Halloween at The Chamber of Horrors

Thank You To Our Guests....

2005-11-02T09:11:00.000-08:00

I would like to thank everyone who attended the 2005 Chamber of Horrors Halloween Party.

Now it's time to shut the doors for a little while...but you know, this place does have a life of its own...I would not forget that if I were you.

See you next year

Anita Marie
November 2, 2005

My Hallow's Eve Conversation With A Raven

2005-10-31T00:51:00.000-08:00

My Conversation With A Raven

For Halloween, I thought I would share this tale with you. It actually happened, just as I tell it…

I took my early morning cup of tea out onto the balcony, and sat down to admire my favourite tree. A raven flew down and perched on a branch. He turned a beady eye on me, and I, as is my wont, bid him good morning. I don’t actually talk aloud to birds, you understand – I direct my thoughts at them.

Having bid him good morning, my mind wandered to the line from Poe - ``Quoth the Raven, nevermore…”

The raven at once turned his back on me.

``Ok,” I thought, ``Poe didn’t go down too well.” I hummed a few bars of the Scottish ballad, Twa Corbies.

The raven still resolutely refused to look at me.

I now leaned forward and directed my thoughts in a more concentrated manner – but this time I thought before I thought, if you see what I mean.

``OK,” I said, ``ravens have had bad press from Poe and folklore – you’re sick of hearing that stuff. Tell you what I’ll do – I’ll write a song, a poem, in praise of ravens – of all black birds. I’ll sing of their beautiful shining black feathers, the perfect way their wings fold back against their bodies, their courage, their protectiveness – I’ll sing of the way ravens have helped people, and how they take it upon themselves to be a warning, to be associated with bad luck, because they are noble birds that do not think of themselves first…”

By now the raven had turned round. He was looking at me, disconcertingly, from either side of a slender twig, two bright yellow eyes looking at me…

``I’m not as famous as Poe,” I thought at him, ``and not a great poet, but my words are sometimes heard and sometimes travel over vast distances, and I know a woman who loves ravens and will be glad to let others know of my song.”

He hopped around the branch, closer to me, his bright eyes still fixed intently on me.
``I will sing of the beauty of the raven,” I promised. ``You are surely the handsomest bird of all.”

We continued to observe each other in comfortable silence for a couple of heartbeats, and now, here is the spooky bit.

``You have my word on it,” I said. ``From now on, I will sing in praise of ravens. No more quoting Poe, I promise. You can go about your business now.”

And he flew away.

Playing tonight at Duwamish Cemetary

2005-10-31T00:26:00.000-08:00

THE SKIVING DEAD

FEATURING
New lead Singer

BEAN SIDHE

You're in for a screaming good time!
Starts at Midnight

Halloween Greetings!

2005-10-30T19:18:00.000-08:00

These links were sent to me and thought I would pass them on:

http://www.kraftfoods.com/kf/ff/Halloween04/HalloweenHelper.htm

Some very interesting food ideas -- I've already had a Goblin Goo

Drink..............hmmm?

http://www.bullguard.com/curiosities/default.aspx?id=377

Some printable Halloween Star Wars Masks...I think I've

felt like all of these at some stage...hard to choose.

You can also click a link to hear a "spooky" Star Wars Audio

Broadcast.

http://www.bullguard.com/curiosities/default.aspx?id=377

Make your own Star Wars themed Halloween Goodie Bags. Quite impressive

when you see the pics!

-- courtesy Bullguard Security newsletter from UK --

P.S. Even www.google.com is dressed up today!

Here is my costume

2005-10-30T17:36:00.000-08:00

This is me, the fall fairy.

I bring to the party all manner of dried seeds, pods,

flowers, and grasses, to decorate

Baba's house and festoon the

Bone Chair.

The Harvest Moon rises behind me

and I am caught in her glow.

I hope to dance with all of you

at the party.

(ps: I did the drawing...that felt good!)

Hallow Who??

2005-10-30T16:03:00.000-08:00

Halloween Wishes....

2005-10-30T13:42:00.000-08:00

Have A Happy Halloween and a Thundering and Lightning Good Time!

Anita Marie

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-30T12:07:00.000-08:00

"The night is full of promise

for those who know that endings

are just beginnings

waiting to happen..."

Happy Halloween Anita Marie

2005-10-30T03:18:00.000-08:00

Mountain Ghosts

2005-10-29T18:40:00.000-07:00

Parson done

Don't rightly know folk first off, (my papa said)
see'in howse they are proper s'picous
o' people askin' questions nun there bus'ness.

Well, I remembered that strong
and kept my council close,
and my comments small like whittle shavings
until my stick was sharp --
no purpose though 'cept
showin' I respected a keen edge
and slow patient stone
spit on after a swoller of cider. (learnt from Granny)

Anyways,
I was sittin' idle with friends
and dogs feet up in the sun lazy
when the Parson amble by to invite
hisself to dinner and pluckin'
by the night fire afore
the story tellin'.

"You might be needing that stick there,"
he offered, then said nuthin'.

Now I scratched my mem'ry
of preacher stories and local talk,
but didn't free no tick
'cept maybe that rumor 'bout
a skeleton up to Clevis Ridge
with Hawthorn stakes
through its eyes.

Parson was like that --
a simple little statement meanin' nuthin'
and every Jack and Jane were afixin'
to tell a ghost yarn that night.
Me? I set to figurin' how he was gwanna
turn this scarry fedaddle
into some spiritual lesson.

Well, nigh on whisper ember time
with no one willin' to put another log --
and the stories new all gone
and the old'ones half told again,
it came to me that bein' skeert
was all from not knowin'
but wantin' to set an answer
where none fit --
and of wantin' to warn youngins
of hid dangers and trouble lurkin'
which stuck in mem'ry fast
when yer eyeballs is big.

So I tweren't surpised
when Parson took his turn.

"I stopped by the Larkin cabin today."

"Here it comes," I thought.
Nobody been near that place since the fire,
what with Jeb toasted inside and all.

Single guys stopped chattin', and
couples nestled close quit spoonin' quick.
Yes sir -- they was ready to be scared.

"I heard all sorts of strange noises
and saw colored light between the logs,
and though of spooks or witches right off."

I grabbed by stick awaitin' there,
just ready fer the call. (not scared though!)

"Yup! If I had hung back and skulked away,
like some folks I be knowing …," (he offered slow)
"I'd be tellin' you now to stay far away,
and fetch yer kids up from the pond." (his hands aflyin')

"but I went right up and offered my hand,
just like the Book been tellin' you,
and even helped a bit with cleaning,
and painting and putting windows in."

I kinda chortled low.

"Fella name of Fred Fowler bought the place,
and is fixing it up something grand,
seeing he has only one arm from the war.
And his Annie gal sure turned a chicken right,
and said she was baking berry pies
in case other nice folk herebouts
happened by."

He turned to me and grinned.

"That stick will help a lot
with the chinking in narrow cracks.

I told them I'd be seein' some neighbors
and pass the word …"

Then Parson done what he always do,
just strolled off alone,
never skeert a'nothin'.

Story in Stone

2005-10-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

I posted this picture on another blog,
wondering if anyone would notice
the man buried in stone --
the evil presence capuring him --
and the angel ghost rushing to the rescue.

I never noticed these until after I took the photo.

Take a Ride With Baba to the Isle of the Dead

2005-10-29T06:06:00.000-07:00

Baba Yaga lives deep in the forest, in a hut that stands on chicken legs and is surrounded by a fence of bones. It is said that she guards the gate to the Other World. Are you willing to go for a ferry ride in her black swan boat to the Isle of the Dead to learn about healing?

The Black Monk of Fallen

2005-10-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

Here's a little Halloween treat from me to you...its about this little town up the road from where I live and here in Duwamish Bay some of us like to visit it at about this time of year and this is why....

Fallen was this little town on the verge of dieing when the State put the Prison there.

It took its first breath, I think, the day they opened it.

You see, right after the first Prisoner walked through the gates the town started to come to life, new houses went up almost everyday and a school and a main street with all sorts of stores and it even had a cemetery.

After the first execution you'd have thought they struck gold up in those hills and in a way I guess they did. Fallen went from being a corpse drying out in the hot desert sun to not being a corpse drying out in the desert sun in a matter of weeks.

It turned into this living thing where the greens were too green and the trees were to tall and no matter how cold it got the leaves and plants and flowers never died...not even during the winter.

They didn't even die in that fire that broke out about two months after Fallen Penitentiary opened.

How did it happen? Was it magic? When you look back on it, it was simple.

All it took really was for someone to fall through that trapdoor in Section " D " of Fallen Penitentiary.

After the people in the nearby town Duwamish Bay saw what was happening in Fallen they stayed away and refused to do business or talk to anyone who was from that cadaver of a town suddenly returned from the Dead.

Fallen in time became one of those little towns you only saw when you were lost off the Main Highway and you were so busy screaming at the person with the map in their hand that you don't really notice anything outside of your car.

So while it was, alive...if you can call it that no one from Duwamish Bay would set foot in it.

After it died again they would outright deny that monstrosity of stone and brick and metal was back in those hills.

The residents of Duwamish would look at the curious traveler like they were a simpletons...much loved simpletons and say very sweetly and kindly, " Fallen Penitentiary? You drove all the way out here to see that place? It doesn't exist you know, it never has. Here, why don't you go on down to the Marina, there's a Sideshow there that's world famous you know..."

What the Residents in Duwamish said to the outside world was one thing, what they knew for a fact was another and besides they weren't really lying when they said Fallen never existed...but that's just mincing words.

The truth is they were afraid of Fallen and they wanted whatever that place was to stay up there in the High Desert and rot.

Then on Halloween in 1920 the people in Duwamish Bay got their wish granted.

That was the year Fallen died.

Again.

That's what people think because Laramie Underwood had been up there on October 30th to drop off a prisoner and he went back on November 1st to bring down the body of an executed woman named Elizabeth Everett.

Elizabeth Everett wasn't in the pine box in the one room little brick house where they stored the executed. In fact not only was Elizabeth Everett not there neither were the 200 living inmates or the Prison Staff.

Gone, they were all gone.

Laramie Underwood said the building was empty and dusty and the bars were rusted and the mortar between the bricks was crumbling and there was puddles of stagnant water all over the place.

" Its like no one had set foot in that place for 100 years. But let me tell you, that wasn't the part that scared me. What scared me was when I heard this door to one of the offices open and close and I heard these footsteps and I could hear keys being jangled around and I heard whistling and what scared me was that voice and those footsteps were moving along like it was just your normal everyday thing to do. How could a normal person act like that? I mean, that place was dead...dead you know? "

Laramie he lived in this little town called Resolution and he shot himself about two weeks after discovering that Fallen was dead.

Some of the people from Duwamish went up to Fallen after Laramie's funeral because they wanted to make sure whatever had come after Laramie wasn't going to go after anyone else.

So they brought a grave marker of sorts up to the front gates of Fallen and hoped that it would be enough to keep whatever was walking those halls inside of that evil place.

The Marker was carved from white marble and it was an effigy of a hooded man and his arms are at his sides and his head is tilted slightly to the right, like he's listening for something.

They faced him away from the Prison and the the six or so people that made the trip that day said some prayers for the dead and as they walked away they could hear sounds back there.

Not one of them turned around.

Not one of them looked back.

They knew...the " Monk" brought from the Plague Chapel had turned black and it was now facing the Prison, not away from it.

And then as time went by people did forget about the Prison and became less afraid of it and in the end it became another neglected cemetery...the hills around Duwamish are littered with those.

So that brings us to twenty years ago and a game that local teenagers had been playing for years...it was called " Clinking " and it involved bottles and the Black Monk.

It was a simple game; you'd dare someone to go up to Fallen and drink to the Monk and you'd toss your empty bottle towards where he stands and you'd hear this ' clink ' because the bottles have carpeted the ground there.

Clinking... get it?

Of course what some people tried to do was actually hit the statue but that wasn't easy to do because it was black and there were no lights up there.

So one year this girl takes the dare and goes up to Fallen and she can see things in the windows...misshapen hands grasping at the bars and she thought she even saw people walking through the gates.

Then she takes her drink and tosses her bottle and ... there is no clink.

Then suddenly the bottle comes flying back at her and catches her right between the eyes and she's knocked off her feet and her face splits open and there's blood everywhere and this isn't Hollywood you know. The bottle doesn't shatter; it smacks the ground with a ' clink '.

" Doesn't feel so good, does it? " says a man's voice.

So...that's my Halloween story, straight from Duwamish Bay and if you think the Black Monk of Fallen or Clinking sounds like some made up story or an urban legend I'd say to you, lean a little closer and take a good look at me.

This isn't a beauty mark running down the center of my face.

I wish it were.

I really do.

© anita marie moscoso 2005
text only

In A Word

2005-10-28T06:39:00.000-07:00

In A Word

Main Entry: 1scar·i·fy Pronunciation: 'skar-&-"fI, 'sker-Function: transitive verbInflected Form(s): -fied; -fy·ingEtymology: Middle English scarifien, from Middle French scarifier, from Late Latin scarificare, alteration of Latin scarifare, from Greek skariphasthai to scratch an outline, sketch -- more at SCRIBE1 : to make scratches or small cuts in (as the skin) 2 : to lacerate the feelings of3 : to break up and loosen the surface of (as a field or road)4 : to cut or soften the wall of (a hard seed) to hasten germination- scar·i·fi·er /-"fI(-&)r/

Main Entry: 2scarify Function: transitive verbInflected Form(s): -fied; -fy·ing: SCARE, FRIGHTEN- scar·i·fy·ing·ly /-"fI-i[ng]-lE/ adverb

Just A Treat....

2005-10-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

Travellers Beware.....

2005-10-27T17:00:00.000-07:00

I have not been feeling myself of late, and if you notice

in this self-portrait, there has even been some

serious image corruption.

Obviously there is a ghost in the machine.

Could it be me?

I fear this reflects the corruption of my very soul,

and warn all travellers to beware.

I shall wander the earth on

All Hallow's Eve,

seeking freedom from

the spell that

has surely

been cast

upon

me.

maybe,

just a spot

BLOOD.

Medusa and Spirit Servant

2005-10-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

Baba Yaga has bought in her Spirit Servant and the Medusa to avenge herself. Le Enchanteur can run but she will have trouble hiding from these two. Let's see how she gets herself out of this pickle. The Spirit Servant's plan is to capture her in a bottle and let her be a servant, at everyone's beck and call for awhile.

Brief Glory

2005-10-25T19:50:00.000-07:00

Baba said it 'would all end in tears' and right now she is far from happy. Le Enchanteur will need to watch her back because Baba is not someone to toy with. Turning Baba into a purple dragon is not one of le Enchanteur's better ideas, especially when Augustus and Moonbeam are playing out their hero archetypes. Could be interesting come Halloween!

How Will Anyone Recognise Me?

2005-10-25T04:55:00.000-07:00

HALLOWEEN DRESS REHEARSAL

Look, I know looking like this will make people jealous, but seeing

how amazing I look, well, I guess I'd better share my

wardrobe secrets.

Check out this link and choose your mysterious guise...

http://www.halloween-costumes-masks.com/halloween-decorations.asp

Borgia Sainbury Waits

2005-10-24T20:51:00.000-07:00

Borgia Sainbury’s family cut the trail that leads up to Mourning Ridge and they built the little house that’s up there and now Borgia Sainbury tends to the cemetery, the special cemetery that overlooks the town of Duwamish Bay.

This special cemetery belongs to the Sainbury Family and in this special cemetery they bury secrets and confessions, cries for mercy and dark deeds.

Even the truth is entombed here.

Where Borgia Sainbury Waits.

The Cemetery holds eight graves and a wall that circles the little reflection pool is crumbling now but here and there you can see into the niches and in those little vaults you can see small brass urns and little wooden chests.

Borgia Sainbury waits in the little cemetery and she sits on a little marble bench dressed in gray.

She's unmoved by wind or rain or snow and she casts no shadow and when the leaves turn gold and blood red around her and then fall to the dusty ground she does not blink.

When the ground beneath her feet begins to tremor, when the trees fill with crows and they begin to scream and the tide below the bluff begins to bubble she opens and closes her eyes very slowly.

Her pale lips part and dust that is as fine and thin as baby powder is exhaled from her stilled lungs and drifts down to her chin and chest.

Borgia Sainbury smiles and the muscles in her face and neck creak and groan with the effort.

Then she stands.

" Time to go to work, " she whispers, " time to wake and work. "

She walks from headstone to headstone and rakes her thin cold hand over each one and then she stops and her smile becomes too wide, too joyful, and too hungry.

" You. "

Then Borgia Sainbury steps back.

The ground comes apart, and from the ruined grave a figure crawls out.

Sometimes its a man sometimes its a woman but its always pale, shrouded in gray and its eyes are always as dark as midnight.

Borgia watches as the figure makes its way out of the cemetery and she can still see it when she closes her eyes

Borgia watches her kin as they walk through prison gates and to the ends of hallways with heavy barred doors. She's there when they take their place on scaffolds, or behind screens and when they go alone into secret rooms to prepare the tools of their trade.

The Sainburys are Executioners and this little cemetery is not where they go after they die

This is where they are from...

Where Borgia Sainbury Waits.

© anita marie moscoso 2005
text only

Spells for Halloween

2005-10-24T06:11:00.000-07:00

Le Enchanteur and The Amazon Queen are down at the Archipelago practicing some spells for Halloween. Baba has flown away saying that 'it is all going to end in tears'. You would think she'd be happy to be turned into a purple dragon and not a common and garden green frog. Some people just cannot be pleased.

Dracula

2005-10-23T08:57:00.000-07:00

Beware the ankle biting Dracula. He may be small, but he's thirsting!

The Golden Bone Chair

2005-10-23T05:59:00.000-07:00

Baba Yaga brings out this designer, hand crafted, chair especially for Halloween and All Soul's Night. The idea is that travellers can take turns to sit on the chair and have five minutes in the spotlight as they perform for the crowd. Come October 30th - through to November 2 Baba is hoping that one by one travellers will take the golden seat and make a special presentation. Costumes and wigs are available in Pandora's Costume Box. Excuse drunken Silenus who can never miss a party. Hopefully the donkey is taking him away.

A Look At Friday the 13th

2005-10-20T14:12:00.000-07:00

Did you realize we missed having a Friday the 13^th last week by one day? Thursday was the the 13^th. I have to admit--if I already haven't, which I'm sure I have--to being slightly superstitious when it comes to luck. I like to knock on wood and have had one or two other personal superstitions that I more or less followed when I've wanted good luck. (I'm not going reveal them, of course, *laughs* that's why they're p-e-r-s-o-n-a-l, personal.) Even though I've followed these superstitions off and on--the knock on wood more frequently--I have to laugh, even at myself, for these practices. They're silly, they're old, they're amusing. At least, in my opinion. But, if you look at their origins and history, they're also interesting. At least, to me they are.

With Friday the 13^th, I have to laugh because--*looks up to where the superstition gods might be listening in and sidles away from current spot in case a lightning bolt is thrown*--I've always found the day, in fact, the number 13 to be lucky for me. There have been the occasional to rare times when it's been a bad to extremely unlucky day. I rarely saw why people dreaded the day; I've normally relished it.

Since Halloween is coming up I thought a look at this particular superstition might be an interesting, if somewhat off-the-mark, addition to my haphazard "Halloween countdown." If you want a tie-in, however, here 'tis...black cats, bad luck, hexes, witches, superstitions, Halloween. You'll be able to see the tie-in as I briefly share the wherefores or whys and hows of Friday the 13^th.

Why is Friday and the number 13 considered so unlucky?

