Ghost Stories...'tis the season

"Buttercup Cottage Halloween" photo by K.L. Wood

 Anyone who has followed my writing is well aware that I often incorporate a ghostly element into my stories. For example, my Middle Grade novel, Zephyr Stone and the Moon Mist Ghost will be published by Blue Ink Press https://www.blueinkpress.com/in 2021. As you may surmise, I also enjoy reading ghost stories and watching television programs and movies that center on otherworldly action and characters. Especially if they are based in true events. I am alone in this within my household of two, in which my husband has no such interest. Although he humors me from time to time, he mostly just finds something else to do while I watch or read my ghost stories. Strangely, enough, between the two of us, he is the one who has had more actual ghostly encounters. Encounters of which he is the first to acknowledge their validity and truly supernatural qualities. I wrote a poem about my proclivity towards ghost stories which was selected to appear in the 2017 edition of the College of the Albemarle's annual visual arts and literary journal, Estuaries, and present it, here, as my October offering. Enjoy! (As you learn a bit more about me and my obsession...I mean my interest.)

"Edinburgh Ghost Tour" re: Pixabay

Ghostwriter

by Kathryn Louise Wood

Why are you always reading about ghosts,

or watching their hunters on reality TV,

or searching for clues on the internet,

or writing them into your stories and books?

These are the questions my husband asked me,

forehead creased in spousal concern.

Well that’s a good question, I’ve given it thought,

and wondered, myself, at this strange fascination.

So, after some probing and inner reflection,

I think I’ve discovered the root of my quest.

Two things have always stirred deep in my psyche:

the spellbinding thought of a magical world,

and life after death where lives never end.

I’ve seen too much, and heard even more,

to dismiss the existence of bodiless souls,

spirits so free of earthly constraints,

they pass through walls and visit the living.

That non-corporeal realm seems magic made real.

When days are numbered—some many, some few—

the promise that all that we are is not lost

lends comfort, but also a thrill of intrigue

to think we are all so much more than we seem.

I salute those who find their Belief is sufficient

in resting assured of eternal existence.

I find that the Faith of My Fathers is bolstered,

renewed, and strengthened, and greatly supported

when the stardust of supra-natural beings

reminds us, all, we are made of the same.

Thanks for stopping by. Y'all come back, now! 

(And Happy Halloween!)

Kate

Ghostwriting...why I do it

"Peace" by Frederick Richard Pickersgill, 1871

As an author, I often find myself writing stories, novels, poems, and essays that involve ghosts, spirits, the souls of those who have left our sides. As a reader, I love to read books in which the supernatural are, well...natural. As a viewer of films and television programs, I am drawn to subject matter, both fiction and documentary, that explores the existence of the spirit world. So, why is that? Why am I continually pulled in this direction? And I might add, judging by the proliferation of literary and cinematic examples of ghostly stories, I am not alone in this fascination.

After giving it some thought, I have drawn the conclusion that my own interest lies in the joining of three worlds into one. The world of Magic. The other-worldly world of the Afterlife. And the world of Everyday Life. So many books, television programs, and films have utilized the land of fantasy, where magicians and wizards and good-hearted witches cast spells and use their magical powers to make their worlds better places. Regarding the Afterlife, it's not

"Dancing Fairies" by August Malmstrom, 1866

only books and film, but entire religions and philosophies that see the death of our physical bodies, not as an end to our existence but as a freeing of spirits from the restrictions and limitations of those earthly bodies. (Kind of like those fantastical magical beings who can fly from place to place and walk through walls.) And so, that leaves us in the here and now, dreaming of magical abilities and hoping our lives, and the lives of those we love, are not limited to the years we have here on this earthly plane.

The Afterlife, then, becomes an existence in which magic is made real and in which we have hope for the ongoing life of ourselves and our loved ones. It follows, therefore, that when we are faced with proof or validation of those beings (our future selves) who have "gone on beyond," we come to realize that the world, our Everyday Life world, is actually a pretty magical place. A world inhabited by future ghosts, spirits, the souls of those who have yet to leave our sides.

