heartbeat of most women, but his sister was immune.

“In other words, you didn’t bother going to the grocery story this week.” She just shook her head and rummaged in the refrigerator, coming up with a package of pork chops. “I was planning on Jeff, but he at least called to say he had other plans, so there should be enough for your hollow leg.” She began grabbing spices from the side cupboard and rubbing some into the meat. “But you have to start the grill and cook,” she added.

Cal gave Megan a casual wink before stepping through the door onto the back deck. Megan wished it had been Jeff coming over. Although the brothers looked extremely alike, Jeff was just three years older than she, whereas Cal was five. Megan didn’t know if it was the age difference or what, but Jeff had simply been her friend, whereas Cal had been her fantasy. Now, she had reservations as to whether moving back to Boston had been such a great idea.

***

For a complete copy of “A Game of Love, click the link below the picture or visit my website at http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin  or my Amazon author site at https://www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin. You will find not only this book, but others including historical and time travel romance.

            If you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them for you, I would love for you to leave a review on Amazon.

 

Coming October 1, 2023 - The Folklorist by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

I am excited to announce that my next historical novel, The Folklorist, will be released on October 1, 2023, by BWL Publishing just in time for Halloween! Charlotte Lajoie, a young professional folklorist, struggling to build her career in 1973, is given the 1839 diary of her ancestor Jerusha Kendall. Reading the diary leads her to believe that Jerusha and her family were involved in what would come to be known as the New England Vampire Panic. And it seems that at least one of Charlotte's ancestors is still angry about it. 

Jerusha Kendall was only nine years old in 1832 when something awful happened in her family, but she has no idea what. She has grown up knowing that not only her family, but the entire village of Birch Falls, Vermont is keeping it a secret from her. By 1839, when she begins keeping a diary, she's determined to learn what happened that caused her mother to stop speaking to her dearest friend, isolate Jerusha from all but her own family, and withdraw from their close-knit community.

As Charlotte studies Jerusha's diary, she starts to believe that she knows what happened even if Jerusha never figured it out. Meanwhile, Charlotte has her hands full trying to juggle work for an insecure, infuriatingly sexist boss at the New England Folklife Museum, decide on the way forward in her own career, and find a way to bring peace to an aggrieved ghost.

If you're interested in finding out what folklore, ghosts, and vampires have in common, check out The Folklorist in October.

The Ghosts of Brittany France by Diane Scott Lewis

 

 Isabelle is likable heroine, and I enjoyed watching her make the best of a bad situation. Anyone who enjoys historical romance with a paranormal twist might want to check it (A Savage Exile) out.
~ Long and Short Reviews

Could vampires have roamed the island of Napoleon's final exile? Will a young maid discover the truth, or become a victim?

Purchase HERE

In writing a WWII novel set in Brittany, France, I learned more about their culture. Since October is the time of ghosts, I wondered how the Breton's felt about the otherworld. The most shocking revelation was, they believe the dead are always with them: two worlds in perpetual relation to one another. If the dead rustled the fallen leaves, this was expected, not surprising.

Also, they believe the dead are doomed to return to the land of the living up to three times--though the souls of the damned were usually lost forever. In rare cases, a damned soul might return to scold a loved one, warning them to change their ways before it's too late. People who died violent deaths were forced to linger between life and death until the natural course of their life would be over. These poor souls wandered the seashores and hedgerows awaiting Divine Judgement.

It was once thought the dead didn't immediately enter the Otherworld, but remained near their families for nine generations.

People were warned not to be out at night, and especially not to whistle. This attracted demons and the dead. One man in Northern Brittany was traveling home after dark and whistled to keep up his spirits. Then he heard an echo of his whistle, but this one was clearer and sharper than his. The whistler came closer and the man quickly realized the Devil was on his tail.

Working outside after dark was also a dangerous task. One farmer in Northern Brittany continued to sow his buckwheat after the setting sun. When he heard the cry "leave the night to whom it belongs," he stopped and hurried into his house.

In Southern Brittany, anyone who gazed too long on a will-o'-the-wisp, would go blind. And never look upon the ghostly white clad girls who carried blessed candles in the woods, doomed for using them in a profane manner.

In earlier times people carried rosaries and lanterns if they had to be out after dark. Or they could challenge the dead: "If you came from God, tell me your desire. If you came from the Devil, go on your way as I go mine." 