There is a Norse myth where 12 gods have a banquet at Valhalla. In walked the mischievous Loki, crashing the party and bringing the number of guests to 13. Once there, Loki arranged for Hoder, the blind god of Darkness, to shoot Balder the Beautiful, the god of Joy and Gladness, with a mistletoe-tipped arrow. Baldur died and the Earth got dark. The whole Earth mourned. (Hence, why we have winter...intterrreessstttiiinnng.)

There is a Biblical reference to the unlucky number 13. Judas, the apostle who betrayed Jesus, was the 13^th guest at the Last Supper.

A particularly unlucky Friday the 13^th occurred during the Middle Ages. On October 13, 1307, King Philip of France arrested the Grand Master and 60 members of the revered Knights Templar and began torturing them, marking the occasion as a day of evil.

In ancient Rome, witches reportedly gathered in groups of 12. The 13^th was believed to be the devil.

Both Friday and the number 13 were once closely associated with capital punishment. In British tradition, Friday was the conventional day for public hangings, and there were supposedly 13 steps leading up to the noose.

It is traditionally believed (by Catholics?) that Eve tempted Adam with the apple on a Friday. Same tradition also has it that the Great Flood, the confusion at the Tower of Babel and the death of Jesus Christ all took place on a Friday.

Numerologists consider 12 as a "complete" number. There are 12 months in a year, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 gods of Olympus, 12 Labors of Hercules, 12 Tribes of Israel and 12 apostles of Jesus Christ. In exceeding 12 by 1, 13's association with bad luck has to do with just being a little beyond completeness.

How is fear of the number 13 manifested?

More than 80% of high-rises lack a 13^th floor.

Many airports skip the 13^th gate.

Airplanes have no 13^th aisle.

Hospitals and hotels regularly have no room number of 13.

Italians omit the number 13 from their national lottery.

On streets in Florence, Italy, the house between number 12 and 14 is addressed as 12½.

Many cities do not have a 13^th Street or a 13^th Avenue.

In France, socialites known as the quatorziens (fourteeners) once made themselves available as 14^th guests to keep a dinner party from an unlucky fate.

If you have 13 letters in your name, you will have the devil's luck . Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Theodore Bundy and Albert De Salvo all have 13 letters in their names.

Did you know...?
The fear of Friday the 13^th is called triskaidekaphobia...

AMAZING

2005-10-20T04:42:00.000-07:00

Go to www.pumpkingutter.com annd view the movie
pumpkinfaces.pps.

Absolutely incredible

faucon

Dress Ups for Halloween

2005-10-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

http://www.bullguard.com/curiosities/default.aspx?
id=368

IPOD covers in Halloween Costume --

What will they think of next? I thought I'd seen it all. This is pretty silly,

but a little bit of fun sent to me by email.

Enjoy!

My Superhero Name

2005-10-15T03:00:00.000-07:00

Not everyone wants to be a monster for Samahain, some people would rather be something cheerful, comic, or legendary. Hence the Superhero Name Generator!!

http://www.rainbowanimations.com/supername.php

I am "The Icky Ghost Girl", who are you? Just a little chuckle, and hopefully some inspiration as well.

My date

2005-10-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

Gifts from Baba's Warehouse on the Archipelago

2005-10-12T21:28:00.000-07:00

Travellers who made their way to the House of the Serpents in August might well be interested in acquiring a serpent lamp stand, with three designer shades from Baba's Warehouse. Perfect gifts for Halloween and All Soul's Day. The foot, retrieved by one of Baba's knights, belongs to a traveller who didn't make it to the House of Serpents.

By night this designer, Soul Hand Candle Holder, in Red Boots, will illuminate your manuscripts and art work. By day they will do the bidding of their owner and guide them safely to the Gypsy Camp. They will be a match for any of the indentured hands in Baba's house and will make sure their owner is protected from any unreasonable demands.

These hands will go to the highest bidder. Make the best, non monetary offer, to the Amazon Queen and she will command these hands become your servant.

Werewolves: By the Light Of the Full Moon

2005-10-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

The vampire is mysterious, compelling, frightening, a sometimes romantic figure with an otherworldly beauty. The mummy is ancient, historical, sometimes delivering a curse upon those who would dare break into and rob his or her pyramidal tomb. The ghost, a phantom of many types, can be mischievious and playful; tragic, solemn and lost; a mere image imprint on the fabric of Time that sometimes replays itself before mortal eyes; or it can be an evil, malevolent poltergeist with the intent to harm. The witch is a maiden, a mother or crone. She has ancient knowledge and knows the arcane arts and will use them, depending upon her nature, in the White Way or the Dark Way. Frankenstein's monster, a tragic human aberration with a gentle, child-like soul, he never asked for the dark, lonely life that was jumpstarted into his stolen dead heart. Only one other monster is there left to be named, who could be considered as tragic as he, and that is...

The werewolf.

Even he who is pure of heart And says his prayers at night
May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms
And the moon is full and bright.
The Hunter's, or Blood Moon, is coming. Soon. October's full moon is set to rise between the nights of the 15^th and 17^th, respectively. As the basic legend goes, the werewolf, being linked to the lunar cycle, is painfully and fearfully aware of the full moon phase. He or she can sense it with every fiber of his or her being. And as the fateful phase draws irrevocably closer, he or she fights an increasingly hard battle against the primitive animal instincts of the Wolf within him or her.

Until on the night of the full moon, totally exhausted and beaten, the werewolf can no longer resist or deny the Wolf. The inevitable has come. The Wolf will out; the metamorphosis a painful delirium. As the Wolf and its voracious appetites surface and take over, the moral consciousness of the human is lost. The werewolf has a dim, or no memory at all, of the terrible, gruesome deeds done in his or her animal form. But he or she eventually hears of them, however, as panic, fear and speculation run rampant in his or her community as the deeds are discovered.

As the curse of the werewolf repeats each full moon, with no release in sight, the tortured soul becomes more introspective. Falling deeper into hopeless, helpless despair, guilt, fear and self-loathing eat at him or her from the inside-out until there is almost nothing left of the once kind, friendly, moral soul. The only salvation and end to the cursed, lonely half-life led by this tragic individual is a silver bullet or instrument.

This is the Classic Hollywood version. A sorrowful depiction of someone whose life is good until one dark and misty night when he or she has a most unfortunate, fateful encounter with a wolf. Soon after he or she begins to notice subtle changes in himself or herself. The senses are keener, he or she becomes moody, aggressive and territorial. Then the Change itself comes upon him or her with the next full moon. The person never asked for or deserved this curse. That is the tragedy of the werewolf.

The werewolf isn't as old as the vampire is in human history. But, like the vampire's bloodlust, the changing from human to wolf is a curse, a punishment from the gods. Lycaeon, a king in Ancient Greece, earned the wrath of several visiting deities when, unbelieving they were true gods, he decided to test them. At a banquet held in their honor, King Lycaeon served the Olympians human flesh in one of the dishes prepared. Cannibalism even then was a barbaric and vile act and definitely a major insult to the gods. Upon discovery of the tainted dish, they, in a fury, changed the disrespectful ruler into a wolf. Since he obviously liked the taste of human flesh, this new form was more acceptable when taking part in such a despicable act. Thus Lycaeon became the first werewolf.

It is from his name and Greek origins, naturally, that we get the words lycanthrope and lycanthropy--from lykoi comes the meaning "wolf" and from anthropos comes the meaning "man." Literal translation: the Wolf Man.

Since then, legends and actual accounts of werewolves have been told throughout history around the world. The most well-known "werewolf," besides King Lycaeon himself, is the (German) wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. He meets the young girl in the woods and, upon smelling and espying her basket of food, hatches a plan to have the meal all to himself. He converses with her, finding out about her and her destination. He beats Little Red Riding Hood to Grandma's, does away with Grandma--either by eating her or stuffing her into a closet, though I would think after eating her he wouldn't be so hungry for more anyway, but then he is a wolf, so what do I know?--dons the old woman's nightgown and cap and hops into her bed. A short time later here comes Little Red Riding Hood, innocently and foolishly falling into the wolf's trap.

In Areminia legend has it, if a woman commits a deadly sin, she is condemned to pass seven years as a wolf. A spirit will visit her, bringing her a wolf's skin to put on. As soon as she has done so she becomes a shewolf, with all the wolf's appetites, temperment and instincts. Her human consciousness repressed, she attacks and kills her children one by one, then those of her relatives, according to the degree of relationship. Once this is done other children in her village become her prey. She wanders forth only at night, doors and locks springing open at her approach. As morning dawns she returns to human form and removes the wolfskin. (Talk about harsh punishment!)

Romanian gypsy legend of the werewolf, however, deviates from the cursed, frightening and sometimes tragic beasts depicted in the examples above. The belief is that white wolves inhabit the village cemeteries, looking for their natural enemy, the vampire. It's their sole purpose to find and destroy any and all vampires before the Undead rise fully from their graves to feed and add to their numbers.

The actual accounts are as interesting as the legends, perhaps slightly more so because they are based on fact and confessions. England's despot, King John, who ruled from 1199 to 1216 was accused after death of being a werewolf. A Norman chronicle recounts how monks, sure they heard noises coming from his grave, exhumed his body, taking him out of consecrated ground. (He musta been rreeaaalllyyy unpopular or the monks really superstitious to do that to a monarch, where before him and the Magna Carta, rulers reigned by Divine Right(?).)

Just like the witch hunts and trials, accusing one of being a werewolf in the Middle Ages was an easy way to get rid of the undesirable and strange. In 1570 a wolf killed several children near Lyon, France. An unfortunate hermit living in a cave, Gilles Granier, was caught scavenging a dead body. This was excuse enough for the locals to get rid of him. They accused him of being a werewolf, and through coercion had him confessing to the false charge. They burned him at the stake in 1573.

A young man in 1603 actually confessed of his own free will to being a werewolf. That is definitely interesting and surprising. Jean Grenier was 14-years-old. He claimed to be a werewolf because his father and a friend of his were such creatures as well. Grenier provided full and gory details of the carnage they wrought on hapless victims and was condemned to death. Because of his young age, he was transfered on a plea of clemency to a Franciscan friary in Bordeaux where Grenier spent the remainder of his days pathologically attached to werewolf lore. He demanded to eat nothing but raw meat, howling like a wolf by night and running on all fours on horribly deformed hands.

When beginning this essay, looking for facts and legends to write about, I had the basic Classic Hollywood version of the werewolf in mind, and of course, L.J. Smith's depiction from her Night World book series. What I found, as you've just read, is a different sort of werewolf. Still cursed, tragic and ferocious, with an appetite for human flesh in some cases, this creature is also good in others, with, I think, a consciousness of right and wrong in the human moral sense. (According to L.J. Smith they do.) I also discovered an interesting difference from Hollywood's idea of the werewolf. The creatures actually look like genuine wolves; they aren't hairy looking, wolf-like humanoids who stretch and burst and rip their clothes in transformation, wearing the remanants over their mutated bodies. Another difference or Hollywood addition to the lore is the full moon's role. In most legends and accounts the werewolf changes his or her form at will and has no tie to the moon's cycle, transformation-wise.

Becoming a werewolf, however, is another story. Being bitten by one isn't the only way to join the ranks. The medieval monk, Gervase of Tilbury, said stripping naked and rolling in the sand under a full moon was an effective method. And according to Italian folklore, being conceived during the time of the new moon, or simply sleeping outdoors on a full moon on a Friday was enough to become a werewolf. Ticking off St. Patrick was a sure way of becoming one too. He cursed an entire clan for their lack of faith in Christ. Every seven years they turned into wolves. In other Old World legends, eating Wolfbane or drinking from the same stream as a wolf has was another effective way.

And luckily, being shot by a silver bullet or getting clubbed by some type of silver implement isn't the only way to release someone from the curse. Canadian lore suggested an exorcism by speaking the name of Christ or calling the werewolf three times by his or her true name. The French believed the curse could be lifted by taking three drops of blood from the creature during its wolf period. (Hallelujah! With these methods one doesn't/didn't have to die to be freed from Lycaeon's punishment! Now, the trick is/was to stay alive while performing these services...or else you'd wind up a werewolf yourself...

But would you be a white wolf; a wolf who keeps its human consciousness; a cunning hunter; or a tragic, cursed wolf who is slave to its primeval animal instincts and appetites?

Sources found at the Soul Food Café and at Lady Gryphon's Mythical Realm.

Terror Test

2005-10-08T16:59:00.000-07:00

While terror and terrorism are not he same,
each person should evaluate their preparedness --

This is a test of your "cuin" ability or adeptness.
I would use the word "wizardry", except that has
been rendered meaningless by Hollywood.
Substitute any word you like for "cuin"

faucon
...............................................................................
A 'CUIN WISH (read wizard or other)

It could have been at Solstice -- or Beltane -- or. The season has no reason when it comes to terror, so I will not relate the time or place.

" Who you are transcends
that and all --
and it must be so --
as one be a cuin!"

So listen close, my children -- this is a test -- a knowing beyond believing:

The crowd was small, but large enough for his purpose. The old stone walls protected from the ranging storm, but also trapped those within. The thin, iron bound windows let in little light -- but enough for them all to see. His drooping raincoat fell open and away. No! Strapped to the scrawny man's chests were rows on rows of dun colored sticks -- wires trailing to a box above his heart -- a single coax cable extending to a button in his hand -- duct-tape. No one there had ever seen such a rigging before -- but all knew, and understood. The Angel of Death breathed on each neck -- silence. Then a baby cried.
"No children! There were to be no children here!" The voice was reedy -- shrill -- but carried no hint of panic. Despair? Resignation?

"All right then -- you have a chance. Spare this child -- though none of you deserve it!" The dread hand lowered a bit as the looming figure spun about -- eyes probing each victim's soul. "I will let fate decide -- or whatever God you now pray to. One of you will come forth and stand for all. This person will flip a coin. If it comes up 'heads' I will leave and meet whatever destiny awaits outside -- the child will be free -- and all of you as well. If you do not win this challenge I will count to five -- an eternity perhaps -- for you all to gather and nurture you spirits"

Silence -- each person looking furtively about -- hoping -- seeking.

"Choose! Have you no champion? Choose, or I shall start counting anyway!" One person walked forward -- alone.

Now, my students, consider your choices.

A) You have the courage and presence to step forth, or to stand silently by and pray that another will shoulder this burden. Perhaps it is a ruse, or the bomb will fail, or…

B) You do step forth, let us say. Is it because:

1) You believe your powers are such that you can control the coin?
2) You know that your faith is such that the coin will be biased in some way?
3) You just want this ordeal over?
4) You don't know why -- are just called to do it?

C) For whatever reason, you are there-- coin in hand. What are the options?

1) You win, and the maniac leaves as he says. How will this affect your life?
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

2) You lose, but are saved anyway -- intervention or failure of his resolve -- whatever.
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

3) You lose. You all die! In whatever manifestation you imagine …
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

4) You win! But you all die anyway -- there never was a chance -- or you didn't create one by your will.
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

Success or failure here can be measured in many ways -- and perhaps some untold here. The real question is -- are you a 'cuin?

For a cuin would not hesitate -- would act …

For the measure of 'who you are' will already have been asked and considered.
"To be willing" is a matter of accountability -- balance -- a sense of being.

Who are you -- right now??

Baba's Archipelago Warehouse for Halloween Supplies

2005-10-08T04:16:00.000-07:00

Visit Baba's Archipelago Island to buy your Halloween and All Soul's Day supplies.

Chamber of Horrors

2005-10-04T20:29:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Chamber of Horrors!
As you know, we at the Soul Food Cafe have been using this building as a place to teach Horror Writers how to be...horrid? At any rate, this was a Victorian Era Medical School at one time and if you'd care...if you'd dare, stay right here in the shadows and listen to Dr Delphine Heller and a few other voices tell their stories...
And in case you're curious, the door to this room doesn't lock....
AMM

What remains today of the Asylum
( Back Right- The Infamous "Plague Church "

THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS: THE BEGINNING

Isn't it just amazing that we have come here to learn to make up stories when all around us are the remains of one of the most notorious Medical Schools of it's time?
This particular book has already been written and is just sitting here, waiting to be read.

You know, I think it's time time for a story.

Interested?

Good...

So please step this way and follow me.

Here we are in the vestibule; do you like the marble effigies? Stolen of course from religious places and cemeteries. When you're as rich as the owners of this school were, they didn't call it stealing, they didn't call it grave-robbing.

They called it the procurement of antiquities

The School itself was once run and owned by a husband and wife team; Dr Johnathan and Delphine Heller. I'm not kidding about the last name. Can you imagine trusting your body and life to a Dr Jack Heller?

And his wife!

Delphine Heller, she was a pioneer in the study of Psychiatry and she believed there wasn't a malady of the human brain that COULDN'T be cured by surgery. Delphine's belief in scalpels and other sharp medical instruments bordered on religious mania.

Her patients in the insane asylum behind the school use to say she was crazier then all 200 of them put together. They also use to call her " De fiend ".

They were right on both counts.

They may have been insane, but they weren't stupid.

If you follow me, I'll take you to the surgery theatre. Awful place, the floors in here are wood and if you drop anything on the floor...write it off. Even after all this time you couldn't credit what sort of nastiness has made it's way into the woodwork.

That's in general I suppose.

This school is not a good place.

Upstairs are the labs. To your right are Dr Johnathan's offices. His books, instruments, specimen jars, charts and journals are exactly as he left them.

Here, let me get the lights. Yes, those are real body parts. Pretty standard fare. Only...well, there seems to be an awful lot of them. More then you'd need for study. Don't you think?

I call this Dr Heller's trophy room.

It seems like that man couldn't perform the most simple of surgery without taking something more then was required. Eyes, hands, feet...and other things as you can see.

Follow me here to his wife's offices...which should be full of books, notes, maybe even pictures of the unfortunates she treated. But her rooms. Well, look for yourself.

These offices are twice the size of Johnathan's and they are full of these...curiosities. These things would be more at home in a circus sideshow or a medical museum then in offices for a psychiatrist.

On this wall, let me get those doors..they slide, there. Physical deformities of embryos..human, animal...some, well, we're not to this day what they are. You will also find if you care to look...are more, medical oddities.

Some of those heads and hands have been altered. Parts sewn on, sewn together, body parts created, in other words, by a surgeon.

She has shelves and shelves of medical instruments that appear to be one of a kind. Tools designed to reshape bones of all sizes, scalpels with specially designed blades and oddly shaped needles.

What the Morgue?

Oh my friend, I was hoping someone would ask me about that.

This elevator is old, but don't worry it works just fine.

The Morgue, was someone's pride and joy and I'm pretty sure it was Delphine's pride and joy. It screams her name...as you'll see.

The morgue is twice the size then the entire school above it. As you can see this is the place where those things in the jars were created. This is the heart of this place.

Now, my astute authors look at the autopsy tables...notice anything strange? Look closer...go ahead you won't see it from way back there.

What, you don't see anything?

You wouldn't see what I'm looking at right now anywhere in any morgue in the world.

They're not necessary for the work down here.

You didn't notice the straps on the autopsy tables?

Hey, don't you all run up the stairs like that, someone is going to get hurt!

THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS AND THE LEGEND OF THE 6TH FLOOR

What, now you all want a tour of the Sixth Floor? After that baloney down in the Morgue when you all tried to trample each other to death? I had visions of it on the evening news: Students perish in freak accident in a Morgue.

Well, forget it.

Oh, stop begging. But I mean it, the first one of you to turn tail and run winds up in a jar. Got it? Okay, then lets go.

As you can see the Sixth Floor was where the chapel was...well, actually where it is because as you see, everything is still here.