One of my poems, "Ghostwriter," was selected for publication in the 2017 edition of Estuaries, the visual arts and literary review of the College of the Albemarle. Follow this link and find my poem on page 20.
 https://issuu.com/collegeofthealbemarle/docs/estuaries-2017

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.  
Kate

Ghosts are People Too...cradle to the grave and beyond

The author as a newborn with her mother.

This month's post is not based so much on research as it is on my own observation and reflection about how we view different stages of human life and how it may relate to the Afterlife.

How many times have you heard someone say "I love children," in the same way they might say "I love dogs"...or "cats"...or "baby goats?" It's as though children are a different species altogether. The same goes for "teenagers" or the newest designation du jour, "milleninals," or "the middle-aged," or "old people" --unless you are a child or a teenager or a millennial or middle-aged or an old person, and then it's just "us." It seems to be a part of human nature to inhabit our particular current age group as though this is who we've always been and who we will always be. Not necessarily in an intellectual sense, but in an emotional/psychological one. That children will always be children and teenagers will be always be stuck in adolescent limbo. We can think back on our own earlier days and note that, yes, we lived in that house as a child, or we hated carrots as a child, or we loved horses as a child. But go to a playground and watch a gang of kids swinging and sliding and hanging from the monkey bars and we think "those are children--look how much energy they have...or look

The author with mother and brother

how whiny they are...or look how cute they are..." and see them as something separate from the rest of humanity. Boys will be boys...forever.

BUT, children are just people who've not been around as long as some. And old people are just those who've been around the longest of us. They are the same creature. In thinking of all things ghostly for my current work-in-progress, I can extrapolate this same tendency of ours to our attitude toward those who have entered that next stage of life, what we sometimes refer to as the Afterlife. We often think of the spirits of the departed as strange and unholy entities. Or we think of them as strange and very holy entities. Monsters or angels, take your pick. But whatever they are, they aren't us. I am putting forth the idea that ghosts are not a separate species anymore than are the youngest or oldest among us. They are simply us at a different phase of life. Therefore, they are nothing to fear unless they were fearsome at an earlier age. Just people. The truest, innermost soul of the person, free of physical advantages or disadvantages with which they lived in a former stage of life.

The author, her grandmother, mother, and baby

OK. I'm climbing down from my metaphysical soapbox now. Perhaps this sudden need to express myself on this issue comes from the fact that April is the month of my birth and I am thinking of years past and years to come and how I've changed and will continue to change but, at my core, am the same person now and always, even in that future "land of far, far away" to which my beloved mother has already traveled. Thanks, dear Reader, for indulging me.

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.  And Happy Birthday to Me! :)

Kate

P.S.-- Below is the word count meter showing my progress on my latest Work In Progress: 
Zephyr Stone and the Moon Mist Ghost

33459 / 60000 words. 56% done!

Spectral Lovers...of the Great Dismal Swamp

"Lake Drummond in The Great Dismal Swamp
National Wildlife Refuge" photo by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service
 Northeast Region via Wikimedia Commons

One of only two natural lakes in Virginia is surrounded by 100,000 acres of deep, dark wetlands straddling that state's southeastern border with its neighbor, North Carolina. Lake Drummond sits in the midst of the Great Dismal Swamp and, along with its mysterious swamplands, is the source of many ghostly tales. As this intriguing natural wonder is central to my latest work-in-progress (a middle-grade novel entitled Zephyr Stone, Ghost Charmer,) and as this is the romantic month of 
February, I am sharing one of the swamp's most famous stories.

"Thomas Moore" by Martin Archer Shee

One of the oldest tales of the Great Dismal Swamp is the enduring legend of the Lady of the Lake. The earliest people to populate the swamp were Native Americans who are thought to have first lived there 13,000 years into the past. It is not surprising, then, that this long-lived tale features those early inhabitants. It is said that a young Native American woman died just before her wedding day and her ghostly image can be seen paddling a white canoe through the dark waters of Lake Drummond. While visiting Norfolk, Virginia in 1803, Irish poet Thomas Moore immortalized the Lady and her distraught bridegroom in his poem, "A Ballad: The Lake of the Dismal Swamp." This was part of Moore's book, Epistles, Odes, and Other Poems, written in 1806 about his experiences and impressions during his visit to Bermuda and the eastern region of America. His introduction to the collection is a scathing criticism of the people he encountered in the young nation. His poem about the spectral lovers, however, is the height of romanticism.