Information provided by Bon Repos Gites; Ghosts and Revenants of Brittany

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

To find out more about her and her books:  DianeScottLewis 

Ghosts

 

Ghosts

What else am I to write about in October? I watched “Casper” as a kid and the great TV show “Topper”. I loved “Medium” and “Ghost Whisperer”. If you bend the spectrum a little, shows like “Highlander” and “Forever”, which deal with immortals, could also be considered in this realm of otherworldliness.

I believe in ghosts and have gone on “haunted” cemetery tours, and “talked” with spirits on a Ouija Board. When I was maybe thirteen, I woke one night and swore I saw a ghost (or angel) at the foot of my bed. It may have been my sister, but considering I was on the top bunk, maybe not.

There was a favorite old road in Charleston, SC where we would go in high school to be on the lookout for ghosts said to haunt the swamps. (There were “sightings” which were probably just swamp gas.) I have come to realize that it was most likely a story invented by the guys because the area was very dark, very spooky and a very good place to take a girl on a Saturday night.

I’ve had ghosts appear in several of the books I’ve written, but they’re never malevolent or threatening because I don’t write horror. I can’t watch scary movies either, so my ghosts must be helpful in some way and not harmful.

My first pair of literary ghosts were Zeke and Lucky, two old prospectors in PROSPECTING FOR LOVE, a story that was such fun to write because in addition to the ghosts, the story is a time travel. That also puts it in another dimension, for who is to say whether the present as we know it is the only time plane currently evolving. In fact, perhaps our present is actually another person’s past, or future. Does that make us the ghosts to someone else’s existence? It can all get rather complicated.

Zeke and Lucky died in a mining accident 1870 and have been wandering around Peavine as ghosts until they can undo the accident that also killed their friend, Jesse Cole. When they spy Ellie, they realize the time has come because she looks exactly like Jesse’s girlfriend, Elizabeth. They can transport Ellie back to a time prior to the accident, but because she knows nothing of the 1870s, they must act as her guides and mentors to keep her out of trouble. PROSPECTING FOR LOVE is a light-hearted read and at times hilarious as Zeke and Lucky attempt to keep Ellie in line while trying to discover what went wrong the first time in history so they can prevent it from happening again.

I don’t always intentionally use ghosts as characters. In A GAME OF LOVE the ghost of an American Revolution era woman practically demanded that I tell her story. She made her presence known to my main character and no matter how much Megan didn’t want to believe in ghosts, and regardless of where I thought the story should go, Laurie McCluer was not about to be silenced. Megan leans more toward believing the ghost is trying to help her solve a mystery, but it creates friction between her and her childhood crush turned current love. Perhaps it’s because he’s a Boston detective who believes in physical evidence, not hazy green apparitions. Ghostly Laurie proved relentless and I finally had to let her story be told, which in the long run was really quite helpful.

If you like stories with ghosts but without the scares, I think you’ll enjoy A GAME OF LOVE (contemporary) and PROSPECTING FOR LOVE (historic time travel). They’re both available at https://bookswelove.net.

Also for the holiday season, Books We Love is having a give-away now through December 15. You can easily enter at https://bookswelove.net for a chance to win a free holiday eBook (my newest is included) and a chance to win an eBook reader. Books We Love knows how much you love books and we want to help spread the cheer.

Early Best Wishes,

Barb

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

 

 

 

Hauntings on the University of Missouri Campus by Stuart R. West

In honor of all things Halloween, I'm taking a break from regaling all of you with tales of my visit up and down the Amazon River this month. But not to worry! Like everyone's least favorite uncle at Thanksgiving, my tales will continue next month!

But now is the time for everything spooky, like some of my books. Recently, my wife and I went on a local "haunted" tour of the University of Missouri in Kansas City campus.

Wait...that light just turned on, right?

Fascinating history hosted by the very knowledgeable Chris Wolff, unofficial historian of UMKC and author of A Pearl of Great Value: The History of UMKC. 

I only yawned a few times. 

Onward!

All that's left of the University Playhouse. Except, of course, for ghosts!

One of the first stops was the grounds of the (now demolished) University Playhouse. In the 40's and 50's, Broadway actress Vaugn Burkholder worked at the theater, known for prowling the catwalk in an almost obsessive manner. In 1957, she keeled over in the playhouse from a heart attack. After she died, students claimed to have seen her in the rafters. Her high heels tic-tic-tacking across the boardwalk were heard by many. After the building was torn down, some believe her spectral figure still haunts the newer UMKC Conservatory, a replacement for the old playhouse. Hey, ghosts gotta hang out somewhere!