The altar and all of this artwork and effigies are from a church in the Carpathian Mountains once known as the Plague Church. Yes, that’s what it was called and if you think that’s strange takes a closer look at the effigies and the carvings on the altar.

Very good, I'm glad you noticed...none of the human figures have eyes.

Do you wonder what Delphine said, when she took her place at the altar and preached the Sunday sermon? I mean, what on earth there was to say to over 100 deeply psychotic and criminally insane individuals?

Perhaps Delphine answered that question all those years ago in her own special way.

In her logbooks she blocked this time off not as " Sunday Services " or " Church ". Nope, she wrote in " Alternative Therapy Session "

To answer your question, I'm not sure it worked...no one is because this wasn't the sort of place you were released from...ever. Delphine’ s Asylum wasn't a place you came to in order to be cured. No, you came here because you couldn't be cured.

Anyway, this is the legend of the 6th Floor.

Years after the Asylum was closed people insisted that the "Alternative Therapy Sessions" were still happening every Sunday evening, and if you were unlucky enough to be here when they started you would go mad.

You would become just as crazy as the ghosts that still haunt the Chapel.

They're supposed to be here still, sitting in the pews, waiting for their treatment.

Some are in straight jackets, or other types of restraints that were popular in those days. A few of the patients wear cages that fit over their heads and rest on their shoulders, some are brought in coffin like contraptions called ' Lunatic Boxes ' and others, the truly insane walked in and eagerly waited for " Church " to begin.

It's widely believed that Delphine’ s Congregation has actually grown over the years because sure as the Sun comes up each day one fool after another feels the need to bust into the school and come to the Plague Church and attend services with Delphine’ s Congregation of the Mad.

Once a group of girls dared their friend to come up here at sunset and sit in that front pew and wait for the Session to begin.

She was sitting right there when she heard the opening and closing of doors and feet shuffling along the corridor. At first she was positive it was her friends playing a joke on her. So she sat facing the altar and refused to turn around, she didn't want her friends to see how much they had frightened her.

Suddenly those heavy doors swung open with a hiss and a horrible stifling hot breeze rushed up the aisle. With it, as if it were woven into the heat, she could hear whispering and every once and awhile she caught a phrase or two and heard laughter and giggling.

Within minutes the entire Chapel was full.

So she wasn't surprised when someone sat next to her...because she was sure that the empty space to her right was the last empty space left in the entire chapel. To her credit she wasn't terribly startled when felt something encased in canvas and metal scrape then rest against her upper arm and shoulder.

She did however bite her lips so hard to keep from screaming they bled.

Suddenly the Chapel was quiet and the girl caught the heavy scent of lavender and heard the rustle of a skirt and heard the sound of light footsteps come up the aisle from behind her. From the corner of her eye she saw light gray fabric and a woman's hand adorned with small thin gold bands on all the fingers of her right hand.

The girl snapped her eyes shut... or really maybe that's when her mind snapped.

Alternative Therapy began.

So what happens when the doors suddenly swing open and the new convert emerges?

Go on, have a seat...I'd be glad to share what I learned that evening all those years ago with each and every one of you.

Okay, I meant what I said...you in the sweater, come back here. I told you what I'd do to the first person that made a run for it.

I warned you all, didn’t?

THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS AND THE MIDNIGHT SHIFT

What on Earth are you people doing in here?

What tour?

We most certainly do not give tours of the Asylum...let alone the Chapel. Now all of you come out of there at once! Here now, what's this? Let go of me and quit that babbling and for heaven's sake quit that crying. You are all far to old for that.

You, young man, what's going on here?

A woman? With a scalpel?

Ah, I see you've had the misfortune of running into our Mrs Everett. Well, don't expect me to feel sorry for any of you. We were very clear when we opened this school which part of the properties were for your use and which areas were off limits.

If you got chased around by a psychotic ghost that's your problem.

Now follow me, we have to get out of here before the Midnight Shift comes on.

Okay, here we are, safe and sound and back in the school and safely tucked away in the library. I'm going to have Miss Bayloche the Librarian explain somethings to you.

May I suggest that this time you listen.

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I'm Miss Bayloche and I'm the school's librarian. Which is probably why I've never laid eyes on any of you. Hmmm, not in the mood for chit chat are we?

That's just as well. Let me get straight to the point.

This school is not a safe place, but you'll do just fine if you understand a few things.

One is the original staff is still here.

Mrs Everett, the Hellers, the teachers and lab workers. They are all still here and they are all still very busy doing the same things they did over 100 years ago, I'm very sorry to say.

One of the worst members of this staff is a very unstable woman who is the head nurse...her name is Elizabeth Telrico and she is perhaps the most worrying to the present day staff because she's in charge of the Midnight Shift.

Simply put, the Midnight Shift is the heart of this school.

At exactly the stroke of Midnight all of the lights in the Asylum blazed on and you could see the Midnight Shift come up the path from the north side of the Asylum.

They walked across a footbridge and came in through the back entrance.

Then the doors and windows would slam shut just as the last member of the night staff entered the building. You could hear the echoes for miles around, I've been told.

Now most of the day staff were locals, they never really met the night staff and tried very hard to keep it that way.

No it's not a mystery why.

Go ahead and take a look out the window, it faces north.

You can see the trail the Midnight Shift used, the bridge they crossed. That piece of property doesn't connect to the road. It's fenced off.

It's the cemetery.

THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS AND THE GHOST HUNTERS

NO!

I will not allow ghost hunters into this building. That's out of the question. Have you people finally lost your hold on sanity?

Do you think for a minute that the ghosts would be the hunted in this situation? I don't know who these people are you've invited but get rid of them...all of them!

What do you mean, it's too late. Go down there and tell them...oh this is just wonderful.

Is running around kicking your mortality in the backside what you do to amuse yourselves? What do you do when you really want to have a good time... play a little Russian Roulette?

Fine, bring them up to the Library and do it quickly, things have been a little to noisy in the Isolation Ward lately. Well...you'll find out the hard way if you don't do what I say at once!

So you are the ... how quaint the Gaslight Society Ghost Hunters. Yes, charmed I'm sure. My name is Miss Bayloche.

To make a very long story short these eight students are all that remains of 25. The others left a week ago after running into the Night Staffers.These remaining eight are suppose to be here to study writing, music and art. They've done none of that. But they've paid room and board till the end of next month so they're here for at least that long.

Their instructors leave them to their own now because all they want to do is talk ghosts and demons and about the living dead.

That's it in a nutshell.

Oh the story...you mean of the School itself.

Well, it was founded by two serial killers one of which was a demon and the other a creation of the demon itself, the Asylum was run by a psychotic and it's Night Staff were residents of a little place called Leaning Birch...which I'm sure you've been informed is the town's cemetery.

Every evening at Midnight a Shift occurs between the world of the living and the world of the dead and the School, or parts of it return to it's former self. Our problem is that now after each shift has occurred parts of the old school are finding their way into the new school and staying.

Furnishings, cups of tea on desks, a room here and there...and things in the Morgue.

Yesterday the kitchen was in full use, food was being prepared, the tables were set...the days paper was even propped up against a bowl of steaming oatmeal.

Well, we don't use that as a kitchen, it was closed off over 100 years ago and the paper for your information was dated 1905.

Things you see from the past are shifting into the present and I don't know why, it's never happened before. It's your standard Chamber of Horrors fare. Boring to individuals of your expertise. So, I guess you'll be...

Staying.

Why of course you are.

This place is one of a kind? You don't say. The racket? It's the door leading to the Isolation Ward. From the sounds of it, it's just been torn off of it's hinges.

Welcome members of the Gaslight Society to the Chamber of Horrors.

THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS AND THE ISOLATION WARD

How many times do I have to tell you I came back as the School’s Librarian because I wanted a nice safe place to settle back in? I've been out of practice for a very long time and I had to brush up on my studies.

It was peaceful, quiet and with each day I felt...hmmm, more involved you might say.

The next thing you know I'm hunting around a morgue for lost students, I'm settling in staff and
trying to set up housekeeping under ridiculous circumstances then I find myself pulling out some old medical equipment (oh don't look like that, I'm referring to the straight jackets) for some Ghost Hunters who decided to try to dive out a window in my library and haven't been quite the same since.

From the looks of them right now, the kindest thing to do was let them fly.

I had to put them in the Isolation Ward; it's the safest place really. Nothing in there can hurt them. I just wish you wouldn't have done that damaged to the door because I've had to restrain all eight of them in there.

It was no easy task...look, one even bit me.

So it's you and me now, until the next shift anyway.

The rest? They're all tucked away safely, the students, the Ghost Hunters (sorry, no I'm okay I was trying not to laugh and I choked a bit there) the curious and the very, very stupid. Tucked away and waiting for... well, you know, help.

Ignore the yelling, I do. It's good practice; it's only going to get worse later.

Yes, it's a good thing the Midnight Shift kept the place up all these years.

They better have, the lazy brutes.

So now let me see here, the beds are ready, the treatment rooms and the equipment are in perfect working order.

Why even the Plague Church is ready.

Now there's a happy surprise.

Everything is ready and I think it's time to begin our rounds. Shall we start with the Isolation Ward? No, you first Jonathan. And do quit calling me by that silly name. How long exactly have you been in that room? It's me; it's your wife...

It's Delphine.

Come Darling, you first...

I insist.
© anita moscoso text 2005

Haikus For the Jack-o-Lantern

2005-10-02T18:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight's entry in my journal.

I can't refrain. Thanks to the Halloween blog I am thoroughly in the holiday mood. I can't wait until Halloween is 13 days away before starting the themed holiday entry countdown I want to do like last year. So, throughout this month you'll most likely see Halloween entries instead of just 13 days before Halloween and counting. As Anita Marie over at the Soul Food Café's Chamber of Horrors said, "And the countdown begins."

Candlelight within
A beacon to roaming spirits
The jack-o-lantern knows the way
-- Shiloh, Oct. 2, 2005

Scary, happy, sad--
The jack-o-lantern
Has many faces
-- Shiloh, Oct. 2, 2005

Dark night, new moon
Stingy Jack walks with nowhere to be
Devil's ember carried in hollowed gourd
-- Shiloh, Oct. 2, 2005

Irish beginning, Irish tradition
Carried across the sea
Carved gourds, turnips and pumpkins
The jack-o-lantern am I
-- Shiloh, Oct. 2, 2005

A warning

2005-10-02T15:28:00.000-07:00

Guess who's coming to dinner?

2005-10-01T19:59:00.000-07:00

Skeleton of an early Christian hermit, Stephen, nearly 15 centuries old, stands sentinel at the entrance to the burial crypt of the Mount Sinai monastery. The present-day monks there claim the skeleton's robes are as old as the grim, holy bones themselves.

Gaping skulls, stored in the crypt, are those of countless monks long dead. Monks are buried in the churchyard for seven years, then disinterred.

Pious reminders of death surround devoted recluses who serve God in Sinai's remote monastery.

Among the barren desert ravines at the foot of Christendom's most sacred mountain - Mount Sinai, in Egypt - lies an ancient and most famous monastery. Here, in splendid isolation, a small community of monks guard precious manuscripts recording the earliest annals of Christianity.

Mount Sinai was the place where, we are taught, the tablets setting out the Ten Commandments were revealed to Moses. In the mount Sinai Library, incongruously modern in the 6th century stone setting of the monastery, the 20th centuryhas at last intruded fully. An American expedition is there now, photographing all the Library's rare documents.

(From Australian Pix Magazine, June 12, 1954)

The monastery in the photographs is St Catherine's Monastery, also called the Monastery of the Transfiguration. The monastery has survived the religious upheavals in the Middle East because of a document in its possession, written by Mohammed, the founder of Islam, guaranteeing protection for the monastery.

The library collection of ancient manuscripts and codexes is second only to the Vatican.

Visit the monastery at http://www.geographia.com/egypt/sinai/stcatherine.html

Horror 'n Magick

2005-10-01T09:17:00.000-07:00

For some this may be a horror story --
for others an adventure or opportunity.

Life is about choices, after all ...

faucon
.............................................................

The Lens

CHANT:

Now again and repeat once been
Noble life withered and forsaken

Shield as thyself from eye and sun
With staff and cloak become as one

No sight by right and silk and stone
Protect and carry pouch alone

In mem'ry's hand bind shape and wonder
That no man crave almost yonder

A shifting in balance 'tween expectation and be-ever' told Aldeshen that the time was near. He settled in the natural haven formed of giant roots and broken granite dragon teeth. There was always such a place near by when a transition was called. Now again and repeat once been. Twice before he had been needed. Twice before the soft leather pouch had frayed and broken -- its life withered and forsaken, yet noble for all of that. A new one was prepared by right -- it had taken the boy five years and more to finish. The waiting had been harder -- and the fear. For Aldeshen was the third of the line of Lensmen, and two more shifts would press him to find another Bearer. For now he could but prepare, shielding the Lens from eye and sun and greed. The ritual must begin.
His cloak and staff completed the enclosure -- less than perfect, more than was needed -- yet legend told of a single ray of light -- a careless glance. Well, you know the story. If not, ask your ancient grandmother of the Lens of Fittone, but only after The Bearer is far gone and was. The silk scarf was far older that the hunkered man but served to bind the pebbles into the sockets of his eyes, 'no sight by right'. By feel alone Aldeshen picked away the final scraps of 'protection and carry'. Polish -- caress -- imagine! Then he knew its measure and the crystal treasure was nestled in this new home. Now he could recreate the shape and wonder between his facing palms. It would be enough to sustain him for the next decade of wandering -- or two. Faith had been restored.
Myth held it was not spectacular in color, but no one who had ever gazed upon it ever wrote a song -- just gone. Legend bespoke of light from within yet it was always called the Lens -- which could only bend and distort. How then do we know? You should have guessed. I have been through the lens and will make it so.
The lens is a portal, you see -- but of course you cannot or you would not be here. To gaze within Fittone is a fixation -- not of idea or thought, but of the creation. The Lens just stops, and reality sweeps by in every imagined compass point and azimuth and rate of fury. Thus it can take you anywhere and in. Jump galaxies if you wish, or to the graveside of a friend. Distance is not the question -- nor the answer, I'm afraid. It just is! What a wondrous gift. What an immeasurable wealth. What a curse!
Like many bits of magick found or held, there is a flaw within this heart of glass. Your journey can only be 'almost' there, my son; and when you almost claim success your vision and dreams shift just enough that now is still away. No man can get what he wants and live, you silly ass, as I. It took me eighty years to return here -- hardly called a life; and you would wish to hold this Lens? Quickly, let's help the poor Aldeshen on his hapless task -- and seek a slower way.

Halloween - The Countdown Begins with....Mexico !

2005-10-01T07:58:00.000-07:00

Here's another little offering I found on the net about celebrating the Days of The Dead in Mexico. I enjoyed this article because it focused on the celebration of life. Read on and see for yourself amm

Celebrating the Mexican Holiday
The Days of the Dead
Every autumn Monarch Butterflies, which have summered up north in the United States and Canada, return to Mexico for the winter protection of the oyamel fir trees. The locale inhabitants welcome back the returning butterflies, which they believe bear the spirits of their departed. The spirits to be honored during Los Dias de los Muertos.
Los Dias de los Muertos, the Days of the Dead, is a traditional Mexico holiday honoring the dead. It is celebrated every year at the same time as Halloween and the Christian holy days of All Saints Day and All Souls Day (November 1st and 2nd). Los Dias de los Muertos is not a sad time, but instead a time of remembering and rejoicing.

The townspeople dress up as ghouls, ghosts, mummies and skeletons and parade through the town carrying an open coffin. The "corpse" within smiles as it is carried through the narrow streets of town. The local vendors toss oranges inside as the procession makes its way past their markets. Lucky "corpses" can also catch flowers, fruits, and candies.

ofrenda or altar In the homes families arrange ofrenda's or "altars" with flowers, bread, fruit and candy. Pictures of the deceased family members are added. In the late afternoon special all night burning candles are lit - it is time to remember the departed - the old ones, their parents and grandparents.

The next day the families travel to the cemetery. They arrive with hoes, picks and shovels. They also carry flowers, candles, blankets, and picnic baskets. They have come to clean the graves of their loved ones. The grave sites are weeded and the dirt raked smooth. The Crypts are scrubbed and swept. Colorful flowers, bread, fruit and candles are placed on the graves. Some bring guitars and radios to listen to. The families will spend the entire night in the cemeteries.

Skeletons and skulls are found everywhere. Chocolate skulls, marzipan coffins, and white chocolate skeletons. Special loaves of bread are baked, called pan de muertos, and decorated with "bones Handmade skeleton figurines, called calacas, are especially popular. Calacas usually show an active and joyful afterlife. Figures of musicians, generals on horseback, even skeletal brides, in their white bridal gowns marching down the aisles with their boney grooms.
The celebration of Los Dias de los Muertos, like the customs of Halloween, evolved with the influences of the Celtics, the Romans, and the Christian holy days of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. But with added influences from the Aztec people of Mexico.

The Aztecs believed in an afterlife where the spirits of their dead would return as hummingbirds and butterflies. Even images carved in the ancient Aztec monuments show this belief - the linking the spirits of the dead and the Monarch butterfly.

Eventide At The Soul Food Cafe

2005-09-30T19:44:00.000-07:00

An oldie but a goodie...I wrote this last year for the advent calander...it was my idea of a Christmas Story.

Eventide at the Soul Food Cafe
A Ghost Story
by Anita Marie Moscoso

[Middle English, from Old English fentd : fen, evening + td, time; see d- in Indo-European Roots.]

Hello? Well, as a matter of fact we are open. No, really we are open, it's alright come on in. Yes it is a little darker here then in the rest of the Cafe, isn't it? But as you can see, we have plenty of candles. And those chills come and go, you won't even notice them after a while.

Who's that? Wow, are you jumpy. It's no one. Yes it does look like a woman doesn't it? Yes it looks like a shadow, only it's not a shadow exactly.

The man who designed this part of the cafe believed that if you captured a soul and pinned it to the wall it would keep your home safe from earthquakes.

So what he did was wait for a shadow to be cast against the wall and then he took that silver spike and placed it right there, between the eyes and hammered the spike in. I've been told it's just a painting of sorts. Or maybe he scorched it onto the wall...somehow.

It's okay, come a little closer and take a look.

But if you believe the legend, that person's soul was taken from them and is trapped in these walls now.

Of course, the Builder also told me that he heard stories that in the old times they didn't capture shadows. He says they use to sacrifice people, not their shadows. What happened if you removed the spike? Do you want to give it a try?

Me neither.

Go ahead and have a seat, I have a story just for you. It'll help pass the time...

What? I know it sounds like someone is in the hall. But trust me, there's no one there. Go ahead and take a look. Boy, did you just jump a mile there, but it's okay, it was the breeze slamming the door shut. So relax, it's only you and me after all.

********************************************************

When my grandmother was a young girl, she was about 16 at the time this took place, she took her youngest sister Cassie to the beach. It had been extremely hot all that summer. She told me that the heat came early that Spring and just got worse as the months wore on.

They left early that morning while it was still cool and they walked the quarter mile to the shoreline where people were already gathering in their swim outfits and complaining about the heat.

My Grandmother found her friends and they set up for a long hot day of doing nothing. Cassie was about 12 at the time amused herself by running from the water to the beach umbrella and by making a nuisance of herself. Grandmother said she had finally tuned Cassie out when one of her friend's said " hey June, what's Cassie doing? " My grandmother looked towards the shoreline and saw Cassie looking out towards the water. She was shaking so hard that my Grandmother swore she could hear Cassie's teeth clicking together and she was over 16 feet away.