From the Sheet Music Collection of
Samuel S. Levy at Johns Hopkins University

A Ballad: The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
by Thomas Moore

“They made her a grave, too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true; 

And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 

Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 

She paddles her white canoe. 

“And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 

And her paddle I soon shall hear; 

Long and loving our life shall be, 

And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

When the footstep of death is near.” 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds— 

His path was rugged and sore, 

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before. 

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 

"Stained Glass of Dismal Swamp" photo by KL Wood

Its venomous tear and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew! 

And near him the she-wolf stirr’d the brake, 

And the copper-snake breath’d in his ear, 

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 

“Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake, 

And the white canoe of my dear?” 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play’d— 

“Welcome,” he said, “my dear one’s light!” 

And the dim shore echoed for many a night 

The name of the death-cold maid. 

"Beaver Dam, Dismal Swamp" photo by KL Wood

Till he hollow’d a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which carried him off from shore; 

Far, far he follow’d the meteor spark, 

The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 

And the boat return’d no more. 

But oft, from the Indian hunter’s camp, 

This lover and maid so true 

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 

To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, 

And paddle their white canoe!

    My husband and I visited the Great Dismal Swamp National Wildlife Refuge, today, with

"Tree in Road, Dismal Swamp" photo by KL Wood

the intention of driving to Lake Drummond. Unfortunately, a victim of this morning's wind storm blocked our path half-way, its long branches stretching across the narrow road, its large root base upended over the canal leading to the lake. Oh well. Another day. Who knows, perhaps the Lady of the Lake did not wish to be disturbed today.

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.  And Happy Valentine's Day!
Kate

Witch Way to Enter the House...and where to store your broom

"Witches Hut" photo by Sunblade 1500 via Wikimedia Commons

Today I am writing this post to the sound of workers installing a new front entry door on our old house. Since most everything about our century-plus-old Buttercup Cottage is just a wee bit crooked and out of plumb, installing a twenty-first century door is like pounding the proverbial square peg into the round hole. It can be done but it takes a lot of time, creativity, and a fair dose of stubborn willpower. So...drawing from this inspiration, I researched the role of doors in legend, lore, and superstition. I ran across a wonderful resource in the form of a book you can read online: 
The Frank C. Brown Collection of North Carolina Folklore-- Popular Beliefs and Superstitions from North Carolina. Duke University Press, 1964.

https://books.google.com/booksid=Oudc1sjV6cgC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false

Read and heed these important rules relating to home doorways. There is a surprising number of rules involving witches. Apparently North Carolina witches are a particularly wicked group. Not one word about witches bringing good luck or granting wishes. 

"Broom" photo by Schmidti via Wikimedia Commons

Hang onto your hats. Here we go!

--"If you want to keep witches away, lay a straw broom in the doorway."
     -Don't leave a broom propped up beside the door because a witch might take it to ride on.
     -If you have a witch in your house, lay a broom in the doorway and she can't budge.
     -Apparently, witches can enter your house by stepping over the broom so if you visit a neighbor and see a broom in the doorway, don't step over it or you might be accused of witchcraft. (Yes, it seems to negate the whole witch-barring-doorway-broom thing to me too.)
    -Along those contradictory lines: if you are bewitched, lay a broomstick in the doorway and the first person to pick it up and enter is your witch.

--"If anybody comes to your house and acts crazy, go out to your front door and scatter salt, for he's a witch and it will keep the charm away."
    -If you sprinkle salt in front of your door, a witch cannot enter.

--"By hanging a sieve on the door of your home you could be assured a witch could not enter while you were asleep, because she had to go through every hole in the sieve."
    - If you fill the sieve with dirt, it makes it even harder for the witch!

"Clitheroe Museum Lucky Horse Shoe" photo by 
Clem Rutter via Wikimedia Commons

--"If you are shown a piece of hair near the door and you do not pick it up, the witches will overtake you soon."

--"If you find a horseshoe in the road, cover it with tin foil and hang it over your door. This will ward off witches."

--"If a door opens of itself, a ghost is the operator."

--"If a rooster comes up to the front door and crows five times, it is a sign of death in the family."

