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!

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

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

A Haunting in Hanover, a true story for a Halloweenish digression

The Apotheosis of Penelope Boothby (1796) 

by Michele Benedetti after Henry Fuseli

As a change of pace from sharing my discoveries of 18th century life and in keeping with the season, I will share another true ghostly encounter experienced by my down-to-earth husband.

Several years ago when Bill lived in Hanover, Massachusetts and worked as a graphic designer, he had a part time office assistant named Mildred who worked off and on for him over a three year period of time. Mildred lived in town, about a quarter mile from Bill's residence, and often expressed her love of her home and the neighborhood. She experienced personal challenges and found great comfort in her home and the kindness of her neighbors.

Mildred was brokenhearted when her husband informed her that the company for which he worked was transferring him to Nashua, New Hampshire, about 70 miles away.  She decided she had no choice but to join him and, with great regret, packed up and moved away.  Their house sold quickly to new owners who pretty much kept to themselves. Occasionally, Mildred returned to Hanover to visit and would stop by Bill's office to see how things were going.

"Welcome to Hanover" By John Phelan (Own work) [CC-BY-3.0
(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)],
 via Wikimedia Commons

About four years passed when, around 10:00 on a lovely autumn Sunday morning with golden light shining down on the brightly colored leaves, Bill drove from his house to a newsstand for his weekly ritual of purchasing the Sunday newspaper. His route took him by Mildred's former home and, to his surprise, he saw her out in the front yard raking leaves.  She looked up and they exchanged a wave and a smile as he passed by. He couldn't imagine what she was doing there, raking leaves in the current owner's yard, and when he came back by a few minutes later he planned to stop and chat with her.

When Bill reached the house, she was no longer in the yard. He looked in the driveway and only saw the current owner's car. Puzzled, he pulled up in front of the house and walked to the front door. Looking around for any sign of Mildred, he rang the doorbell and a man he had only seen a few times, but who Bill recognized as the homeowner, opened the door.

Bill answered his quizzical expression with his own question, "Hi, I'm a friend of Mildred's and when I drove by a few minutes ago, I noticed her raking leaves out in your front yard. Is she still here? I'd love to see her."

The man wrinkled his forehead, "Mildred?"

"Yes, you know, the woman you bought this house from."

The man shook his head and told Bill Mildred wasn't there. He hadn't seen her since he bought the place.

"I could have sworn it was her I just saw out there," he said, pointing to the front yard. "Is there another woman here who was doing yard work this morning?" 

"No," the man said beginning to look suspiciously at Bill. "No one's here today except me."

With that, he closed the door leaving Bill standing alone in complete bewilderment.

"Hanover Center Cemetary" By John Phelan (Own work) [CC-BY-3.0  

 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)],

 via Wikimedia Commons

Once he returned home he went about his usual Sunday morning routine but couldn't get the odd incident out of his head. Several hours later he received a phone call from a neighbor who asked if he had heard the news about Mildred.

"No," he said, and before he could tell her about his experience earlier in the day, she announced, "Well, she's dead! Poor dear was killed in a car accident around 10:00 this morning."

"Here?" Bill asked, "In Hanover?"

"Oh no," she replied, "right near her house in Nashua."

So, dear Reader, what do you make of that? Was Mildred making a quick, ghostly stopover to visit her beloved home one more time before she went...wherever she was going? To quote Shakespeare's Hamlet, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"Hamlet, Horatio, Marcellus and the Ghost," 1796

by Robert Thew after Henry Fuseli

I'd love to hear your own ghost stories. Leave them as a comment, please, so we can all marvel at them.

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

Ghosts of New Orleans, a personal experience

Both my first novel, Sea Snow- the gentle haunting of a 19th century lighthouse, and the novel on which I am currently working for my series, Time Shadow, involve ghosts of one kind or another. Actually the first one is about a ghost and the one I am writing now is about a spirit. You may think of these as one in the same but I think of a ghost as a spirit that is bound to a person or a place beyond their control and have no choice but to haunt said person or place until they have come to some kind of resolution of unfinished business. A spirit, on the other hand, is that part of ourselves that lives on beyond our physical lives and exists in a different plane of existence but who may, if they so choose, visit or interact with the physical realm. (Just my thoughts as they are at the moment. I am always open to evolving ideas.) 

I have had only one interaction with a spirit but my dear, down-to-earth husband has had several, one of which occurred when we were traveling around the country on a 33,000 mile journey pulling a 13 ft camper trailer from Virginia to Alaska and all parts in between. With his kind permission I will tell you what happened to us on November 1 (All Saints' Day,) 2011 as we camped just outside New Orleans in St Bernard State Park Campground.

 

We had just pulled into this lovely park and were setting up camp around 5:30 pm. All the campground staff members were gone by then so we picked our spot and placed our payment into the self-pay box provided for latecomers. The park only had a few of its many campsites filled so we were able to find a good spot, far enough away from other campers for privacy but not too far from the bathhouse. (Our usual criteria.) We had a nice, level campsite, one side facing the camp road and one facing a stand of young trees. Our two dogs and I were inside the camper, which we affectionately called "Lucy," as I undertook the usual reorganization of supplies necessary when we set up camp and performing that most important of tasks, making two cups of hot tea, while Bill did his usual outdoor chores of securing the trailer. One of the things he had to do each time there was a water supply available, was to hook up the water hose from the water source to the camper. This is a job he had performed hundreds of times before with ease. This time, however, he could not get the hose end to thread properly and he struggled to securely connect it to the fresh water connector on the camper.

 As he crouched by the trailer, his frustration mounting by the second, he felt someone approaching and looked back over his shoulder. There, standing about eight to ten feet away between two narrow tree trunks at the edge of the campsite, was a slender black man about 70 years of age, curly grey hair, gold-framed glasses enlarging his kindly eyes, dressed neatly in a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt buttoned up to the neck, khaki trousers and sneakers. (As a photographer, my husband is extremely observant with a great memory for detail.) The man was carrying a bright yellow water hose that trailed behind him and was smiling reassuringly at Bill, looking as though he were about to speak and offer assistance. At that moment, Bill felt the hose slip securely into its connection and turned his eyes back to the trailer. He immediately turned back to face the man and speak to him but there was no one there. He stood up and walked to the spot where the man had been standing and looked around through the trees, no trace of his existence. He walked quickly around the trailer and looked up and down the road, no one there at all. When he looked through the trailer's screen door to ask me if I'd just seen a man outside, his face was as white as a proverbial sheet. Later, he was talking to an older man who spent a lot of time camping at the park and broached the subject of apparitions in the area. The man replied, "Oh yeah, you know this whole parish was flooded after Katrina. There're hundreds of ghosts swimming around here." Bill asked a park ranger if anyone else had ever reported seeing anything like he had witnessed. The ranger said he wasn't at liberty to say but, in his words, "It wouldn't surprise me one bit."

As time goes on, I will relate other true ghostly encounters and I would love for you to share any experiences you have had.

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

Photographs on today's blog are copyrighted by my husband, William Ahearn.