And then Cassie began to scream, a horrible cry that seemed to start off as a whimper. It grew and grew until all you could hear up and down the beach. It was a horrible wail that shouldn't have come from a little girl. She didn't even sound human.

Then Cassie turned and ran, she ran up towards them, stopped a few feet away from my Grandmother and then she turned and looked back towards the water. Before my Grandmother could reach out and grab her Cassie was running, running and screaming that horrible scream all the way to the road.

My Grandmother, her young man and some of their friends ran after Cassie but they just couldn't catch her. Cassie had never run so fast in her life, my Grandmother remembered to me years later.

When they got home Cassie was running from room to room, her cut and bloody feet leaving smears all over the hardwood floor and the rugs. She was trying to shut windows, lock doors and begging everyone to help her, to not let him get her.

She was crying to them that she could still see his horrible teeth, his eyes blood red eyes and his red blistered skin. She could still see him when she closed her eyes. She begged and begged for us to help her. To make him go away.

" Who? " they asked and begged because Cassie was looking right through them. They doubted she could even see them.

The Devil she said, the devil came up out of the Ocean and chased her home. Didn't anyone of them see? He was right behind her the whole way home. They must have seen him they were right behind him, right behind her. Didn't they see?

Cassie insisted some more and probably would've stayed that hysterical for the rest of the night but a few hours later she suffered a terrible seizure, the first of several she would suffer for the next 4 months.

At the end of those four months Cassie died.

It was a lifetime later, for my Wedding in fact that my Grandmother came home. She didn't like visiting Seattle, she hadn't for years. It reminded her of Cassie. But that's where my Mother and Stepfather lived now and where my wedding was going to be so Grandmother steeled herself and made the trip.

So it was at my Mother's house, a day after my Wedding that a former neighbor stopped by to visit my Grandmother, her name was Nadine.

Nadine and my Grandmother were sitting on the porch visiting on a very nice Spring afternoon when Nadine asked about Cassie.

" Do you remember that day at the beach, the day your sister got sick? "

My Grandmother said she did, though she always thought of that day as the day Cassie actually died. She just never said that out loud.

" I feel just awful for asking this, and look it's taken me over 50 years to bring it up. It didn't seem right, being how Cassie got so sick and..."

My grandmother was curious and encouraged Nadine to go on.

" Well, I was wondering if you ever saw that young man again... the one who tried to help your sister? "

" What? "

" He was right behind her, a handsome man in a red swim outfit. He had the most wonderful smile and green, green eyes. All these years later and I can still see his face. I've always wondered...if you knew his name, or if Cassie knew it. If he told her when he caught her...

" My Grandmother flinched, and said just above a whisper " you say he caught her..."

" Yes, I saw him on your porch with her, before she opened the door. He had his hand on her shoulder."

" I think he did tell her" my Grandmother said more to herself then Nadine " who he was but she was so sick that night, and of course she just kept getting worse. I'm afraid, well, it wasn't important at the time. I'm sorry, I just don't remember it. "

" Then you're sure..." Nadine asked.

My grandmother didn't like the look on Nadine's face. That hungry, covetous look. That was it. There was no mistaking it. Nadine was still jealous after all these years that it was who Cassie who had spoken with, and been close to the golden haired man in the red swim suit.

My Grandmother made some excuse about helping my Mother in the kitchen and both women rose from their chairs. "

I am sorry about Cassie, June. " My grandmother could see that Nadine at that moment meant it. She was sorry for that little girl who never grew up.

Then as my Grandmother watched, Nadine's eyes started to shine and she new that Nadine wasn't seeing her, or anything else around them. Nadine was gone. She had the same look Cassie had when she begged to be helped all those summers ago.

Nadine turned and walked down the porch steps and when she got to the walkway she called some pleasantries back to my Grandmother and reminded her that if she remembered anything to please get in touch with her.

My grandmother watched Nadine walk off down the street and a few moments later a man passed the porch. He was a young man with shoulder length golden hair and he was wearing a bright red t-shirt. He didn't see my grandmother, but she saw him and she could her him whistling.

When Nadine turned around the young man suddenly turned the corner and was gone.

And as she walked on, the young man suddenly reappeared behind Nadine, right out of thin air, right before my Grandmother's eyes. And after a few more minutes, when they were both out of sight, my grandmother could hear that aimless little tune drifting through the air as it suddenly became warm.

Very, very warm.

Victorian Cemetery Symbolism

2005-09-29T04:49:00.000-07:00

Anita would probably know this already, but I happened across an interesting link that explains all the symbolism of the carving and decoration of the headstones and other items in graveyards.

http://www.vintageviews.org/vv-tl/pages/Cem_Symbolism.htm

Explanations are divided into animals, body parts, geometric, objects and plants.

Interesting stuff. Enjoy!

The Sky's the Limit

2005-09-27T19:02:00.000-07:00

Anita Marie said when posting, the sky's the limit. So here's my attempt at reaching my sky: A Dreamer Tells.... I revamped my journal for Halloween. I had an idea for the look, but...couldn't find an image meeting the layout's perameters. So I adapted an image I already had and built upon it. Hope it...enchants you.

Halloween Hahahahahaha!

2005-09-19T22:41:00.000-07:00

Upon occasion I get these jokes and people start them off with,
'hey Anita I saw this joke about death and thought of you"

I've brought it on myself I know.

At any rate this is a great one to tell around the Halloween Punch Bowl...enjoy
AMM

An old man lived alone in the country.
He wanted to dig his tomato garden,
but it was very hard work as the ground was hard.
His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison.
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his
predicament.

"Dear Vincent,
I am feeling pretty bad because it looks like I won't be able
to plant my tomato garden this year.
I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot.
If you were here my troubles would be over.
I know you would dig the plot for me.
Love, Dad"

A few days later he received a letter from his son.

"Dear Dad,
Not for nothing, but don't dig up that garden.
That's where I buried the BODIES.
Love, Vinnie"

At 4 a.m. the next morning,
FBI agents and local police arrived and dug
up the entire area without finding any bodies.
They apologized to the old man and left.

That same day the old man received another letter from his son.

"Dear Dad,
Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now.
That's the best I could do under the circumstances.
Love, Vinnie"

Creepy Film from Way Back

2005-09-18T05:12:00.000-07:00

http://www.sciflicks.com/the_omega_man/

The Hadley Happenings Pt. I

2005-09-15T14:18:00.000-07:00

Kids, I think you’re old enough now to learn about the history of our town. About 150 years ago, Old Benton Hadley came here to build a dream; his dream was of a gracious, idyllic town near the university, jobs and hospitals. Back then the University was a Teacher’s College, with the farms nearby, a lake full of fish and waterfowl, miles and miles of wood to be logged, and the state’s first real hospital.
The hospital was the finest one for five states around! It had a modern, sterile surgery, a safe place for mothers to have their babies, everything was as new, and high-falutin’ as Old Man Hadley could make it. Back then, there wasn’t a name for men like Hadley, nobody called a man who could turn everything he touched an entrepreneur. He started with one wagon, and the cider mill. He began to buy up land along the river, one small parcel at a time; until he had enough for a small city.
He started the Teacher’s College, and built the Grange Hall down on Main and Washington; just like it stands today… except back then there were buggies and saddled horses, not all them noisy automobiles. He brought in a real Minister, and built that Evangelical Christian Church, the one that’s a monument to Old Benton Hadley nowadays. Then he built one of the finest schools and libraries in the state. People were beginning to move here, and telling their kin and friends about the town of Hadley.
Old Man Hadley had wanted to call this place New Eden, but when the time to name his dream came, the grateful residents voted him down… everyone but Hadley himself voted to name the town after the man that had built so much, and given so much back to the people that helped his dream grow. The town survived the War Between the States, famines, droughts, World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II without losing any of its old-fashioned charm. The farmhouses of the first families were put on The Historic Register over ten or so years, so Main Street always looked like one of those Currier and Ives woodcuts.
The first hospital was torn down and a new, modern one replaced it, attached to the University, which now had darn good medical, nursing, and law schools. The doctors that came out of that hospital were known to be some of the best doctors around. About 15 miles down the road from Hadley, they built another hospital, encased in chain-link and barbwire, with Guards and dogs, and you had to show a permit to get through those towering ironwork gates. That is the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
Things started to change here in Hadley, the ‘Founding Families’ moved on, and their big, fancy houses were turned into Nursing Homes, them fancy-schmansy Bed-and-Breakfast places for snooty tourists, Museums, Antique Shops, and even a place that told the cards and the crystal ball upstairs with all manner of things downstairs and in the basement.
Now the witch that owned it didn’t look like any movie witch, she leaned over the fence and gossiped with her neighbours. Everybody loved her specialty teas, and she made desserts that had even the most persnickety of them skinny models comin’ back for more. There was even movie stars come all the way from Hollywood to have her back up things for their fancy parties. She even had the Governor ask for her tea-cakes come Christmas!!
Anyhow, she tried to warn us about bad things comin’ our way, and we didn’t listen. Nossir, we patted her hand and called her a worrywart. Told her not to take on so, they might take her to that Big Crazy House. I dunno what made her stay; I’m glad she did though. Even after what happened to her when that fella escaped from the Big Crazy House.
First any of the people in Hadley knew of it was when there were so many State Troopers roamin’ around the county they were like leaves on a maple tree!! They asked us to voluntarily agree to a sundown curfew. Of course we disagreed, the new movies were opening at the drive-in, and one of three movies was an Elvis musical!!!
They told us there was a chance that a patient had gotten out of the State Hospital and they wanted to be sure we were safe. We pooh-poohed them and laughed as we asked, “How much damage can one crazy man do?”
If’n we had known who was on the loose, we would’ve all been locked up snug in our houses, Elvis musical be damned!! They didn’t tell us, for fear of a panic; if we had known it was ‘Hungry Harry’… well!! “Hungry Harry had led the police, State Troopers and The Feds on a merry chase through a half-dozen states before they finally tracked him down, already sucking all the blood out of another victim.
Hungry Harry thought he was a vampire, like in the old Bela Lugosi movies, and he would go to some kind soul’s door asking for some food in exchange for doin’ chores. He would work for them for a few days, always polite and respectful. He never cussed in front of womenfolk, told bad jokes where young’uns might hear, went to Church every Sunday, and paid a handsome tithe when he had money.
You’d have thought Harry was a good, God-fearin’ man down on his luck… If’n you didn’t know his story.
Anyways, they did catch him, prove that he had killed nigh onto forty people, and drank all their blood before they caught him and slapped him into that hospital sayin’ he was too crazy to know what he’d done. Hell!!! Beg pardon folks. He knew all right, he just spun a good yarn for the head doctors is all. Sorry if I sound bitter, I can explain that later.
Now I was tellin’ you kids about the witch that lived here, and how she was good people and nobody was afraid of her. She had this big old dog, one of them Great Danes; he was all black and worshipped his owner. When she would work in her flower and herb gardens he would sit by her and watch every move she made, tail wagging ever so slightly. If she was on the porch, with her lemonade and a paper, he’d lie next to her; every so often she would drop her hand to his head and scratch his ears gentle-like. His tail would start thumpin’ on that porch like a big old kettle drum and he’d lick her hand before he would go back to sleep.
The dog slept by her bed at night, and went with her almost everywhere she went. We all worried about what she might do when she lost that dog, and we knew she would. Them big dogs don’t live as long as they ought, and the witch weren’t hardly 40.
Well… that Hungry Harry escaped slick as you please from the State Hospital and started lookin’ for blood again.
The witch was sleeping so peacefully in her big old bed with handmade quilts on it and them pretty curtains she had woven herself on the windows over the shutters she had painted a nice robin’s egg blue. The dog was sleeping on the floor next to her, snoring just the littlest bit.
The witch got woke up sometime in the night, by a dripping noise and a funny creak. She slipped her hand out from under the quilts and the dog licked it like he always did. Nice and reassured she went back to sleep, and dreamed whatever witches dream.
Come morning she got bright and early to cut flowers for the shut-ins and herbs for her medicines. “Eleazar?” She called her dog, who wasn’t laying on the floor on his big rag rug.
She whistled him up, and still he didn’t come. Now she was getting worried, that dog never left her side. She looked through that whole big house, calling and whistling, her face getting sadder with ever whistle.
Finally, she thought she’d take his leash and go look for him, wondering if he had nuzzled the door open and gone out to ‘do his business’. The leash wasn’t on the hook by the kitchen door like it was supposed to be. Now she was getting really frightened and ran out the back door.
There was her big dog, dead, hanging from a porch rafter by his leash that creaked ever so slightly in the breeze. That tongue hung limp from his mouth, and the blood dripped, slowly from the end of his tongue.
She commenced to screaming, she sounded just like a bean sidhe right out of Ireland. When the nieghbours started arriving the poor lady was crying and trying to get that dog down all by her self.
Everyone wondered who would do that to her dog, he was the kind that might lick you to death, but never deliberately hurt you. Some of the men got her dog untied, while her lady friends tried to comfort and calm her down. These fellers that had fought the Krauts and Nips in WWII were teary eyed as they brought that dog down and laid him carefully on the ground. They took turns diggin’ a grave for him, as they did that, the witch was taken inside and given some of her own tea to calm her down. I remember, Herm Nestor’s wife… what was her name??? Anyway, she commenced to scrubbing the porch where blood was splattered Hell, West and Crooked. I do apologise ladies.
She musta been there for nigh onto three hours scrubbing and scrubbing, with a stiff brush and lye soap before them stains were almost gone. That poor girl’s hands were raw for almost a week from doin’ that, but she said that she couldn’t let the witch have to clean that up, finding the dog was bad enough.
A few days passed by and the killing of the witch’s dog was settling down. The witch kept telling us that Eleazar (Who names a dog that anyway?) was just the beginning, that it would get worse. Everyone thought it was the shock of finding her dog like that that had her so upset.
Until them kids down on Apple Tree Lane that is…

A Ballad - ghost story

2005-09-15T03:40:00.000-07:00

I actually sing this at fire-circles --
two voices for theme and counter,
and in the Trevere' style,
a different melody and timing
for each refain.

Written for a 'aunt' who loved ghost stories
and whose grandfather's name was 'Jouvenal'
--sadly, she never lived to hear it.

faucon
.......................................................

Spirit Song

The fearful wind whispers through the broken reeds, Hugo - Hugo
Hear the tiny claws scramble on cold hard stones, beware, beware.
Listen to the story of the Jouvenal sword, attend, attend

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom,
while eagles hide with mist shorn wings,
and a floating sword carves truth from sin
to pay debt to the ghost of Jouvenal.

The castle had stood a thousand years
to turn Persians and Mongols aside.
The towers were tall ‘round a hidden well
and mossy stones within thorns did hide.
Myth said twas mortared with virgin blood
with a ring moat of serpents and tears.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
while brave knights swear fealty anew.
Purpose and honor should inspire them
to match the life of Jouvenal.

Sir Hugo remained while four rode out
to claim full pride of a battle guard.
By lot his fate was to guard the gate
with less valor sure for bloodless sword.
“Safe return my friends,” he cried anon
“The gate awaits those without fear.

Their race came stride their foaming steeds,
three dead in saddle and comrade dear.
“Betrayed,” he cried with parting breath.
“Preserve our pledge, quick - prepare.”
Hugo strode out 'fore postern gate,
spear and shield stood forever near.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
for a blood quest is honor bound,
and such treachery must quick renounce
or face the wrath of young Jouvenal.

Baron turned coward crested the hill
leading ranks of minions most foul.
Nothing stood ‘tween his covet tower
but slender knight called Jouvenal.
His charged intent hardly slacked
as archers called he from the rear.

The crossbow has but two hundred range,
while the Sythian bow crosses three.
In motion swift as a falcon wing
six arrows set these archers free.
Then followed the Baron’s favored horse
and two squire sons he held so dear.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
where evil is met with more sure portent.
So bold are they two hundred to one,
but quick to their heels from Jouvenal.

The milling throng did distant withdraw
to curse this blight to well laid plan.
But none would stride upon the road
where Jouvenal did protect his clan.
Yet chivalry did provide relief
for single challenge did honor share.

A knight strode down the rutted road
with shield and banner lofted high.
Sir Hugo met with buckler and sword,
with courage found one cannot deny.
The sparks did match the flow of blood
from fallen knight 'neath Hugo’s glare.

Another fine knight approached the field
to clank in the dust before the keep.
Five more in turn did quick battle meet,
and each in turn made a widow weep.
But each defeat took a bitter toll
of strength and blood beyond repair.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
where valor designs its own defeat.
A warrior slow wounded in victory
will match the sad fate of Jouvenal.

As he fell to knees, no foe ahead
Sir Hugo cried out to comrades down.
“Support me now in oath and quest
to carry this day - defend the crown.”
Dead comrades all did answer the call
bound by fine will each could share.

The sword swept up from the stricken hand
to dance in the air with spinning light,
to vanquish each challenge evil bent,
and none could pass dead Hugo’s might.
New souls departed were two score more
before all ran from the Baron’s care.

The sword still stands before open gate
imbedded in stone than none can take.
Good will can pass with contented heart,
giving a prayer for courage sake,
but evil does shrivel and run away
from symbol of shame they must beware.

Dread silence crashes in the flashing gloom
where sword of Hugo defends the gate.
Where honor is sacred to comrades
you will find the spirit of Jouvenal.
Jouvenal - Jouvenal

Trick Or Treat? Urban Legends

2005-09-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

Urban Legends...ya gotta love them.
These are a few 'new ones' I've had some fun with.
Enjoy!
Anita Marie

Mr Tsunami....

A few days before the Tsunami hit, the concierge of an expensive hotel in Thailand found an anonymous note left on the counter that said simply, Tsunami will reach you shortly.

The man sent a car to the airport to wait for what he assumed was an important man named Tsunami who would be visiting his hotel soon.

Home Alone?

One cold winter night a young girl was all alone watching TV. She looked out the sliding glass door to her side and saw a strange man staring in at her. Gripped with fear, she pulled her blanket up over her face and quickly dialed 911, and waited there trembling until the police arrived.

The police looked all around the house and found no footprints in the snow outside the glass doors, but after comforting her one of them noticed the wet prints on the carpet. She hadn't seen him outside the door, she'd seen his reflection behind her.

Technology Rules!

While drilling the world's deepest hole in Siberia, the geologists noticed the drill bit began to rotate abnormally, among other strange happenings, when they reached a depth of ten miles. They measured temperatures up to 2000 degrees at the deepest part, and then lowered a microphone into the pit.

After hearing the sounds of all the suffering souls in hell, they stopped the project in the hope that what is down there will stay down there.

An Ill-Disguised Admission to Murder

2005-09-14T12:52:00.000-07:00

Anita Marie's last post sparked my memory. I too have an entry in my journal regarding headstone humor, so click the below link and journey to England with me to enjoy some headstone humor. Then come back to the school for this widow's...gratitude.

This was email from one of Dad's co-workers:
People never remember to write in about the good things a product does, always the bad!
So this is very refreshing!!

With important facts to remember!!!

Dear Tide,
I am writing to say what an excellent product you have! In fact, about a month ago while at home I spilled some red wine on my new white blouse. My husband started to berate me about my drinking problem and how expensive the blouse was.

Well, one thing led to another and I ended up with a lot of his blood on my white blouse as well. I tried to get the stain out using the bargain detergent my cheap husband bought, but it just wouldn't come out.

I went to the local convenience store and got a bottle of liquid Tide with bleach alternative, and all of the stains came out! They came out so well, in fact, that the police's DNA tests were negative! I thank you, once again, for a great product!

Well, gotta go, I have to write a letter to the Hefty bag people.

Sincerely,
Recently Widowed

Halloween Writing Fun!