Next was a morbid tale that shed some surprising light on one of America's most notorious, unsolved murder cases. In 1941, UMKC education major, Leila Walsh, returned from a date and went to bed. Later that night, Leila's mother heard a strange thumping sound. She searched the house, found nothing awry. Leila's door was closed, and her brother, George, was sound asleep on the sofa. The mom went back to bed. The next morning, Mrs. Walsh went to wake up Leila and found her dead, savagely bashed with a hammer, her throat slit, and a strip of flesh ripped from her back. Not the best way to start your morning.

Leila's brother, George, was arrested for the murder because some guy claimed he sold the murderer's gloves (found in the yard) to him. The witness was later discovered to be a kook, reneged on his testimony, and said he'd had a vision of selling brother George the gloves. Holy O.J! George was exonerated, primarily on his mother's testimony that he was sleeping during the crime. Plus a chair had been lodged beneath Leila's doorknob.

The Kansas City police were embarrassed, the mob got involved, everything was sorta swept under the rug. Until the KCPD got a call from the L.A. Police Department. Back in 1947, the brutal murder of actress Elizabeth Short shocked the country. Better known as the infamous "Black Dahlia" murder, a name and phone number was found in the victim's purse. It belonged to a World War II veteran, Carl Basinger. Basinger claimed he'd only met Short for a few hours which later proved to be a lie. Furthermore, Basinger trained at Camp Cooke where Short volunteered until leaving due to harassment from a soldier.

I now know who killed her! (Probably a little late to collect that reward, though.)

More intensive investigation unveiled that Basinger went to UMKC at the same time as murdered student Leila Walsh. Hmmm... Also, the two murders were markedly similar, the signature of a strip of flesh torn from the back a giveaway. Alas, the lame Kansas City PD were still embarrassed by the entire unsolved debacle, didn't want to dredge it up again, and didn't cooperate with the LAPD. To this day, the two murders remain unsolved... OR DO THEY?

Let's move on to the haunted Epperson Mansion! Way back in the early 20th century, long before smart phones (and maybe even dumb phones, too), millionaire couple, Uriah and Elizabeth Epperson (along with organist, Harriet Barse--their living arrangement quite the scandal at the time), built and lived in this kooky mansion. The floor plan's apparently super bizarre, every five feet a new set of steps leading to other honeycombed rooms. 

Not as scary looking in the daytime!

Barse died in the mansion from gallbladder issues (the good ol' days!) and her spirit is said to haunt the mansion. The mansion's closed now, but not too long ago it'd been donated to the university where the music school resided. Students heard footsteps constantly, some saw Barse floating through the labyrinth hallways. Notoriously, an antique car nearly ran a cop down in the driveway and then vanished. And, of course, lights mysteriously go off and on.

Sadly, we weren't able to enter the haunted mansion. But as we stood on the cobblestone driveway, a light went on in the now abandoned mansion, then went off. I saw it. Some others (including our guide) remarked on it. My wife totally Scullied me, said it was a reflection from an outside light. (Whatever. The damn mansion's haunted and I saw it with my own eyes! I want to believe, Scully!)

Speaking of hauntings, have you guys visited the very strange and haunted town of Peculiar County in Kansas? Perfect for Halloween reading, it's just a day-trip away (best not to travel at night, though.).

One click away from paranormal mystery and fun, perfect for Halloween.

I am...the Great Indoorsman by Stuart R. West

CLICK HERE FOR SPOOKY OUTDOOR SHENANIGANS

Let's get something straight. I don't camp. The closest to camp I come is watching the old Batman TV series.

I'm a civilized chap, rather fond of climate control and beds. Beds were created for a reason. I believe it blasphemous not to use them. And cable TV, a must for survival.

Several years back, my wife talked me into a camping trip. We're talking really roughing it. Staying in a cabin in the wild woods of Oklahoma. The sheer Jeremiah Johnson-ish of it all! Sure, the cabin had a hot tub and a VCR player, but, man, I felt so...primitive. I mean, honestly! A VCR player, for cryin' out loud!

It was at this savage cabin I saw my first "walkingstick." Totally freaked me out. I screamed like my name had been called on "The Price Is Right." Sticks aren't supposed to walk. And people can't understand why I don't camp. Duh.

I suppose my Great Indoorsmanship began at an early age. Against my better judgment (and because kids are never given a choice), I was set to go on a cub scout weekend camping trip. Thankfully I came down with a stomach virus and missed the "adventure." On that ill-fated trip, my fellow scouts blundered into a wasp's nest and rolled through a thatch of poison ivy. If I even look at poison ivy, huge blisters develop on my eyelids.