"Cockadoodledoo!!" by Steve Selby via Wikimedia Commons

     -There are many variations on this theme and it doesn't seem to matter whether the rooster crows at the front door or the back door, head in or head out, once or many times. Anyway you look at it, a rooster at your door is ominous!

--"If you make a window out of a door, one of your family will die." (Doesn't appear to be a time limit for this one so it's probably true. Might just take a while...)

--"If someone dies in the family, it is bad luck for everyone to go off and close the front door." (There are many rules about leaving doors and windows open following a death at home so the deceased person's spirit is free to leave the house.)

I know there are many more superstitions and "rules" regarding doors but I think this is enough to keep me and my new door busy. (Now...if you hear me complaining because I can't find the sieve to strain the tea, just remind me to check the front door.)

Have a good couple weeks, dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now! 

Kate

Stingy Jack...the Jack O' Lantern's spooky history

Photo by By Petar Milošević (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

So, does your Jack O' Lantern sport a Happy face? Creepy face? Goofy face? Donald Trump (or other presidential candidate of choice?) Harvest scene? Broom-riding Witch? Owl? Bats? Or, as we did for our daughter's October wedding thirteen years ago--Hearts? Bride and Groom? Monogram? Anyway you carve it, a Jack O' Lantern is an integral part of any Halloween celebration in most parts of America. Over the years, the simple, classic, snaggletoothed grin has transformed into complicated but often amazing vegetable art. BUT...Where did it all begin? When? And Who is Jack?

Where--- Ireland (well, of course.)
When-- Long ago (hundreds of years per my research.)  
Who-- Stingy Jack. 

By Toby Ord (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

Seems there was this Irish fellow named Jack who spent a few years consorting with the Devil without paying the Devil his due. It all began when he invited Satan to a pub to share a pint and a bit of unholy camaraderie. At the end of the evening Jack turned out his pockets, empty except for a small silver cross, and showed his companion he had no way to pay the bill. The Devil wasn't in the habit of carrying around currency so Jack proposed that His Lowness could use some supernatural power and turn himself into a coin to pay the barman. And he did. But, instead of paying for the drinks, Jack slipped the coin into his pocket and exited the public house. Not sure how he got away with that, but perhaps the pub's owner recognized Jack's drinking buddy and decided not to press the issue. Jack was careful to put the demonic coin into the pocket holding the cross so, of course, the Devil could not return to his original form and escape. Jack made a deal with the Devil that he would release him under the condition he would not bother Jack for one year and he would not steal his soul when he died. Deal. Devil released.

"Our Scary Tree" photo by Terry Wood (author's brother)

By Bodrugan (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

A year passed and the Devil once more shared a day with our Jack. This time Jack tricked him into climbing a tree to retrieve a piece of fruit. Perhaps Satan was tempted by the memory of Eden's Forbidden Fruit. While the Devil climbed into the tree's branches, Jack carved a cross into its trunk preventing the Horned One's escape until he promised not to bother Jack for ten more years. Deal. Devil released. (It's not clear how he removed the sign of the cross, trickier than just taking a cross out of one's pocket, but perhaps he added a few more marks rendering the cross into something less holy.)

As with all mortal beings Jack died and, true to his word, the Devil did not steal his soul and take him to Hell. But because of his previous lifestyle consorting with Satan, neither was he allowed into Heaven. Jack returned to the Devil for help but was merely given a lump of burning coal to light his way as he wandered eternally and aimlessly across the Earth. 

Seeing this unfortunate and creepy soul 

By Wyscan, via Wikimedia Commons

haunting the countryside, the Irish began calling him Jack of the lantern. Jack O' Lantern. Kind of like O'Brien or O'Malley. To keep spooky Mr. O'Lantern as well as evil spirits away from their doors especially on All Hallow's Eve, they carved out lanterns from turnips, gourds, rutabagas, and beets. The weird carved faces were meant to scare the spirits away. When Irish immigrants reached American shores and discovered pumpkins, they were able to carve out even more effective lanterns using those larger gourds.

By MANSOUR DE TOTH  (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

Happy pumpkin carving, my friends, and Happy Halloween! (Watch out for Jack though. Centuries of aimless wandering can make for a pretty testy spirit I think.)