2005-09-13T17:45:00.000-07:00

This looked like fun it could be a bit of Halloween Fun so I pulled it off the net...my comments are in italics.
amm

Instructions: If you want to play around with developing character without taking the plunge of building fictional people from scratch--if, for example, you want to learn about character-building but aren't ready to start writing a story--a good source of names can help. The phone book is one, but it has no other details. In this exercise, we'll use a cemetery as a place to find the beginnings of interesting characters.

1. Find a cemetery near your home and go there with a notebook and pen. Really old cemeteries are often the most interesting, especially if you're into historical fiction.
( Google is great for this too )

2. Wander around and look at the names and dates on the headstones. Read any inscriptions you find. If you find any really intriguing names, jot them down in your notebook.
( I found my name once...Anita Marie Godfrey...no kidding, freaked me OUT! )

3. Find a good place to sit and write. If you've written down some names and dates and inscriptions, you may want to go home or to the library to write. If it's a nice day and there are places to sit, you may want to write in the cemetery itself.

( Nah, no one will think you're being a ghoul, but if its not a place you want to be don't go! )

4. Choose a name and think about what that person might have been like. When did they live and how old were they when they died? If there was an inscription on the headstone, how might it relate to the person's character? Perhaps a tombstone might say "In memory of a loving mother." Was the character you're creating in your mind really a good mother, or might her children have chosen those words in order to keep up appearances? Were any other family members buried nearby? How might their lives have touched your chosen person's life?

5. When you're beginning to get a good idea of what your character might have been like, write about them. You might choose to write a short biography, or maybe you'd rather put your character in a scene and see how they might act. Remember, you're not trying to figure out who this person really was; instead, you're creating a character based on a name and some dates, and maybe an inscription. The character will be made up based on what ideas that name and dates and inscription create in your mind.

Notes: This exercise is similar to the idea of making up lives for the people you see in public places. Instead of seeing a person for whom you can make up a name and other details, though, you have no idea what the person looked or acted like; you have only a name to go on. This is meant to be a fun way to exercise your imagination and learn a little bit about how characters can be made to seem real. And who knows, you might learn some local history in the process.

EPITAPHS

Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas,
Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.
Joseph Conrad
(St. Thomas Church; Canterbury, England)

Good Night Sweet Prince
and a flight of angels sing to thy rest.
Douglas Fairbanks, Sr.

As the flowers are all made sweeter
by the sunshine and the dew,
so this old world is made brighter
by the lives
of folks like you.
Bonnie Parker
(Crown Hill Cemetery; Dallas, Texas)
This is THE Bonnie of The Infamous Bonnie and Clyde Gang

Here lies
Ezekial Aikle
Age 102
The Good
Die Young.

Hillaire Belloc (1870-1953)
Here richly, with ridiculous display,
The Politician's corpse was laid away.
While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged,
I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged

Harry Edsel Smith of Albany, New York
Looked up the elevator shaft to see if
the car was on the way down. It was.

Shiver Stories - Halloween

2005-09-13T02:40:00.000-07:00

Amusing Tales: (Shiloh's Spider stuff made me think of this.)

I remember at school there was a story going round about a lady who got bitten by a spider in her sleep or something, and then woke up the next morning to find a spot there. The spot grew and grew and supposedly all these baby spiders came out one day. It was said she went mad after that....not surprising. I think the older girls told us to frighten us, and it worked for a while, until we learned this story and others were known the world over, as shiver stories. These were designed to be told at sleepover parties and keep everyone wide awake.

There was another one about a couple's car breakdown in the middle of the woods somewhere, something about the husband going for help to the only house in the district, and a headless man....details anyone?

And the classic about the supermarket carpark where an old lady is found in the back seat of someone's car and asks to be taken to the police station. Of course the person agrees, seeing she is old and infirm and can't speak english properly. Then along the road the hand stretches out to the driver and it's hairy! The old woman is actually a man with a dastardly plan.......are we shivering? We thought they were scary at slumber parties with a bunch of vibey girls...for sure.....

Halloween Memorial

2005-09-12T20:38:00.000-07:00

Vincent, Vincent it hasn't been the same since you've been gone.
Anita Marie

Holy Spiders, Batman!

2005-09-12T17:28:00.000-07:00

You want horror, ladies and gentlemen? I'll give you horror, but you gotta be brave enough to click the horrifying link.

(originally written in my personal blog 12-20-2004)
**Warning!!** Any big time arachnophobics may need or want to skip this particular entry. Those who are brave, be prepared for a hair-raising time--literally. *devilish gleam in her eyes*

Well, Jen got word from Misha (Michael) last night. He's coming home for Christmas. He'll be here Thursday, but has to go back to his base Christmas Day. At least, he'll come home before he's deployed.

Jen's been telling me a lil about the kind of bug life Mike will meet up with over in the desert of Iraq. Well, at least, one kind of bug. The camel spider. She was telling me it is huge and can run 10 miles per hour! I kid you not. I hate spiders, but my natural, inherent blasted curiosity had me looking for a picture because I wanted to know the size of the thing and what it looks like. *shivers in revulsion*

Jen came by last night and I told her I'd found a picture of the sucker. Of course, she wanted to see. So I showed her this one. The site doesn't give how big they get or much more information, other than they really aren't spiders and are really one of fastest critters in the bug world. Also, thank the Lord, they aren't a threat to humans--although they can make your leg or arm go numb if bitten. (They're not venomous, but their bite does inject a local anestetic(sp?).)

Jen wanted to know more about the spider and its scale in size, so we puttered 'round the net and I found this. That is how big they are. There're two dangling end to jaw. A soldier found them like that in his sleeping bag. I don't think, Teacosy, your Spider Removal Guide will work with this type of bug life.

We both jumped a foot backwards when that picture popped up on the screen. No pun intended, but my eyes bugged out. We also learned they can jump several feet into the air and they prey upon scorpions (YAY!), birds and small lizards. So, despite their ugliness and gigantic size, I feel better about them than I do the smaller Hobos and Black Widows.

Raven Harp

2005-09-12T16:08:00.000-07:00

This is our most cuddly and soft
cat Raven -- playing the harp!

Watch your neck

faucon

Mythical Beasts

2005-09-12T02:35:00.000-07:00

I wrote this (and sang it) for a silly
Filk competition based on the theme
"Mythical Beasts" -- it goes with the
tune for 'Pawn Shop on the Corner'.

There's a dragon, in a cavern
In far off Silesia,
That steals local virgins
And burns knights with his breath.
I will find him, cut his heart out
And stamp out this wastefulness,
For I fear not tragic death.

There's a witch-crone, in a forest
In most dark Moravia
That cast me a spell
That does protect me from harm.
Bring on lympago, or fierce wyvern;
I will slay them not with kindness
A magic shield upon my arm.

There's a Cyclops, on an island
In Grecian Pelopennesia
That gobbles up sailors
And complete sheep without fee.
I will sail there, wait for darkness
And chop away his manhood,
And see if he winks at me.
There's a hydra, with a headache
In deepest Transylvania
Protecting a treasure
With double heads-up display.
I'll entrance her, decapitize her,
Burn off the stumps forever
And head off further dismay.

There are monsters, here about you
In Woodland, California.
On the Erik so green,
Now look to banner and shield.
I can warn you, not protect you
For you will be hung-over
And I to a maid must yield.

Third Cat

2005-09-12T02:11:00.000-07:00

Our third cat, Magic,
has been staring at me all day --
guess she didn't like being left out

faucon

Horror memory

2005-09-11T14:14:00.000-07:00

9/11 falls within the zone of horror for many,
and certainly terror became a battle cry ...
I for one was fearful of what our leaders might
do in a 'lash of vengeance'. Now we have learned
more of what our leaders knew in advance,
and perhaps even participated in ..

that is the real horror.

I wrote this just after 9/11

The seed line is from a parent of one of the victims
on the plane that crashed itself.

faucon

................................................................................

"drawn by the vibrations of our hatred"

The pulsing, throbbing drumbeat in my beleaguered soul
Is not in tune with the nat'ral rhythm of earth and moon,
But drawn from insistent pounding of senseless hatred
Into ev'ry heart and mind by those who worship power.

Am I to be a martyr on a funeral pyre
As the fragile structure of our freedom is kindled
By savage vengeance and unreasoned bigotry,
Until naught is left but the embers of forgotten justice?

A last moment’s eternity before a rushing death
Is aspired to be of prayers and impassioned pleas,
For sure release from naïve doubt and peaceful swell of faith,
To guide us forth on rightful wings unto ennobled skies.

But a soul’s divine search does sway before an ego’s claim
Upon a guest for purpose and proud relevance of self.
Is this world enriched somewhat or put to helpless shame
By my tiny thoughts of wisdom never suited for dusty shelf?

Who will stand up to plead for peace, a place I scarcely fill?
Pray do not count my carcass charred among the moving voice
That screams for reasoned vengeance; rhetoric stench of practiced drill
For steeds ready saddled in the field, and knights who do rejoice.

I had thought that to leave no mark was sign of living hell.
Please scratch my name from life's list and dare not cry for me,
Rather than I provide spur or lash to support vengeance's knell
And be held up by false principle as banner for the free.

Grind my life to forgotten dust 'tween stones of greed and power
As freedom is reduced to a whimper, mercy but a thought,
But do not use my humanity as a prop for ego's horror,
Protect me Lord from savagery, this terror we have bought.

Mystery the Halloween Cat

2005-09-10T20:11:00.000-07:00

Two Cats in a Box

2005-09-10T13:25:00.000-07:00

What do they know that we don't??

Raven and Odo

faucon

Horror Seed

2005-09-10T03:49:00.000-07:00

This is a true memory from when I was about four years old.
It is not about fear or horror itself,
but I wonder if such memories for each of us
do not open our hearts and minds
for poetic views of death and
inhumanity.

faucon
......................................................

Gantma

She might have been dead for years before they carted her away. Never moved. Never talked. Everything in her room was grey. Not pearlescent like the beads on her shawl on the hook outside the door. Not faint dove forms that reflected etched shadows on the mirror; forbidden light somehow scraping around the edges of the shade. Black fringe. No color at all. Dirty grey braids on the faded pillow case. Ink specks of nail heads where bright paintings once hung. Tiny grey stitches pulling through joints in her old handmade quilt. Any color there had long ago been washed away. Each square frame from a full length feature movie now reduced to out of focus snatches of a burned up silent film strip.

There might have been color in her life once. Can't tell. All of the faded photos are black and white. Black paper triangles on the corners. Black scrawled messages on the back - none that make any sense. A creamy flower pressed between two charcoal cardboard sheets. It was all right to look at the album. It was improper to be in her room. Dark rules in low tones.

I used to love it there. So quite. So old. Great Grandma was born 'bout 1857. They planted her in 1951. She died somewhere in between. Far as I can tell no one liked her - never had - 'specially Grandma. I could have liked her, I guess. Never had the chance. I would just stand there in the haunting room with my nose pressed into the lacy coarseness on the antimacassar of the wooden wheel chair. The breeze drifted curtains became sails of the ship she had crossed in. The posters on the bed framed a covered wagon; the kerosene lamp a camp fire. The pitcher and basin hid in a miner's tent.

I think she knew I was there.

Oh, Grantma - whisper me a story!

The Headless Horseman

2005-09-08T20:24:00.000-07:00

The Headless Horseman
Michael Garland

It was a dark and stormy night...

2005-09-08T18:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the cliche is true.

image by Susan Wolfe

I Put a Spell On You

2005-09-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

I Put a Spell On You
I put a spell on you,
And now you're mine.
You can't stop the things I do.
I ain't lyyyyyin'.
It's been 300 years
Right down to the day.
Now the witch is back
And there's hell to pay.
I put a spell on you
And now you're miiiiiine!
Hello, Salem! My name's Winifred, what's yours?
I put a spell on you
And now you're gone. (Gone, gone, gone, so long!)
My whammy fell on you
And it was strong. (So strong, so strong, so strong!)
Your wretched little lives
Have all been cursed,
'Cause of all the witches working
I'm the worst!
I put a spell on you
And now you're mine!
(Watch out! Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!)
If you don't believe,
You'd better get superstitious.
Ask my sisters!
"Ooh, she's vicious!"
I put a spell on you...
I put a spell on you.
Sisters!
Ah say ento pi alpha mabi upendi
Ah say ento pi alpha mabi upendi
In comma coriyama
In comma coriyama
Ay, ay, aye, aye, say bye-byyyyyyyyyyye! Bye bye!
Ah say ento pi alpha mabi upendi
Ah say ento pi alpha mabi upendi
In comma coriyama
In comma coriyama
Ay, ay, aye, aye, say bye-byyyyyyyyyyye! Bye bye!
Bette Midler, Sarah Jessica Parker and Kathy Najimy

New Family Member

2005-09-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

It is with great excitement that I announce the beginning of the next generation of Were-Folk. Please loose a good, passionate howl in celebration of the birth of Wolfgang Phillipe Chasseur, the IV.

Look!!! He has his mother's fur!!!

The Three Faces

2005-09-06T16:25:00.000-07:00

I have three faces,

but only show you one.

You guess at my intention

and things I might have done.

You think that you have known me

but it's just another mask,

Which one is the real me?

I never thought you'd ask.

Ain't Skert

2005-09-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

If I have to believe in ghosts …
realizing that such believing might just
nudge some energy slightly to the left –
I’d prefer the slow, chain-clank kind
to patrol my front porch at night
and keep the neighbor kids away.

If I have to believe in goblins …
proof perhaps of other dimensions,
or a rift in a veil ‘tween here ‘n been –
I’d allow the rolly-polly ones
to jump up sudden like, you know,
and keep the cats of the furniture.

If I have to believe in were-things …
transmogrifying hairy visitors
who are beautiful, maidens some times –
I’d ask for a sultry singer,
who knows love songs in six languages,
then becomes a goat to help mow the grass.

If I have to believe in monsters …
like those hidden beneath my child’s bed,
‘cept when they’re chewing computer wires –
I’ll opt for one with a dozen eyes
to keep track of missing sox and keys,
and scare me up a midnight snack.

But as I must do these things for myself …
knowing that believing comes up short
and that true wisdom comes from living –
I’ve no time for frightful constructs,
or mysterious noise or dancing lights,
‘cept your whispers and laughing eyes.

faucon

A Glimpse of Baba's Boudoir

2005-09-06T04:26:00.000-07:00

A little character...

2005-09-05T17:02:00.000-07:00

October 31, 2005

2005-09-05T13:30:00.000-07:00

This is dedicated to my Grandmother the late Virginia Godfrey
It Might Seem An Odd Choice To Some
But She'd Have Loved It.
That's Why It’s Her Story Now.
AMM

October 31, 2005

" They were so wrong about the Cemetery, they were so wrong about the 13 Steps, " my Grandmother told me on her Deathbed. She said this very forcefully, which shocked me because she was hopped up on Morphine and about 2 hours away from dieing.

She was laughing her usual laugh, which always reminded me of a cat's growl, and I took that as a sign of health.

I'm not sure why.

I had been begging since I was a little girl for my Grandmother to tell me about the Cemetery of 13 Steps and she just out right refused. " It's all Hogwash "she'd snap, " its a little private cemetery that a very nice family buried their own in and there's nothing evil about it. So for Pete's Sake drop it will you? "

" I think there's a interesting story there. " I insisted.

" I think the young people around here need to find a new place to get drunk and look for ghosts. "That's what I think" she'd sneer and then she'd pop open a beer and drink herself blind.

When my Grandmother was about 13 she use to go up to the Manzoor Family Cemetery and tend the garden that use to be there. In those days there were only about 6 graves and they were back up on a little plateau lined with Hazel Nut Trees.

My Grandmother used to like to work under the trees because Owls perched in them at night and she said she use to find little bones from mice and other prey littering the ground under the branches.

She'd call them treasures and she kept them in a canning jar tinted light green. She'd given me the Jar when I sold my first Novel and I thought it was right she had it back now.

As far as I knew it was the only childhood memento she truly cherished.

When I put the Jar at her bedside her eyes, which had somehow changed color before they became glassy and unfocused during her last week of life blazed on when she saw that Jar, that's when she told me about the Steps, that's when she told me the truth about the 13 Steps.

" It all changed up there the day Mrs. Manzoor and her children died in that accident. The youngest his name was Broody, he ran out in front of that Ice Wagon, it was pulled by a horse you know. Well, Mrs. Manzoor ran after him to snatch him out of the way and she didn't realize it but her daughter was right behind her...probably trying to help. Maybe reflex, maybe its because that little girl knew death was all around them and was going to the safest place she could see...her Mother's side."

" They were crushed together under the wagons wheels and then if over turned and God what a sight that was. Mr. Cooley the Ice Man, the horse Pedro, the children, Mrs. Manzoor. All ended up at the bottom of the Gully. They were just a tangle of wood and bodies. It wasn't easy to untangle them all. I think they used Axes, I think it was that bad. Then of course they had to pull that entire lot up the hill by rope and pulleys. Awful sight, something you can't forget no matter how hard you try. "

I didn't like the look in Grandmother's eyes, her voice was saying one thing and her eyes, well, and they weren't saying the same thing. I was looking into two faces, that’s
what it felt like. Her voice sounded sorry, her eyes, well they just looked alive.

The desire to clamp my hand over her eyes was strong and they itched to go to her face. So like a little kid I sat on them instead.

" What happened after that? "

" Bad things, people died out there, later it was car accidents, suicides, some people well you'd see them walking along side the road past the Cemetery and then they'd just be gone right before your eyes. "

" Mrs. Swenson said she saw Irma Liston, this was in what, 1946 I think walk past the cemetery and then she said she just wasn't there anymore. Thing is, no one ever saw Irma Liston again and Mrs. Swenson lost her mind and cut her wrists up at the Manzoor Cemetery. "

" So the Cemetery killed people. "

" Don't be stupid, of course it didn't. "

My Grandmother was looking over my shoulder and she laughed a little again and went on," Then the stories started about the 13 Steps to Hell being in the Cemetery. You could walk down these little gray steps that went down into the ground, and led into a tomb and an evil witch with white hair and no eyes was suppose to be down there. You'd bring her a little offering and she'd let you pass and then you'd see the devil and he'd give you powers. It was all a trick of course; it made things easier...for me. People are curious animals you know. "

Grandmother yowled her laugh and her eyes; they were shining " of course the Devil's a Liar you know. "

I watched her face, which was already changed by Death and from no where the thought came to me," why I'll bet she's looked like this all along."

" No I don't know that I don't know the Devil I'm glad to say. "

Grandmother chuckled long and deep and I almost screamed. Something inside of me was desperate to cry out and I wasn't sure why.

" It wasn't the Cemetery where the steps where. That was the lie. One of them anyway. The 13 Steps were on the other side of the fence by the Hazel Nut Trees. I found it when I was looking for my treasures. They were like a little trail of breadcrumbs you know. I followed them. Down the little gray steps that went below the work shed.

There was a garden down there, full of treasure..."

" Bones. "

" That's what I said, are you stupid? I wanted them...all of them and I made a deal with the Gardener I met down there. I would bring the seeds and he would give me the treasure. He told me he loved my treasures, he'd hold my hand and tell me how beautiful they were and how proud he was of all my work. "

" So I waited out on the road rain or shine day or night, and I found them one by one...and he gave me the treasure but you know...the Devil's a Liar. I tended his Garden for him and in the end why, I found out he didn't care about my treasures or love them the way I did. No, the treasure he wanted was Souls you know. Greedy, corrupt ones..."

" Those poor people..."

" Oh no, he didn't take those Souls he took mine...and its been his for a very long time in the Garden...."

The words snaked around in side my head and nested in my heart...she'd been in the garden " for a very long time..."