Invariably when people try to convince me how wonderful camping is they fall short of selling it. Usually, their tales are rife with horror (Mosquitos! Flooding! All sorts of Biblical plagues!), hardly a convincing argument.

When you wake up freezing or sweating (both equally awful sensations), I hardly see that as a bonus. Campers are just opening themselves up to the Zika virus or a Bigfoot ravaging. Not to mention the various demented serial killers who lurk in the woods. I know, I've done my research. I've watched lots of horror movies. 

I gained my Indoorsman legs the hard, practiced way...on the sofa. Many hours spent on many a different sofa have toughened me into the sofa-sitting man I am today.

And I have the best job in the world, too. Writing. I never have to leave the sofa again. (Well, maybe to wheel the mini refrigerator and microwave in next to the couch, but you know what I mean.) 

Phobias by Stuart R. West

Phobias are a funny thing. Everyone suffers one.

If you look up the word "phobia," it's categorized as an anxiety disorder; a fear of a situation or object blown way out of proportion to the actual threat. Try telling that to the phobia sufferer.

I have a friend who's deathly afraid of clowns. Why? Dunno. But I suppose it makes sense to him, his mind working overtime to try and persuade logic to over-take the irrational fear. Granted, serial killer/clown John Wayne Gacy didn't do too much to promote clown good-will, but I hardly think clowns generally pose a threat. Even so, there's even a name for it: Coulrophobia. The fact the fear is predominant enough to earn its own name implies its more widespread than I thought.

My phobia? Heights, aka Acrophobia. Which is strange. It didn't happen until later in life. As a youth, I'd recklessly climb aboard the most rickety-looking, splintery old roller-coasters with wild abandon. Absolutely fearless. But sometime, somehow things changed. I didn't even realize it until my daughter and I visited a (supposedly haunted) lighthouse in Florida. It wasn't the thought of ghosts that inspired my fear. At the top of the tower, I hugged the walls, too terrified to look down while other tourists found me very amusing. How do phobias build later in life? Is it like hair-loss?

The most outrageous case of phobia I've ever seen is my wife's (thank God she doesn't read this blog). A medical professional, she doesn't flinch at anything, even discussing gory details with a blase attitude over dinner. But...spiders. Yep, arachnophobia. The eight legged varmints turn my strong soldier of a wife into a quivering pile of jello. When she was in college, she took parachuting lessons. On the day of her big jump, she spotted a spider in the airplane. The instructor had to physically restrain her from jumping out early. Once, on a busy street, she jumped out of her car, leaving the passenger inside to deal with it. Anything to get away from the dreaded critters. At home, her screams are legendary. I'm used to the tiny, startled "eeks." Those are categorized as "Be there in a second, honey!" But the full-on, blood-curdling shrieks when she spots an arachnid? That hits the "Code Red! Jump over any obstacles to get there ASAP!" category.

There's a phobia for nearly everything and a correlating name to go along with it. Fear of hair (Chaetophobia), fear of cooking (Mageirocophobia), fear of smells (Olfactophobia), fear of long words (Sesquipedalophobia--which I think is kinda ironic, really), the list goes on and on. It's quite fascinating, really. If you're truly interested, look up The Phobia List.

I suppose everyone's allowed a phobia. And only the sufferer truly understands their own fears, even if they're at a loss for words how to describe it. And I have to say, a lot of times I write about some of my own fears in my books, I suppose as a form of therapy. Yep, even danger at heights!

What say you, folks? Let's hear about some interesting phobias.

Click Here For Many Phobias: Ghosts, Greed, Evil, Buried Alive, Moving Shadows & More!

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!

The Man With the Hat by Roseanne Dowell

I remember moving into our first home. I was so excited it was difficult to sleep the night before. It didn't matter that it was an old house and needed work, it was ours.  My husband worked nights and had taken his vacation to start preparing the house for us. I was six months pregnant, but raring and ready to work and we got the keys on my birthday. Couldn't have gotten a better birthday gift. We spent two weeks scraping wall paper and painting. Moving day couldn't come soon enough. We moved in the first weekend in June and spent the weekend putting things away. Things were quiet over the weekend. We fell into bed exhausted.

It all started the  night Roger went back to work.  We put our children to bed and sat down to watch television until it was time for him to leave.   I had the most uncomfortable feeling someone was staring at me, but ignored it.  Roger didn't seem to notice anything. Our dog curled up next to me and seemed quite content.  About eleven o’clock he left for work, and I went to bed.