Have a good couple weeks, dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now! 

Kate

Now You See Them, Now You Don't...Shadow People of the Inuit

"Shadow Person" photographic illustration by K.L. Wood

What was that? Did you just see something flicker beside you but when you turned your head…it was gone? Optical illusion? Ghostly apparition?

The native Inuit people of the far northern climes of Canada and Alaska might say it was one of the shadow people. Among their many legends is that of the tarriassuit, the shadow people, who live alongside the Inuit in a kind of parallel universe. The origin of the tarriassuit is said to be of Inuit who strayed too far north on hunting trips and found themselves in a strange land halfway between the living and the dead. They could not leave this odd plane of existence and became beings with one foot in the visible and one foot in the invisible world.

The tarriassuit cannot usually be seen by humans but can sometimes be glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye. When they are, somehow, visible they are said to look and act just like contemporary Inuit…same clothing, hairstyles, hunting equipment and modes of

Map of Inuit Dialects per Wikimedia Commons

transportation. (That means snowmobiles in the 21^st century.) Some Inuit say you can only see their shadows, hence the name shadow people, but can sometimes hear their footsteps and voices. There are Inuit legends that claim the amorphous creatures become visible when they die.

Although rare, it is said that sometimes humans can cross over into the land of the tarriassuit and even marry shadow people. There is the story of a woman who was wed to a shadow man but after some time she became frustrated with her inability to see her husband clearly. She grabbed a hunting knife and plunged it into the place she thought he stood. The shadow man fell dead to the ground, materializing into a handsome young man.

"Eskimo Figure, near Wrangell St. Elias Ntl Park, Alaska" photograph by Wm. Ahearn

The tarriassuit are thought of as kind, gentle, and helpful beings. The ending to the story of the murdered shadow husband is that, although the tarriassuit felt the need to seek revenge, they restrained themselves, believing it unfair to attack people who could not see them to fight back. This concept of benevolence is in sharp contrast to the tales of fear and horror associated with sightings of what current American ghost hunters call shadow people. I see the difference as how one society accepts and venerates that which is beyond our five senses versus another society (ours) that pushes other-worldly experiences into the realm of superstition and fear.

Have a good couple weeks, dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now! 

Kate

300 Years of Haunted Edenton...taking the Ghost Walk in my hometown

Edenton's 1767 Courthouse (photo by K.L. Wood)

When you live in a town which is over 300 years old with many homes continuously occupied since the 1700s you have to expect there to be a few hauntings…or at least stories of haunted houses and spectral visitations. This year, my family and I went on the town's annual October evening walking tour: the Edenton Ghost Walk.

Young women from John A. Holmes High School carried candlelit lanterns to help illumine our path along the uneven, often brick, walkways in the dark of night. But what a perfectly beautiful night it was! Cool and crisp with bright stars above us, quiet enough to hear the water lapping gently against the town docks.  Our tour guide led us by several homes and buildings and shared their stories...historical and suitably creepy. Come close, dear Reader, and I will tell you some tales…but keep in mind these are just a few of what we heard and these are limited to the area in which we walked. Edenton is full of many more homes filled to the brim with lore and legend.

Standing outside the 1767 Edenton Courthouse, our guide told us of an eighteenth century man who committed several crimes and was tried and convicted in the historic building. Once sentenced to a lengthy imprisonment, he bolted to the front door and tried to escape. The exit was locked from the outside and he beat futilely on the heavy wooden door hoping someone would unlock it and let him out. The man ultimately died in prison. People walking by the old courthouse, late at night, sometimes hear the sound of banging as they pass the door.

Beverly Hall is a beautiful and stately mansion, built as part bank, part residence in 1810. It

Beverly Hall, photographed in 1936 by Frances Johnston

is home to a particularly grisly tale. It seems there was a clerk working in the bank who was discovered to have been swindling the townspeople out of their hard earned money. One night, the clerk saw a crowd of disgruntled people coming toward the Hall carrying torches and all manner of weaponry. He decided to shoot himself before the angry mob reached him. Disappointed at not being able to bring the man to justice, they took his corpse to the old Courthouse, sat it up for “trial,” accused and sentenced him to “death,” and then carried his body back to Beverly Hall where they strung him up in a tall tree in the backyard. There they left him for crows to pick his corpse apart. Today there appears to be an unusual amount of crows that hang out on Beverly Halls lovely grounds…looking for more, perhaps?