I backed up against the wall and my Grandmother turned her head towards me and smiled and smiled and the light in her eyes went out and her mouth went slack and on that Halloween Night someone died right before my eyes.

I'm just not sure who it was.

Music To Thrill, Chill and Soothe the Spook

2005-09-05T10:34:00.000-07:00

I have an exercise for everyone. So get out your spooky music, put on your thinking skull caps and start doing the Monster Mash. These are my answers to the prompt, but please, respond with or post your own ghoulish answers. HAPPY EARLY HALLOWEEN!!

This week's mambo is all about Halloween. After all, next Sunday is the day when all the ghosties and goblins come out to play.

1) What are your favorite Halloween songs?
Thriller, Grim Grinning Ghosts and The Monster Mash.

2) Do you know the words to any of the songs from The Rocky Horror Picture Show? (Which ones?)
No. Never heard of it before reading The Princess Diaries books.

3) The spooky monsters are coming after you. You know that music will soothe each one long enough for you to escape...but each monster requires different music. What do you play for:

a) Dracula
Love Song For a Vampire by The Eurythmics
b) Frankenstein
Weird Science by Oingo Boingo
c) The Wolfman
Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran
d) The Mummy
Walk Like an Egyptian by The Bangles

4) You've been cursed and turned into a spooky Halloween creature. What creature are you, and what's your theme song?
A vampire. Night of the Vampire by Fuzztones.

5) Halloween is a time for creepy movies. What creepy movie has the best music, in your opinion?
I'd have to go with Psycho.

Ok, all you ghosts and ghouls out there, this week...bypass the mambo and do the monster mash.

Nauchfriund

2005-09-05T03:21:00.000-07:00

Ancient Frisian custom takes a special view of 'ghosts'.
The spirits of ancestors 'hang around' a while to help
the living, especially young married couples. (Nauchfriund)
Weddings are still held on burial mounds were
a 'following spirit' (fulgia) may hopefully adopt
the couple and guide them. People claim to see these
spirits described as 'horses of the wind'. These similarities
help support those who would link Frisian history
with Troy and earlier cultures. Certainly, these
beliefs are similar to Mongolian Shamanism.

faucon

Don't ask me how...but...

2005-09-05T02:54:00.000-07:00

These pics come from an old 1800's goldmining town called Walhalla in the Gippsland region of Victoria, Australia. Visited there as a child and never got over how these people must have toiled over their funerals and burials. It's in a valley closed off and locked in by forest, and the town had the most unusual layout, like you were going into a world that was slightly off key. Spooky stuff for a small girl. The steepness of the cemetery hill tells it's own tale of hardship and how the people must have suffered. It was freezing down in the valley, at the foot of these tombs. No chance of forgetting death here, when the cemetery is the main feature that looks down on the town. Usually it's meant to be a church that people look up to, not a cemetery. Upside down, did I say? Off key? Don't ask me..

www.ozgenonline.com/.../ vic/bawbaw/walhalla.htm

Watch out for the Mulo on All Hallows Eve

2005-09-04T22:02:00.000-07:00

The gypsies have many rituals and beliefs about death. The strongest one is that a gypsy must die in a good way, or he or she will come back for revenge as one of the Mulo, or living dead.
It is traditional for the dead Gypsy to be cremated with all his or her possessions, including the caravan (varda). There is no unseemly squabbling by relatives their inheritance, because there is none – relatives only get what the person chooses to give while he or she is still alive. Anything taken from a dead person is considered bad luck, bad luck. To buy or sell things belonging to a dead person is extremely bad luck, and will surely result in that person coming back as a ravenous wolf or evil spirit.
On June 30, 2003, the UK `Gypsy King” Joseph Smith, was given a traditional Romany Funeral at Brecon, in Wales. Joseph’s modern caravan was burnt with all his possessions, also he was buried in a coffin. (Modern sensibilities to gypsy rights doesn’t quite extend as far as burning the body). http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/mid/3031922.stm

The Gypsy Chief has told me he is particularly fearful that a Mulo, a gypsy vampire, has been seen in the hills above the camp. The Mulo is a terrifying creature, with no bones, and only three fingers on each hand. The Gypsies will all wear red on All Hallow’s Eve, to ward off evil spirits – the campfire with not be permitted to go out – and it is advisable to tie a small piece of iron to a string and wear it round your neck. Hawthorn branches should also be carried – Hawthorn is the only wood that will kill a Mulo .
There will be much singing and dancing and feasting to frighten the Mulo away – she is a life hater, a life taker, and most fears laughter and good spirits. No one will be permitted to wander from the camp fire in case the Mulo is lurking in the trees – and if you do insist on straying off, it will be at your own risk.
The Mulo is a pale thin woman – she may be wearing a red dress to fool you, or be accompanied by two children, begging for a piece of bread to feed them. The children are as ravenous as she, so beware!
If you meet the Mulo on All Hallow’s Eve you will need to be very cunning and quick to escape her.

There is an article on Romany death rituals at the Romany site, Patrin. It mainly concerns modern funeral rites.

http://www.geocities.com/Paris/5121/death.htm

A Gargoyle for Anita

2005-09-04T17:12:00.000-07:00

Where Else

2005-09-04T16:28:00.000-07:00

Since the breakup of the USSR a decade ago,
many archeological finds have been revealed;
some old and simply not announced -- other new,
as a result of plowing up ancient 'kurgans'.
These burial mounds above the Black Sea
have provided interesting artifacts from many
ancient cultures including:

the oldest complete 'home' of mastodon bones

additional proof that Arthurian legend is
Alani based

support for the idea that Frisians (Holland)
originated in Troy

proof that female archers could draw
100 lb bows

…..

and a mystery or two

in a site dated about 6000 BCE
is the skeleton and artifacts of an
archer with royal connections.
There are carvings and jewelry
of obvious religious import, but
of no previously known deities.

There are a number of arrow heads
obviously designed for specific target types;
birds, large prey, rodents and fish.

There is also a complete arrow and head,
made of bone and bronze, and carved
with intricate symbols. The point is silver!

The kurgan is at the foot of the
Carpathian mountains near Romania.

Perhaps the arrow was used for some
magickal purpose to guide the hunt,
or ..
he was prepared to hunt something
that required this special arrow.

????

oh yes, there is no scull in the mound.

ENTOMBED-by Anita Moscoso

2005-09-04T13:14:00.000-07:00

Up on Mount Rainier here in Washington State is a glacier that is a cemetery.

There are 65 bodies in that Cemetery that are accounted for; we know they're up there we just can't bring them down because they've fallen into crevasses and have become entombed in the ice.

(Mount Rainier Glacier)

Rainier since they began recording the deaths in 1909 claims lives every single year.
Some of the dead can be recovered.

The Mountain keeps the rest.

I've grown up in the Shadow of Rainier and it has grown larger in my mind every single year.

It haunts me now.

When I look at it I think, if it was a human you'd see it on the evening news; it'd be like that guy next door, that ordinary man who wears glasses and drives a fuel efficient car and mows his lawn and rakes the leaves and does all those other things that says, " Hey, don't worry about me, I'm just Mr. Normal...see? So don't worry about me...look the other way "

And you do and it turns out he's a serial killer and has bodies buried in his yard,
his basement and has left a trail of them up and down the highway he drives every day to work.

That's what Mount Rainier is like, it takes a great picture you trust it enough to let your loved ones to go up there for fun and short visits.

Why it's just a beautiful place.

Then one day you run across its history...its OTHER history like I did and you find bodies.

Lots of them.

There are over 300 recorded deaths since the Mountain became a park a century ago.

That's the key, recorded.

The thing is killers keep killing until you catch them and once you do it turns out the damage was worse than anyone could have imagined.

Mount Rainier hasn't been caught.

And I’m sure we haven’t seen the worst of what it can do.

It’s a volcano and no, it’s not dead.

It’s very much alive.

Tarot Death Card Challenge

2005-09-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

Death is numbered thirteen and is the most feared card in the deck. We see the Grim Reaper depicted as a dark and powerful figure, sometimes on horseback and at other times on foot. He usually carries a scythe and leaves bodies, limbs and so on in his wake. Whoever we are, Death will claim us eventually.

The Death card signifies endings, but not necessarily shocking and disruptive ones. In any case, endings always lead to new beginnings and Death itself symbolises a sweeping away of the past. If we rid ourselves of past garbage then we are free to set out on an entirely new path

When Death appears it almost always signifies a major change in one's life. Sometimes the change will appear disruptive and unexpected, sometimes it will be a breath of fresh air - clearing away obstacles and allowing you to surge forward. So do not assume that Death is a negative card - it is often just what we need in order to progress when fear is holding us up.

Change your life today by challenging taboo fears. Turn a skeleton into a stand on your dresser and 'hang' your beads and jewellry all over it. Death will see the funny side of this action and reward your humour.

Are You Having Fun?

2005-09-03T13:24:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder...keep having fun you all, the work here has been great and the Party will indeed become the Event of the Year.

Anita

The Histories of Samhain and the Jack-o-Lantern

2005-09-03T10:36:00.000-07:00

Another fun and interesting entry I did last year for the 13 Days. There's a couple more I think you may like that'll be posted in the next lil while. This one was fun for me because of my Celtic heritage. I too learned more about the ancient ways and my ancient ancestors' ways.

The other night Kami and Jon went out and bought pumpkins for us. Once again, like last year I will be painting mine instead of carving and hollowing it out. (I wonder if I have a picture of my Frankie from last year? If I do I'll have to dig it out and see if Dad'll scan it for me, and I'll post it here.) I've gotten to where I hate that slimy, cold muck pumpkins call innards; I hate delving into it, either pulling it or scraping it out. The artwork on painted pumpkins is just as fun, cute or spooky as the carved ones, so I'd much rather enjoy my pumpkin that way. Besides, painted ones last a much longer time anyway.

Since we will be doing pumpkins soon I decided a mixture of histories on both the jack-o-lantern and Samhain would be interesting. Both are Celtic--one a tradition and the other a sabbat--and both go back centuries.

Samhain, pronounced sow·en, goes back to before Christ, to the days of druids. In Gaelic it means "summer's end." Like other cultures of ancient times, the Celts saw the shortening days as the beginning of the seasonal cycle. Their days started with night fall and ended at dawn. Samhain was/is their Dec. 31, their New Year's Eve. Thus, their calendar year began with O' Hallow's Day, or their New Year. The Celts were--and are to some degree still--pastoral people. The end of summer meant a change in routine. The cattle were brought down from the hills and summer pastures and families were gathered together inside on long winter nights for storytelling and handemade crafts.

The Celts believed that on Samhain the boundaries confining the dead from the mortal world were so thin, the dead were able to walk among the living. The night before, the human souls who had been trapped in animal bodies were released by the Lord of the Dead to take up their new incarnations. The Celts had a healthy respect for the dead. While fearing tricks and crop damage from the spirits, they also felt the spirits aided the Druids in making predictions for the future. These were a people heavily dependent on the mecurial natural world, and predictions were important in way of comfort and direction in the long winter months.

To celebrate Samhain, the ancient Celts built huge bonfires, where they gathered to sacrifice crops and animals to their deities. The bonfires were sacred and played a big part in cleansing the old year and making way for the new. They wore animal heads and skins as costumes and tried telling each others' fortunes. When it was over, the Celts would go home and light their own hearth fires with torches lit by the sacred bonfire they attended. These home fires were lit in hopes of protection through the coming year.

The colors of Samhain (or Halloween) are orange and black. Orange, to represent the coming or awaiting of the Yule when the Sun god is reborn. Black, to represent the time of darkness after his death.

Today, those who follow the old Celtic tradition (inasmuch as they can, for much time has passed and no one can really say the Old Ways are still practiced purely), and those who don't, can still celebrate Samhain if they so choose. *Here is a list of ideas for a fun Samhain:

Bobbing for apples. There were many divination practices associated with Samhain, many of which dealt with marriage, health and the weather. Bobbing for apples was a marriage divination based on the belief that the first to bite into an apple would be the first to marry in the coming year. This is similar to the throwing of the bride's bouquet and the tossing of her garter.
Apple peeling. This was another type of divination, determining how long one's life would be. The longer the unbroken peel, the longer the life of the one peeling it would live.
Carve jack-o-lanterns. Lighting these helped the spirits who walked during this night.
Finish any incomplete projects and pay off lingering bills (if possible) to close out the old year and begin the new year afresh.
Leave food out for the birds and other wild animals.
Visit the graves of your ancestors or, if this isn't possible, the nearest cemetery. Be still there and listen for the voices of those who have passed.
Put pictures of ancestors who have passed on anywhere you can see easily. Light a special candle for them to show them the way to return and celebrate with you.
Tell ancestral stories and tales around the fire, or at the dinner table.
Have a mask-making ceremony in which you create masks to represent your ancestry.

*smiles* Samhain really is fun, and the more I think about it, the more I like the traditions of it, the...spirit of it. (Pardon the pun.) It celebrates new hope for the future, while honoring the dead. It brings us closer to our ancestors. What a wonderful holiday. In that light, compared to it, Halloween (the modern, Christian version) is shallow and commercial. I prefer Samhain.

I should rephrase that. Insomuch that Halloween remains about spooks, fun and having the scare of your life--or unlife--then Halloween is good. But I can do without the commercialism, thanks.

My favorite tradition (other than watching Halloween movies) is jack-o-lanterns. ‡ It was the Irish who brought the tradition of these unique lanterns over when they immigrated to America. However, they carved turnips instead of pumpkins. Pumpkins weren't used until the Irish discovered they were easier to carve. Legend has it the original "Jack-of-the-Lantern" was named Stingy Jack. He was a miserable, old drunk who liked to play tricks on everyone: family, friends, his mother and even the Devil himself. One day, he tricked the Devil into climbing up an apple tree. Once the Devil climbed up the apple tree, Stingy Jack hurriedly placed crosses around the trunk of the tree. The Devil was then unable to get down the tree. Stingy Jack made the Devil promise him not to take his soul when he died. Once the devil promised not to take his soul, Stingy Jack removed the crosses and let the Devil down.

Many years later, when Jack finally died, he went to the Pearly Gates of Heaven and was told by Saint Peter that he was too mean and too cruel and had led a miserable and worthless life on Earth. He was not allowed to enter Heaven. He then went down to Hell and the Devil. The Devil kept his promise and would not allow him to enter Hell. Now Jack was scared and had nowhere to go, but to wander about forever in the darkness between Heaven and Hell. He asked the Devil how he could leave as there was no light. The Devil tossed him an ember from the flames of Hell to help him light his way. Jack placed the ember in a hollowed out turnip, one of his favorite foods which he always carried around with him whenever he could steal one. From that day onward, Stingy Jack roamed the Earth without a resting place, lighting his way as he went with his "Jack O'Lantern."

On All Hallow's Eve, the Irish hollowed out turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and to keep Stingy Jack away.

* Source found at The Pagan's Path
‡ Source found at Pumpkin Nook.

Monster Search

2005-09-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago some friends were
hosting a kids-oriented Samhain (Halloween)
camp out. I wrote this for them to sing:

I hope you'all know the songs (melodies)

faucon
....................................................................

Young Quest

Quickly end your meal and chores, (bye-bye blackbird)
Fetch your knife and fine strung bow,
Call your dog and jump the gate.
We're off to find a monster.

Forget cloak and copper coins.
Just be brave with iron will,
Touch your charm or cast a spell.
As one we'll find a monster.

The Hunter is watching, broken clouds do see. (MacNamera's Band)
Silver Goddess does sing a tune for me.
Each glade and stream does beck and call,
To young boys and girls one and all.

Find a cavern filled with fear.
Does it hold snake or clawed bat?
Awesome stench of ancient dead.
Perhaps it is a monster.

The Hunter is watching, broken clouds do see.
Silver Goddess does sing a tune for me.
Each glade and stream does beck and call,
To young boys and girls one and all.

Safe at home and never tell,
Bound and tied and hid away,
Beneath your shed it's waiting.
Today we caught a monster.

Brave Hunter is laughing in sunset smile.
The Mistress praises our stealth and guile.
Father chuckles while Mother scowls,
Secret is safe save a wise old owl.

Grave Yard Use

2005-09-02T06:56:00.000-07:00

We must all be vigilant in the protection of
graveyards, regardless of ones 'belief' structure.

However, I have found that large cemeteries are an
excellent place to teach driving skills to your
teenager. No traffic -- opportunities for close corners,
parallel parking, unexpected curves, etc.

In addition, one is constantly reminded of the
penalty for other than "defensive driving"
and full attention -- check your cell phone at the gate.

faucon

Death Angels

2005-09-02T06:40:00.000-07:00

For those that are into cemetaries and tombstones, check this site of Cemetary Angels, Watchers and Guardians.

http://www.slivoski.com/angels/

Baba's Boudoir

2005-09-02T05:02:00.000-07:00

You can use all of these keys but you should be very cautious about using the one in the bottom right hand corner which opens the door to Baba Yaga's Boudoir. Your tongue and eyeballs could be taken by 'the hands' who work for Baba and end up in her locksmith's workshop, ready to be crafted into a new key.

Decorate The Chamber of Horrors Way!

2005-09-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

How To Do Gravestone Rubbings

Best " How To " I've seen yet...

For those of us who have a soft spot for cemetaries, and if it’s not too cold or snowy out, this is a very easy hobby requiring only a little more than patience, elbow grease and healthy knees.

Materials
a roll of white newsprint paper
fat kindergarten crayons
a roll of paper masking tape
scissors or a pen knife
A small, stiff brush for removing dirt or moss clinging to the stones is helpful as well as a small bag to store tape and crayon wrappers so you’re not littering.

To rub a stone, first brush off any dirt and old moss. Then cut a piece of paper approximately six inches higher and wider than the face of the marker. This large margin serves several purposes. First it leaves you an uncolored area of the finished work, should you decide to mat it later. Also it provides you with an area on which to tape the paper to the stone that will not intersect with your work and damage it when you are finished. Finally and most important, it will keep your waxes from rubbing off onto the stone itself.

By taking this kind of care, you won’t mark the stone in any way. Unfortunately, careless hobbyists have already vandalized so many stones, and littered so many yards with their uncollected paper scraps that several prominent sites have been ruled off limits to rubbers by rightfully unhappy custodians.

Once the paper is in place, rub the flat side of the crayon gently over the paper in large strokes. Quickly you will see the printing beginning to emerge on your paper. Then fill in areas with closer strokes and deepen the color. As long as your paper remains firmly fixed, you can rub the same area over and over until it becomes legible.
Some stones are so weatherbeaten that they will never give a clear image, but a few tests will soon give you the experience to judge those which may prove hopeless. Heavily incised designs do not produce a very clear image. Glossy granite and slate usually produce the clearest images; old marble the least.

Very old stones tend to sink into the earth. If you suddenly discover that you can’t rub the bottom of the legend, brush away the grass and earth at the very base of the stone and keep rubbing. Usually you can pick up the balance of the words or frame of the design. This does mean that you will have to stretch out flat on the ground to complete the rubbing, but the results are worth it.

Before leaving a yard, check around for wrappers or waxes left lying on the ground, and for spare pieces of tape. It’s always good to not be a slob and try to leave the cemetary in a little better shape than when you arrived.

Of course the obivious alternitive is to photograph the stone. This way you can share with your on-line friends ( hint hint ).

Ghostly Halloween Movies, Oooooo

2005-09-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

This is an entry from my journal online almost a year ago. I love Halloween, it's my 3rd favorite holiday. I love the spooks, the legends, the chills and the thrills. I'm also a movie buff, and I'm lucky I've been able to combine my two interests into a tradition and collection. Every Halloween I have myself a lil movie-a-thon. It's great.