Just as I dozed off I heard a noise in the basement.  Our dog started barking. Not sure what to do, I picked up the phone and called my sister, who lived two streets away. She sent her husband, Doug, to check things out.

Doug looked around the house and of course didn't see anything. However our dog refused to come into the dining room.  She remained in the hall growling and barking. Doug went into the kitchen and called her. She didn't move. I went into the living room and called her. She refused to enter the dining room and wouldn't come to either one of us. 

Seeing my fear, Doug suggested we pack up the kids and spend the night at their house. I’m sure he just wanted to go home to bed.

In the morning we returned home and all seemed well. All day our dog ran through the house with the kids like normal..
That night the same thing happened.  I hesitated calling my brother in law again, but the noises wouldn't quit. This time, however, as Doug started down the basement steps, he stopped, came back, and took a knife from the drawer.

I must have looked confused; because he told me he had an eerie feeling like someone was watching him. He checked out the basement and everything seemed normal. And, again, we spent the night at their house. 

This went on for several nights. Doug came over and took us all to his house.  The nights Roger was home we didn't hear anything and the dog stayed calm.

The next night Roger went to work it happened again. This time Doug brought a tape recorder over and set it up in the dining room before we went to his house. I’m sure he was sick of coming over and set it up to prove to me there weren't any noises. Yet, he admitted to having strange feelings especially in the basement. 

The next morning, we played back the tape.  Sounds of our dog growling and barking were predominant, but in the background were sounds we couldn't identify. Sounds like something being dragged across the floor and others noises sounded like scratches and moans.

I knew I couldn't spend every night at my sister’s house so I made up my mind to stay home. Every night the same thing occurred. Somehow I tuned out the noises, quieted the dog and managed to sleep. After all it was my house.

One day, a few weeks later, my three daughters were playing upstairs in their room.  They screamed and ran down stairs.  “There’s a man up there,” they cried in unison.

Since we’d been home all day, I knew that couldn't be. But I went up to check out their story to appease them.  They pointed to the alcove where they said a man with a hat had been watching them.

Of course no one was there.  I explained it was a shadow of a bird going past the window.   Although I had an eerie feeling and the room felt extremely cold and it was a warm June day.

My daughters refused to accept my explanation. They knew what they saw and described him clearly.  He was a tall man, in a brown suit jacket and wearing a hat. They couldn't make out his face, but they said he watched them play.

Of course, hey refused to play upstairs, and I often had a hard time getting them to go to bed at night.

Up until then things remained normal during the daylight hours. Now it seemed our nightly visitor had decided to appear when it was light out, too.

Also until then, Roger thought it was my vivid writer’s imagination working overtime.  That is,  until one day he was working in the basement.  He came upstairs, white faced.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

“I just saw a man wearing a hat in the basement. At first it was a shadow. But as I stared at it his form became clearer, and I could see the outline of his hat.”

That shook me up. When he described the man the same as the kids, I knew we had a ghost. Roger wouldn't lie about something like that. Now he realized the noises weren't my overactive imagination after all.

About a month after we moved in, I met some of the neighbors. I hesitantly told them of my feelings of being watched.  I didn't mention that my kids or Roger had seen a man.

The woman across the street laughed and said it was probably our nosy neighbor looking in the windows. She went on to explain how when they moved in the woman actually walked in and looked around.  I knew that wasn't the case but hesitated to tell her anymore of our experiences. After all I had just moved in and didn't want people to think I was crazy.

I asked one of the neighbors about the people who had lived in the house before us. It had been sold as part of an estate sale.  So I knew they had died.

“Oh, a nice old couple lived there. The wife died a long time ago. And John lived alone for a long time,” she said.  “He died in the house and it was several days before they found him because he didn't have a phone. When we didn't see him for a few days and his newspapers stayed outside we called his son.”

Later, I found out John died in the very bedroom I slept in.  Eventually I told my friend about some of the things we experienced, but didn't tell her about the man with the hat. I asked about John and she said he was a nice old man, kept mostly to himself. “He loved to work in his garden and yard. Funny,” she said. “He always wore a brown suit coat and a hat.”

So that explained a lot.  John was our ghost. He appeared many times after that. Roger often saw him in the basement, especially when we were remodeling the kitchen. One of my sons said John used to sit on a chair upstairs and watch him play.Strangely enough, my son wasn't afraid of him. 

I never saw John myself, but I sure heard him and sometimes smelled a sweet smell, like aftershave. One day he simply disappeared. I figured he must have approved of us and went on to a better place.

You can find Roseanne's books at Books We Love or  Amazon