Built in 1850, elegant Pembroke Hall is popular today as a gorgeous wedding venue. Every weekend from spring through fall, festive white tents pop up on its generous grounds for happy couples to exchange their vows and celebrate their union. One hopes the brides do not encounter the spirit of a man who has been seen there, wearing a Confederate uniform and bearing horrific facial wounds from a Civil War battle in which he lost his life.

Pembroke Hall, Edenton (photo from visitedenton.com) 

Speaking of brides, another lovely home is the source of a sad tale of a happy eighteenth century bride who decided it would be fun to play hide and seek with members of the wedding party on the day of the nuptials. During the game, the bride went missing and although the guests searched thoroughly and called her name repeatedly, she was never found. With a number of pirates wandering the streets, it was feared and assumed she must have been kidnapped by some dastardly piratical crew. Generations later, after the house had changed ownership a few times, a woman went into the attic and witnessed a filmy form sweep past her and hid for a far corner. The woman peered into the far recesses of the attic and found a beautiful wooden chest she thought might make a lovely coffee table. When the chest was brought down and opened, the body of long dead woman in a wedding dress lay within. Apparently the unfortunate bride hid in the chest during the game and it locked on her, sealing her in and sealing her fate.

Another story involves the restoration of the Roanoke River Lighthouse, in active

Roanoke River Lighthouse, Edenton (photo by K. L .Wood) 

commission from 1886 to 1941. This is the original lighthouse that marked the entrance of the Roanoke River into Albemarle Sound. In recent years it was moved from its working site to Edenton’s harbor where it has undergone extensive renovation and is now open for tours. Part of the restoration involved removing some sad, old carpeting. One of the workmen was bending over and pulling up a section of the carpet when he felt a hard and distinct kick on his backside. Looking around he expected to see he had bumped into something but there was nothing anywhere near him that could have caused the sensation. Evidently, one of the old keepers was indignant at the man’s removal of his beloved carpet!

As I have stated before, living in a 300 year old town is a wonderment and an inspiration. I hope you can come and visit our town someday…perhaps you will experience your own spirited encounter!

Have a good couple weeks, dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by...Y'all come back now! (And beware of things that go bump in the night!)

Kate

Swamp Spirit, a Halloween excerpt from Sea Snow-- the gentle haunting of a 19th century lighthouse

By Usher, John, Jr. -- Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

So, here we are just a week away from Halloween! I thought it would be fun to share an excerpt from my novel, Sea Snow-- the gentle haunting of a 19th century lighthouse, in which Rose Martin tells us of a ghost story she heard at a village celebration on Halloween Night, 1899. The teller of the tale is her dear friend, Jenny, the local mid-wife who lived in Rawlings, Massachusetts since her escape from slavery in South Carolina many years before.

Jenny raised her gray head and opened her eyes. She lifted her hand, pointing a long finger toward the people facing her. Her black eyes reflected the pumpkin light as she silently turned a complete circle, her pointing finger slowly passing over everyone in turn. I felt an involuntary shiver as her finger pointed my way. Complete silence fell upon us—even the stifled laughter and clearing of throats ceased.

“You,” she began, her voice sounding a note of authority I’d never heard before, “must hear the tale I tell tonight.”

We were all under her control—all gladly relinquishing our own will to fall under the spell of this old woman, this former slave. 

“It happened a long time ago, back when I was a young’n, hiding out in a South Carolina swamp. There came a moon mist— one of those nights when the moon is full and bright and the mist rises thick above the water. Everything glows milky-white and you can’t tell east from west or south from north. It’s on a night of the moon mist that spirits, lost in the swamp, return to look for their way home, or search for whatever it was they couldn’t find when they were living. Something (I never knew what it was,) woke me in the middle of the night and I got up from my cot and looked outside. The camp was floating in moonlight. I pulled a shawl ‘round my shoulders and stepped just outside my door. I knew I shouldn’t go out in the moon mist, but it was so beautiful and strange, all at the same time. I had to get a little closer to it. That’s when I heard a soft shuffling near by. I stepped back into my doorway and peered through the swirling mist. It was Jimmy! I wondered what Jimmy was up to. He was about nineteen, just a few years older than me, and I kind of fancied him.