*smiles* Only six days more till Halloween! Or Samhain. Yay!! Mom bought The Haunted Mansion the other day with the idea of starting her own Halloween movie collection. She knows when I move in the spring I'll be taking mine with me. *laughs fondly* She play-pouts and whimpers when she thinks of me taking my collection away with me. Then she realized (after opening the plastic), when we were settling in to watch the movie, she'd bought the VHS instead of the DVD. And she wants the DVD, so guess who got another movie to add to her collection? *grins widely*

'Course, I myself was gonna buy the DVD, but hey, at least I got the movie now, bringing my collection's number up to nine. I'm quite happy. And next month it'll go up to 10--if I can afford the small price after everything else I need to pay for. For, I found another Halloween movie I really like on Amazon.com, The Little Vampire. Such a cute movie. Right now, in my collection I have:

The Haunted Mansion
Tower of Terror
The Ghost and Mr. Chicken
High Spirits
Hocus Pocus
Sleepy Hollow (the Johnny Depp version, mmmmm!)
The Canterville Ghost
Practical Magic (I know this one isn't "Halloween" per say, but it is about witches.)
Casper

I really like my Halloween movies; it's become somewhat of a tradition with me to have a Halloween movie-a-thon every year. And where Heather's busy this year, I'll just have to stock up on Halloween goods and hot chocolate and enjoy hour after hour of Halloween movie magic. (I'm also building a Christmas collection.)

To end this entry I found the lyrics they use in the Haunted Mansion attraction at Disneyland. I thought it would be fun to add them today.

Grim Grinning Ghosts
When the crypt goes creak,
And the tombstones quake,
Spooks come out for a swinging wake.
Happy haunts materialize,
And begin to vocalize.
Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.
Now don't close your eyes,
And don't try to hide.
Or a silly spook may sit by your side.
Shrouded in a daft disguise,
They pretend to terrorize.
Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.
As the moon climbs high o'er the dead oak tree,
Spooks arrive for the midnight spree.
Creepy creeps with eerie eyes,
Start to shriek and harmonize.
Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.
When you hear the knell of a requiem bell,
Weird glows gleam where spirits dwell.
Restless bones etherialize,
Rise as spooks of every size.
If you would like to join our jamboree,
There's a simple rule that's compulsory.
Mortals pay a token fee.
Rest in peace, the haunting's free.
So hurry back, we would like your company.
F. Xavier Atencio

See you soon, O Foolish Mortals!

Shouldn't have got me started ...

2005-09-01T03:24:00.000-07:00

finally a 'skert' story Em approves of ...

you want bones -- OK

faucon
..............................................................

Stakes 'n Bones

Harland had walked the path before, but never before sunrise. The mist had never lifted so early from the heather before, at least not in memory. The trees had never lost their leaves so early before, or so the squirrels said. He had never been at the pinnacle alone before, either. Be as it may, the fore was now. Harlan stepped over the hand-stacked wall, passed the warning sign, and stood on the jutting rock. The 600 foot drop did not scare him, for the wind always blew up the face of the bluff. He leaned far out in balance with breath of god and looked into the valley below. “A good place,” he thought. “A place of peace and gentle purpose.” He felt as if he were flying.

I won’t tell you where the village is as your coming might change things a bit too much – and I don’t know, really. Yet you must know that it is hilly here – the Lake District not too far away. You would know that an ancient Roman road runs buried along the ridge – its iron paving causing strange electrical apparitions during storms. You would find but one church here – that of the England proud and austere. You would know that that was yesterday – before history was shattered. Before the graves.

As Harland gazed down at the quiet streets from a vantage point both fearsome and proscribed, he chanced to catch a shadow out of place. Each structure in the pint sized world below cast a squared dawn shadow, as was proper and simple plain. The barren trees cast dagger lines that accentuated the regularity; else the uniqueness of the geometry might have been missed. His mind completed the shadow hint. One singular building below was shaped in the form of a cross – un-noticed from the ground and a more pedestrian view. Harland knew what this meant – he alone in all the village was prepared by education and hobby to understand. There was an old Norman Church hidden there – something not possible by recorded history. He marked its location well, defined by reference to more comfortable landmarks etched on the colorless scene below. The betraying shadow vanished with the rising sun, but the mystery had begun.

I won’t bore you with the verification of the find – the carbon dating of the graying stone, the removal of disguising interior walls, the measurements and count of close placed tiles. What is of note was the clamor of the citizens, equally divided over wanting the church or no. It had nothing to do with religion, or even historical importance of the find; but of the fact that revered city archives said it wasn’t so. If the documented flow of words and deeds, property and will, were not to be relied upon, then what other truths were but illusions? For the first time in most people’s lives, they felt a sense of terror. Their very spiritual foundation were shaken in the earthquake of shattered faith. Experts were called in.

First to arrive were those eager to disprove the church’s existence; for while people may fear the unknown, they abhor a truth they do not own. If the Normans had indeed controlled this gentle vale, then where are the tales of heroic resistance, the battle over the role of clerics in local affairs, and the settlers with Norman names? The locals did not mind being portrayed as peasant bumpkins, but any taint of cowardice or collaboration was intolerable. After all, history was supposed to put the victors in a good light – what else was it for? The village claim of never having been defeated by the Normans was more than civic pride. It gave the village a reason for being – an identity. To lose this now …

Next came those driven by different fears – those of ownership and sanctity. The ground on which the church stood, including the surrounding graveyard, would be hallowed ground – and may still belong to the church. The insipid fear of losing property was minor to that of fearing that the ‘wrong’ church might have control. Of greater terror was that homes might be constructed on tombs, not that they believed in ghosts – it just wasn’t right! Every record of town and vicinity was scoured for evidence – and it was found. Evidence of what? That was till unknown. Three documents were discovered to be altered – sections scraped and written over. Faint traces yielded to modern technology. Some puzzle pieces came together. No one was happy. An emissary of the Vatican arrived. Their records had not been altered.

There had been a church, duly consecrated and active for three years. It was not Norman, but constructed by Gnostics from Ireland. In truth, these clerics were all converted Abades of Ashera who still desired to practice some of their old ways despite their cloak of Christianity. The building had been constructed to mask the secret activities. Twelve people had been buried in the plot to the north of the church where a street intersection now held sway. Nine of the graves had been moved and the new sites blessed. The church had been declared anathema and deconsecrated. All records were directed to be changed or destroyed. The story had to die before it was born. The remaining three bodies had been forbidden a consecrated burial. The abbot had defied the Pope and buried them anyway. Their graves might still be there. The records ended.

Not so! With the revelation of the altered records, old family stories and myths took on new relevance. Those whose Norman fears were vindicated wanted to part of further ‘truth’. Those who no longer feared for their property no longer cared – certainly not about three people so obviously depraved even the church did not want them. Modernists who feared the ‘old ways’ wished the matter had never come up. Those still practicing ancient rites likewise wished the excitement would die, fearing discovery. But there is always someone who won’t leave well enough alone. Naturally, it was Harland; whose brief moment in history’s spotlight was soon to be lost in apathy. He listened to the stories. He believed.

Three strangers had come to the village, tall by local draw, and wide of shoulder and with uncommon strength. They sought work and were accepted – doing work other’s despised or thought beneath them. They worked hard – harder than most. They were clever – more clever than most. But, they did not go to church nor play at politics, or flirt with the miller’s daughter. The always paid their bills on time, but did not get drunk on Saturday night. They were different. Soon they were feared. Then they were hated. Their homes were burned and their animals ‘saved’. The three were chased through the streets and stoned, accused of many crimes and atrocities. They sought sanctuary in the church. They were dragged out, hung and burned. The abbot who could not protect them in life tried to give them peace in burial. For this he too was persecuted. The church was burned, but the powerful, forgiving stones remained.
Harland knew that he could not share what he now believed. The records had been changed to cover up guilt and shame and greed and filth – all driven by senseless fear of nothing – nothing at all. Just because some strangers were a little different an entire village fell to the depths of disgrace. The crown and church looked the other way. And now no one cared. Surely this is the real terror! He began to fear for his life. For good reason. He began to dig.

Each night he would enter the sewers beneath the streets and probe for the hidden graves. He thought that the least he could do was continue the abbot’s work. No man deserves to die as they did – to suffer such injustice, pain and abuse. He became obsessed; and with each shovel of dirt and filth he came to revile his former friends more and more. This once gentle poet, singer of songs, lover of nature – came to see only evil in the hearts of his fellow men. He grew beyond fear – beyond terror to embrace absolute denial of his humanity. All because of a chance walk on a Sunday morning – and a vision.

He failed to find the separate graves because all three where entombed in a single stone vault. Each domed section contained an embedded cross. At the junction of each was a hole over where the departed heart would be – a hole through which a stake could be driven to insure that the person inside were truly dead. Originally this practice was to protect against the suffering of a person being accidentally buried alive, and regaining consciousness too late. Many exhumed coffins with internal scratch marks had attested to this need – of this he was aware. But why three preparations for persons hung and mutilated – surly dead. More importantly, why would anyone care if they suffered further. Yet the holes were there and he knew that the stakes had been driven in. Yet they were on then hallowed ground – it made no sense. He had to open the tomb!

The preceding narrative is from notes left by Harland Sotherby, deceased. I changed them into a 'readable' story, because I can. But …

I don’t know what he did with the bones – the remains. I would have doubted that much of anything survived the centuries -- yet. I am only relating the story as passed on by a traveling monk – one who had watched over Harland in his waning years – after he had sought asylum – the one who gave me the notes. He could have destroyed them -- probably should have, but like the Abbot …

He was about to leave when he turned and said,

"I would be remiss if I did not tell you my impressions of Harland -- of his dilutions -- his passion, so real for him.

Harland was mad, of course – for no record of such a village exists anywhere. His rantings created such dread and fear that he was kept in a solitary cubicle for twenty years. His personal terror was beyond understanding; as were his sketches. It seems that the only thing that gave him any peace at all were drawings of skeletons -- always with long, fragile bones and sculls with wide-set eyes. And broad chests and backs to support strange bones that he claimed were wings. Foolish! Wings? I am sure I misunderstood. After all, he was hard to understand between the screams and sobs. Not understandable at all."

© Sakin'el 2005

'T ain't No Sin- Great Song !

2005-08-31T22:13:00.000-07:00

Wander down the the Ballroom and take a listen to what the Band of Bones is playing....

'T Ain't No Sin

When you hear sweet syncopation, and the music softly moans
‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

When it gets too hot for comfort, and you can’t get an ice cream cone
‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

Just like those bamboo babies, down in the South Sea tropic zone
‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

When you hear sweet syncopation, and the music softly moans
‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

When it gets too hot for comfort, and you can’t get an ice cream cone
‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

Just like those bamboo babies, down in the South Sea tropic zone
‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

Words by Edgar Leslie
Music by Walter Donaldson

What Was In That Box Anita Marie?

2005-08-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

Memories and Bones and Secrets and Shadows.
Open it wider if you dare.....................

To The House Of Baba Yaga

2005-08-31T18:55:00.000-07:00

Between the Day Job and doing what I love ( writing of course ) I take trips. Here's one Heather invited me on.

It was a trip to visit someone named the Baba Yaga. The Price of this Journey, well it wasn't cheap as you'll see...

DREAMS OF NIGHT

Marie and I were standing in front of the House of Bones last night.

She looked over at me and shook her head, " this is no good for you Anita " she warned me " there's much danger here for you. "

I nodded and reached out for the door handle and she snatched at my wrist " Ask who's house this is before you go in, bring her a gift and don't eat anything she offers you. "

" I'll remember. " I said.

" Anita, don't fall asleep in this place either. Go in awake or go in asleep. But don't do both. Otherwise you'll get lost. "

I woke up and found that it was just after three in the morning I spent some time wondering about Marie's warnings. Funny, she should be warning me about a writing project...a blogg.

Funny.

Almost as funny as the little doll I found on the pillow next to me when the sun came up.

Even funnier was the message carved deep into the ceiling above my bed.

Beware the House of Baba Yaga...
Marie L.

HOUSE OF BABA YAGA

We were standing in front of the House of Bones last night and Marie turned to me and asked, " still dreaming about this place?"

I nodded because in my dreams I can't read and in some of my dreams I can't speak. Tonight I found myself mute.

I'm sure Marie could see the panic in my eyes, on my face. I had been dreaming about this House of Bones every single night, every time I closed my eyes and then opened them I could still see it.

Asleep or awake there was no escaping it.

" It's alright Anita, here... come here and look " Marie pointed to the spot between her eyes " look here Anita, this is where the Soul lives. Look here. "

And I did.

I reached out and knocked on the door of Baba Yaga and the door swung open and I could smell cinnamon. " Whose house is this? " I called in

I saw the shadows gather and pull itself apart at the threshold several times before they took shape.

" This is my home, "

" Who are you? " I asked

" Baba Yaga, come in ... come in "

I looked from left to right and then crossed the threshold, on my way in I dropped a small gold coin on the floor and the Baba Yaga stooped to pick it up.

Then she looked up at me and snarled.

Her face was old but not offensive, certainly not demonic but there are ways to hide your face. It's a parlor trick in the world of magic.

Faces are only masks after all.

There was no hiding her expression though; she didn't like standing here and she didn't like showing herself.

" I received your Invitation Baba Yaga, it came to me in a dream and in omens. I don't like that sort of thing. " I said.

" Ah, a non-believer. " she said smugly.

" Oh Baba Yaga, call me anything but don't call me a non-believer. No, I believe in the direct approach. Besides, " I said lighting a candle that sat on the kitchen table " I don't like it when people take what's mine. "

Baba Yaga grabbed at my hand and threw it back then she took the candle from the table and thrust it very, very close to my face...to my eyes.

" Laveau " she spat, " Marie Laveau, you and your tricks. "

" In my world Baba Yaga this is no trick. Possession is no game to us. "

" What do you want?"

" I'm this woman's...spiritual advisor, I want to know why you are in her dreams. "

" I have something of hers and she knows it. She just doesn't know WHAT it is and you know Laveau, I don't have to tell her and I don't have to tell you either. "

I reached back and pushed Anita's hair over her shoulders and smiled her crooked smile and shrugged. " Oh, we both can appreciate the challenge Baba Yaga, but you can't take what isn't hers. Don't even try. This won't be the last time we cross paths Baba Yaga, but I'm warning you. Don't make it necessary for me to come at you from those paths with vengeance in my heart. Don't make me come to you from the shadows. Are we agreed? "

Baba Yaga held her hands up and nodded. " Agreed. "

Inside I could feel what Anita was thinking... neither of us trusted this Baba Yaga.

Marie was waiting for me the Next Night and this time I could speak.

" What does she mean, she has something of mine? " I asked Marie.

" Could be anything, strand of your hair, a book, a dress...anything. But unless you find out the dreams will get worse. "

The Sun was just coming up in my dream, but I was sleeping at home in my bed and I'll bet it wasn't even Midnight yet. The Sun was coming up in my dreams because Marie was going to show me something.

" Luis is taking you to a place called Yakima this weekend. You're going to stop in a town called Ryderwood to buy gas. Look, behind the station is this tree. It was a hanging tree back in the late 1800's. The last man to be hung there was buried under it. You won't have to dig far to find him. It's all sand out there in Ryderwood. It's in the middle of the desert and he’s been mummified by the elements. He's buried face down and his hands are tied behind his back. Take his left hand. "

" It's not like the legend, he doesn't have to be hanging to make this work..."

" Why do I need it? " I asked.

" Main de Glorie, Anita. Hand of Glory, you'll need it where you'll be going."

I found the hand where Marie said I would and Luis waited in the car while I completed my task. I came to the car with the hand wrapped in a clean white sheet and I put it in the trunk.

" Are you done? " he asked me.

I shook my head, " I've only just started. "

WORD FROM THE ROAD: TO THE HOUSE BABA YAGA

To All My Friends Back Home,

I'm on my way to the House of Baba Yaga...or the House of Bones as I've been calling it. This is my first stop, it's a house in the middle of the Desert outside of town called Cavern. Isn't that a weird name?

The locals tell me it was built by a Devil. Not THE devil...but "a Devil". They seem to take some weird sort of comfort in that.

I'll be in touch soon,
Anita Marie

BABA YAGA DREAMS

She bothers me, this woman who comes to me in my dreams wrapped in Snakes.

She tries to tell me her name but I won't listen. She holds the Serpents out but I won't touch them. She offers to tell me her secrets but I've been warned nothing on this journey is free.

It all costs.

Like the Main de Glorie I used to steal my lock of hair back from the Baba Yaga in the House of Bones.

I took the Main de Glorie in and lit it's waxed covered fingers and when the flames jumped up everything in the House of Bones fell asleep.

I was able to move from room to room and saw people on hooks and racks and hearts in wicker baskets and I saw Baba Yaga herself sitting in a rocking chair with a little doll dressed in red with strands of my hair pinned to it's head on the table next to her.

Its eyes were taped shut and before I peeled the tape away I knew why I wasn't able to sleep or waken. Why I'd been walking in twilight for almost a month.

I left the tape on. I didn't want to wake up in this place. I didn't want to know where I really was.

I placed the little doll in my pocket and leaned close to Baba Yaga and asked her sleeping form, " Why, why me? "

And from the place Baba Yaga goes when she dreams I heard her whisper, " I'm not really asleep you know. "

I expected her eyes to snap open, for her claw like hand to grab me by my throat and squeeze until my face turned black. But she slept and dreamed and I guessed things like the Baba Yaga that live in Nightmare Worlds never sleep.

They're always there waiting for you to shut your eyes.

" I spent the night in a house built by a Devil because of you. I won't forget that...ever. It's all about you and me and revenge Baba Yaga. The things I see now...the things I hear, all of that because of you. It costs Baba Yaga. It's going to cost you. "

I went out of the House of Bones and walked down that dark road filled with bones and whispers and I took the doll from my pocket and pulled the tape away from the dolls eyes.

The light from the Main de Glorie's fingers flared blue and orange and died out.

I was plunged into darkness...and it didn't matter. I could see just fine. I could move sure footed through the Deadwood Forest.

I belonged in this place now.

That was the price you see that I paid for using the Main de Glorie.

It all costs.

And I’ve paid in full.

© anita moscoso 2005

What Was In That Box Again, Anita Marie?

2005-08-31T04:48:00.000-07:00

( Maybe this is the male version of Pandora's Box???

What was Anita Marie's Great Grandfather

really meaning? Hmm....shall get to the

bottom of this......Jack-in-the-Box....

but she said it had a carved lid...)

Entering Baba's World

2005-08-31T03:54:00.000-07:00

By Terror

2005-08-31T03:30:00.000-07:00

I read Em several stories here,
and she said, "See, they write of terror
and fear and neat stuff."
I admit my contributions have not been
in that vein. Perhaps it is because I,
"Ain't skert of nuthin'" (ask Em),
or because I sense enough terror in the
world already.

But I will try ....

faucon

story written 08/30/05 (Em insists I start copyrighting things)
..................................................................

BURNT

I lay on the silent carpet,
not yet captured by the pattern
of the Persian maze of horror
thought beautiful at a distance.

My clenched fist held trembling chin
confronts the terror of the stove,
ever cold by right -- never a friend
at night or shared pleasant meal.

Dread forged blackened iron soul --
snarling nickel grated bulging teeth --
rotating, silver irised eyes --
dead, dangling ferns in want of hair.