By Love Krittaya (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

“ ‘Jimmy!’ I whispered.

“He didn’t answer.

“ ‘Jimmy! What are you doin’ out there?’

“I saw his dark shape swim by in the whiteness.

“ ‘Jimmy!’ I whispered as loud as I could.

“He paid me no mind. I looked back inside my hut and then outside at the moon mist. Foolish child that I was, I pulled my shawl tighter ‘round me and walked out.

“ ‘Jimmy!’ I called a little louder. ‘Where’d you go?’

“A rustling in the bushes caught my ear and I walked toward it. Just ahead, I could make out Jimmy’s shape moving before me. I knew for sure it was him, ‘cause he walked with a limp—something he’d got from the overseer who’d broke his ankle the first time he tried to run away.

“ ‘Jimmy!’ I called out loud this time, but my voice was buried in that moist cottony air.

“I followed his lop-sided gait, until I came to the edge of a lagoon. He was nowhere to be seen. I walked around the water’s edge, shivering every time a finger of Spanish moss draped over my shoulder. Here and there, cypress knees tripped me as I wandered about. 

“ ‘Jimmy! Where are you?’ I cried out.

“Then, out of the soup, I heard an owl hooting.

“ ‘Who—who, who, who?’ it asked.

“I couldn’t make out where it was. I turned in a circle and it sounded like it was coming from all sides of me at once. I was getting pretty scared by that time! Then, I heard a soft lapping sound out in the water and saw a greenish light glowing through the mist. The sound and the light grew closer and I stood, planted like a tree, on the bank. I tried to run but my legs wouldn’t move!

"Ramona" by F.L. Harper

“As it grew near, I could see a paddle dipping into the water just behind the light. The light was coming from inside a canoe, though I couldn’t see any kind of lantern. I stood frozen as it came within a few feet of me. Then, I could see what it was that held the paddle. It was a beautiful woman—long, black braids hanging down, a necklace of shells circling her neck, and colored beads sewn onto her tan leather dress. As she came closer, I saw some white feathers stuck here and there in her braids. The light from her canoe cleared a space in the mist and I could see her real plain. There came a sloshing noise and I saw Jimmy, on the other side of the lagoon, wading through the water toward her.

“ ‘Jimmy! What you doin?’ I called to him.

“He didn’t look my way—just kept his eyes on the Indian woman.

“ ‘Jimmy! Get yourself on back here!’ I cried.

“Jimmy was knee-deep in the water, and only a couple feet from the canoe.

“ ‘Jimmy! Don’t you know she’s a swamp spirit? Get away!’ I screamed.

“The woman placed her paddles in the canoe and reached her hand out to him.

“ ‘No!’ I hollered, but my voice sounded puny even to my own ears.

“Jimmy took her hand and climbed into the canoe. The light went out and I couldn’t see anything at all in the moon mist. A flapping sound came from the direction of the canoe and a snow-white owl swooped over me.

By David Syzdek (Snowy Owls (4 of 22)) [CC-BY-SA-2.0
 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons (digital enhancement by KLWood)

“I started running but I had no idea where I was or where the camp was anymore. Every time I stopped to catch my breath, that owl flew at me, pushing me ahead. Then I stumbled into camp. That bird herded me all the way home! I ran into my hut and jumped into bed, pulling the covers tight over my head.

“Next morning, when folks were up and about, word spread Jimmy was gone. I was scared to tell anybody what I’d seen and I’d have thought maybe I’d dreamed it up except when I went to make up my bed, I saw something glowing white under my blanket. I pulled back the covers and this is what I found.”

Jenny reached into her pocket and withdrew a large, white feather and held it before her. Lantern light danced across its snowy surface and the whole room gasped as one body. 

“We never heard a word from Jimmy again but, later on, folks said they’d seen two white owls flying around the swamp when the mist was thick and the moon was bright.” 

Have a good week, dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by...Y'all come back now!

Kate

http://seasnowhauntedlighthouse.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15890071-sea-snow?from_search=true