When the house burned down no one really knew if Aunt Tillie was in it or not. After all, she had hidden herself away after Fred was killed in the war and never appeared again. Milk bottles cycled full and empty. Delivery boys piled bags on the back porch. Contract work on the yard and outside of the semi-Victorian home was handled by her attorney, Amber Wilkes. It was rumored that a steady stream of indigents 'camped out' there -- or worse. Leastwise, lights came on at strange hours behind un-drawn curtains. No one cared much either, as she hadn't been very nice even when sociable. Karen only remembered her through little girl eyes. And now because of the will. Everything in the house had been left to her. The old biddy's money went to her cousins -- karma.

Trouble is -- 'everything' meant 'nothing', as not a single smoking board remained standing -- except for the strange miracle. It seems the old claw-foot tub, somehow full of water, fell through the burning floor and came to rest over an ancient coal stove. Both were saved. The tub now served as a huge planter on Karen's sun porch. The stove sat proudly in her living room, just as it had in Tillie's -- a display stand for her collections of turtles, except for Tillie it had been salt and pepper shakers. The stove didn't work -- never had! Besides, there was no way to put a chimney in her flat. Karen remembered the stove. It scared her to death!

The hinged mouth looked tight-lip hungry
but the polished snaggle-tooth handle
did not turn or budge at all --
a brass rivet through its knee.

The double ring atop its skull
was welded roundly and forlorn,
and the damper wing pinned tight
with a bar of hammered steel.

Karen wondered why she kept the thing, a source of remembered punishment, and thereby fear. "Sitting in the corner" was ready punishment for fractious infractions of adult power and distain for the energy of youth. "An'tillie" was the worst. With no children of her own bitterness, she was expert on how to raise them. "Sit in the corner until you learn respect!" This meant silence and unquestioned obedience and servility. The stove already owned the corner. The five year old Karen had churned inside. The aging woman Karen felt only rage, and stared at the stove with clenched teeth and senses sealed against compassion or understanding. Unknowingly she blamed this small stove, no bigger than a two-drawer file cabinet, for the fire. Then she rejoiced that the evil old house was gone. Then she was ashamed. Of such is terror made.

"Somehow this is your fault," she screamed. A flower pot shattered against the unrepentant stove -- again! It was well-built. Such endured abuse showed no sights of dent, nor tarnish, not rust nor age. So had it been in An'tillie's house -- so it was again. Karen screamed again at the insolence of the gleaming nickeled skirt, mouth and condemning eyes. "If only you could be lit, damn you, I would stuff you with garbage and let you burn up from the inside out." She knelt before the terrible image -- an icon more stolidly cold than any in church. Even her dripping tears failed to mar the stove's virgin soul.

The affixed brass plate still remained,
set low where genitals should be --
and should have read with pride secure,
"Beldon Stove # ___, 1893"

Instead it proclaimed, yet still bold,
"DEFECTIVE -- do not use -- WARNING,"
and set aside for window display,
still-born but denied a burial.

Karen felt trapped -- nay, consumed by the stove's vile countenance. Yet she did not know how to rid herself of its memories, for she dreaded even more the derision of her siblings and in-laws. So she hid her smoldering coals of pain and hatred, and made the decorated stove a center piece of deceit for others to see. She even learned to crochet doilies for its top, forgetting that An'tillie had done that too. Only when she was alone -- fearfully always, did she strip the stove bare and reveal its true nature. "Why didn't you love me?" she shouted. "At least now, leave me alone!" The stove only grinned menacingly, reflecting in its shinning fixtures images of unkempt hair and bloodshot, vacant eyes.

She had a plan! Somehow she would get the stove open and destroy its pristine superior pride. She surreptitiously acquired a single-jack, cold chisel and hacksaw at several flee-markets. Some discarded metal dryer vent was found on a trash pile. Fiberglass insulation was torn from the closet ceiling. A pry-bar was stolen from a construction site. She was ready. Its terror would die!

First she managed to bend the steel bar enough to wedge the flue baffle open a tad. The came the vent hose, packed round with insulation and secured with duct tape, leading to the range-hood in the kitchen. Her windows did not open -- built that way, while An'tillie's had been nailed shut. Then, pin by pin, rivet by rivet, she beat the restricting locks apart. In her passion she even struck off one of those holding the brass plate, before realizing her error. She could not free the top ring-plates but found no need. At each side stood saved kitty-litter containers of trash and unread newspapers. The handle turned with squealing protest -- resisting perhaps in knowledge of impending death. The loosened name plate swung free on its damaged pin. Karen stopped and stared …

Beneath was another gleaming plate:

"Beldon Stove # 1, 1891"
"May it ever be a symbol of family pride"

Now the door swung open of its own accord, no longer bound by the sorrow of Tellacia Beldon Stein. The pins had been added in 1943 -- the year Karen had been born. The firebox was not empty. Each stack of love letters were bound with a silk ribbon and a date scripted in careful lavender ink -- 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943. All were from Fredrick Roberts to "Dearest Tillie." Karen read them all through the night -- up to the last letter written just before getting on the ship for home. The last spoke of their daughter and the impending wedding.

With the first glimmer of ghostly dawn Karen opened the shoebox that remained. Inside were hundreds of savings bonds …

And a note:

"When all who know are dead,
I will come to you."

Tillie

There is no fire like that of love,
and no terror like that of fear,
fueled by bigotry and false pride,
in what others may think or do.

Burn up all your needless secrets
in a convenient ancient stove,
and warm your soul in gleeful dance
'neath glowing smile and laughing eyes.

© Sakin'el 2005

Odd Room

2005-08-30T18:53:00.000-07:00

These Prints are in a little room here in the Chamber of Horrors that's full of dust and cobwebs. I wonder who put them in here and then abandon the room...it's a very big room and it's very dark and over in the corner is a jack in the box.

How strange.

Anita Marie

Fear Base

2005-08-30T02:43:00.000-07:00

When I shared this story a year ago,
I received some comments that might be
considered 'fear based', so will include it here,
though it is not 'ghostly'.

I regret using the word 'wizard' since it is
now 'Hollywood' meaningless --
please substitute your own meaningful term.

faucon
.....................................................................

My Best Sunset

I knew he was there – a higher vibration, or something. Six guests – strangers – internet contacts who chanced to be here and now and why. A simple dinner, croquet on the lawn – later a fire for storytelling and marshmallows. All accepted – no clues. I didn’t even know one was a wizard. Perhaps the sunset will tell.

No sunset is really special for me – extra special that is. With each dawn’s gifted rebirth of purpose – creation; a sunset is merely a signature – though some are certainly more profound than others. Is their awesome beauty a mirror of my own passion, or just a song played on dancing clouds? Nothing special tonight – yet one can learn much by observing how others view a sunset. What will a wizard do?

Nothing! All attention is on the glowing, pulsing coals – more vibrant that the pastel sky – almost breathing – whispering, “come close – let me give life as I die!” A different type of sunset, I guess. If true, then is the sunrise found in the seed, the blossoming tree, the fruit – or the lover’s touching in the shade of this ‘once was a tree’’? Marshmallow time!

Sigh! Always the draw back to a slower pace – a pleasant walk when I should skip and dance. Make the most of it. Watch. All six play with the willow sticks as children – different artful methods of concentrated bliss. Too close and the fire claims the prize. Too distant and the mallow dries and withers without praise or reward. Kind of like ‘relationships’ I guess. Man and a lump of egg meringue – a story on a stick – birth and death in shades of gold and brown. Does anyone else sense the spirituality of this moment?

One takes a while longer than the others to caress the marriage of treat and ebbing embers – making it perfect – complete. Then he offers the marshmallow to a stranger – an old woman scarcely seen in the fading light – my mother. She accepts it with an intense grace – to honor this special unique gift – there will never be another the same. The sunset is complete – now only shadows from the meager fire remain. Too dark now! When he turns and looks at me, and I know he is smiling. I do not have to see his eyes – there will be a lifetime for that.

“Hello.”

ALL POINTS BULLETIN

2005-08-29T19:16:00.000-07:00

WARNING TO ALL CHAMBER OF HORRORS GUESTS!
BE ON THE LOOK OUT FOR:

BABY BEEP THE WEREWOLF
AKA: MISCHIEF

BUSTAH SKELINGTON
AKA TROUBLE!!!!!!

Baba Yaga Vase

2005-08-29T15:54:00.000-07:00

2005-08-28T23:12:00.000-07:00

Mind bending stuff - where oh where to go next???

The Fiji Mermaid and Stuart of The Six Shadows

2005-08-28T17:58:00.000-07:00

When my Great Grandfather was a young man he was a Magician who once shared billing with the Famous Harry Houdini. My Great Grandfather wasn't the Showman his peers were plus he had nine kids to support and he wasn't able to do it on an entertainer’s salary.

So you’ve probably never heard of Stuart of the Six Shadows.

Instead of becoming a famous magician my Great Grandfather published our town's local newspaper and no matter how big or small he made each story fun to read. He had a wonderful imagination and was quiet the showman, so I guess it was to be expected

It was a gift he had, he knew how to tell a good story and he was so good at it that it was a relief to know somewhere in the back of your mind it was only a story...like the one he use to tell about how he came to own a Fiji Mermaid.

One day late in the Fall of 1910 my Great Grandfather Stuart was invited to perform his Magic Act for a ' Foreign Gentleman' and his Wife.

Stuart boarded a train and then a boat that took him up a River somewhere back East. The trip was long and lonely because Stuart was the only passenger the entire journey.

Then after nearly after a week of travel he arrived at a very old Manor House in the Mountains.

Everything around him looked so foreign to Stuart that he would have sworn on the head of his newborn son back home that he was in a different Country all together.

The clothes the people he did see where of odd designs and made from strange fabrics. The houses were dark and looked empty but he saw little signs of life, toys scattered here and there, baskets tied shut with twine and livestock wandering around in fields.

Even the Plants were different from anything he'd ever seen before, and the lakes were an unnatural shade of blue and stayed that color even in the moonlight.

And he didn't hear Night Sounds...nothing moved or stirred in that strange countryside and even the Stars looked different...and then Stuart realized though he didn't want to acknowledge it at first what was wrong with them.

The Constellations were all backwards.

It was like he was seeing their reflections in a mirror or a lake.

When he realized that, he didn't look up again and he wanted very desperately to turn around and go home. But a deal was a deal and the Gentleman and his Wife were willing to pay a lot of money for an hours entertainment.

And of course...the show must always go on.

The Hall he performed in on that night was cavernous and full of shadows.

The guests of the Gentleman and his Wife had odd shaped hands and their faces were almost mask like and pale but their eyes were bright as candlelight in the darkness

They reacted to each trick, each slight of hand, each story with delight and laughter and they said " Ooohh " and " Ahh" much like any other audience Stuart had ever performed in front of before. But they seemed unwilling to move away from the walls and shadows to try to sneak peaks and figure out Stuart's secrets like most audiences do.

Then Stuart called for a volunteer, some brave soul willing to participate in a routine called, " The Coffin of Mystery."

The Coffin of Mystery, he boomed into the darkness in his great stage voice would restore life to the dead.

To prove his claim, Stuart asked for a volunteer to plunge a sword into his chest and then close the Coffin Mystery’s door and latch it closed.

Then Stuart claimed dramatically he would emerge moments later alive and unmarked from The Coffin.

The Gentleman's Wife seemed very excited at this story and she whispered something to one of the guests who hurried up to Stuart and asked, " Tell me again Sir, if someone dead is placed in this box they'll be restored to life?"

Stuart nodded and the Guest begged for Stuart to wait, and from the back of the room one of those twisted little forms broke out of the darkness and slowly made it's way to the stage.

The Man was pale and Stuart could see under better circumstances he was a young man and probably a handsome man but right now he looked aged and sick and his hair was falling out in patches.

" Run in with a nasty neighbor of ours a hunter of sorts...climb on in Zhiam and let's see what this can do..."

Stuart stepped back and watched the young man helped inside of the Coffin and the Gentleman looked on with longing and the Wife looked so sad and he heard her say, " Please Dear, don't expect too much..."

" Do your Magic. " Begged the Guest and Stuart looked into his dark eyes that glowed in the dark and the guest said with such pleading in his voice it broke Stuart's heart. " Please Sir, do your Magic. "

As the young man lay back on the cream colored satin lining Stuart leaned in and whispered, " Knock when you see the blue light. "

Then Stuart closed the Coffin's lid and because he'd never performed this trick with anyone else in the Coffin he opened the lid again and told the young man inside, " This is a Magician's Trick, and you're sworn to secrecy...you can never tell anyone what you see and hear in there. Is it a deal? "

The young man who looked old nodded and he said solemnly, " I swear. "

Stuart looked deep into the boy’s eyes and nodded. " I believe you. "

And then Stuart shut the lid and latched it.

Stuart wasn't surprised when he heard the knock from inside the Coffin a few minutes later and he wasn't surprised when the sickly young man emerged a very healthy young man.

Everyone else in the Hall was amazed as Stuart knew they would be; the Gentleman's stern face dissolved into a much kinder stern face the Lady's face broke into sunlight and the guests moved out of the shadows to shake Stuart's hand.

The guests Stuart could see weren't really human, some resembled Wolves, some he took for witches, others were pale and thin and he knew they were Vampires and others were exotic creatures from places where the Sun never traveled to.

But that didn't matter, because for those few moments really...they were all the same.

Stuart was packing his props, which he always did in an empty room when he heard the Guest clear his throat and say, " Excuse me, Sir? "

" Just a minute..." Stuart closed the last case and locked it and turned around and the Guest introduced himself as Mr. Nightson.

" This is just a gift from the Young Count, to show his appreciation. He'd have brought it himself but..." Mr. Nightson pointed to the window and Stuart could see the morning sunlight just coming over the tops of the trees.

Stuart removed the burlap cover from the box and inside he saw the form of something that looked half fish, half monkey...at least that was his first impression.

" The Young Count calls it his Fiji Mermaid. That’s where he and his friend...a wonderful young Werewoman found it. They found it in Fiji washed up on the shore and I think it only lived for a few minutes. He's very fond of it...I'm not sure why. Young Love...strange what it does to the mind. "

" It means quite a bit to him..."

" It will to me as well. " Stuart promised.

And Stuart always kept his word.

So now the Fiji Mermaid sits on my desk as I write my stories and for Halloween and Christmas I bring her out to my living room and I tell the story and people laugh and say, " Well Anita, you certainly inherited Stuart's flair for the dramatic. "

And I look into their eyes with Stuart's Magician's Eyes and I nod and assure them, " Yes, dramatic...it's all just a story after all. "

Then I look over at the Fiji Mermaid and wink and the Fiji Mermaid floating in her jar winks back at me.

© anita moscoso 2005

Reluctant Ghost

2005-08-28T17:45:00.000-07:00

I do not normally write ghost stories,
or horror fiction (or real), but m'lady Em
asked me to write one on our honeymoon ???
so this is what you get ...

faucon.
............................................

SHIMMER

‘“Course I don’t believe in ghosts -- and don’t ‘llow any of them ladies to tell ‘ya different,” opinioned old Jess. He stared a bit after the retreating reporter. “Them what believes ain’t ever seen one -- and those that have ain’t sayin’,” he muttered. “Believin’ ain’t related to truth at all, or least wise not like nuts and shells. Ya’ hear a story, excited like, by a person rightly truthful and credible and you repeat it. That’s believin’. Now if you done saw the specter yur own self, you wouldn’t be believin’ -- you’d be knowin’. I’d be one of them, for shore -- one that be knowin’, that is. Too bad ya didn’t ask the right question.”

The aging mountain man sauntered over to the shed -- the one with all the brooms hanging and sprigs of rosemary and always in the shade. He unfastened the rusty lock with a key hung from his belt, and swung the door wide and free.

“Come on out Annabell, and sit a spell,” he jested. “I know it isn’t dark enough to see your pretty dress, but I’ll pull my cap down low. You deserve a reward, being right quiet and gentle just now. What’ll it be -- a story about knights and faeries?”

He selected a children’s book from a stack at the corner of the porch and began to read. The sun set ahead of time, but the shimmering glow in the rocking chair next by provided all the light he needed. “Don’t know why you hang around, my dear,” he smiled. “You must know all of these stories by heart. This one is pretty long -- I’d better get a sweater.” The shimmer shifted hue a bit and might have seemed brighter to anyone close by -- anyone who knew about ghosts, that is. Jess decided he was comfy after all, and continued to read.

Dan, the reporter from the city, tossed his backpack into the trunk and handed over some bills for the gas. “I chatted with that old man like you suggested,” he lamented. “Nothing to it -- says he has never seen a ghost, and I sensed he doesn’t lie. Doesn’t believe it them at all. Don’t know how these rumors get started.” The dust took a while to settle in the road after he sped away.

“Of course he doesn’t see ghosts, you ninnie!,” chuckled the store-keep. Jeff has been completely blind for years.”

An Unseen Visitor

2005-08-28T16:19:00.000-07:00

I am pulling this out of the Chamber's library to share here at the party. After you read this, think...have you ever had the sensation of watched, but nobody was there? Do tell...

Something skitters past your peripheral vision.

What was that?

You look, but there's nothing there.

Could it have been your imagination...or something more? Something...only the open mind can see? Possibilities of what it might be occupy your mind as you give the room one last sweep, searching even the slight shadows created by the phosphorescent lights overhead. Nothing. You're alone. You dismiss the notion of seeing something and soon forget about it. Until the next time.

* * * * * * * * * *
Evening falls quietly and gracefully into shadows. Pleasant thoughts or memories fill your head as you sit in front of the computer. A vacant smile plays about your lips while you're lost in a reverie. Suddenly, you sense you're not alone. The little hairs on the back of your neck rise, your heartbeat picks up. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Curiosity though, has you looking to the right.

There's nothing but empty space. No one lurks in your doorway. Yet, your feeling remains.

You stare at the spot where you first thought you sensed a presence. Though your eyes tell you otherwise, you're not quite sure you're alone anymore. But how could that be? Nothing is there! Or is something..someone...there after all, unseen? The air is thick with speculation and some undefinable element. Your thoughts, scattered from their previous enjoyment, now race and your body tenses.

Don't be stupid, you tell yourself. It's just your overactive imagination at work. You want to believe something or someone is there. Just so you can experience an other worldly event.

But try as you might, you can't totally dismiss the feeling of being watched. As you wait with bated breath for some unknown thing to happen, you become aware of no malevolence in the air. Only...a curiosity and mischievousness. A visiting spirit perhaps? But who? Once again your mind races, looking for answers. A past owner of the house? A dead relative you were close to? Or a passing spirit? Or is it really just your imagination after all? The guesses could go on.

As you ponder who your unseen guest might be, you sense them coming towards you in a rush. Gasping in surprise, you recoil expecting to feel something at contact. When nothing happens you open your hastily shut eyes and look about. Except for you the room is empty. Your earlier feeling is gone. Releasing a pent up breath you slowly relax. Whoever it was disappeared when they came upon you. For several moments you just sit, thinking and taking it in. You're reminded of another earlier incident months before, when you thought you saw something but was unsure.

Questions bloom in your fertile imagination. Was that really real then too? Surely I couldn't have imagined two similiar incidents? Am I going nuts, or can I sometimes feel what's on a higher plane? The possibility that you can excites you and brings a smile to your face, yet at the same time fills you with an eerieness.

There are many inexplicable things in our universe. The Loch Ness Monster. Leprechauns and fairies. Ghosts. We hardly see them for cynical minds and lost innocence. But if you're lucky, or of an open mind you just might sense or get a glimpse of another world...

You hear something on the wind. Was that...laughter?

Elective surgery, anyone?

2005-08-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

Halloween Dare

2005-08-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

Following this message are two true tales from local cemeteries.

Go ahead, we dare you...go to these places and judge for yourselves if we're simply spinning Halloween Yarns or giving you the Bare Bones...

Your Hostesses
Anita and Karen