Oliver Presents P. L. Parker

A full moon pulsates in the midnight black sky. Shutters bang against the decaying 300 year old mansion where evil lurks behind every door.  Looming high above the manor where murder and mayhem took place, witches lurk in Salem’s Lot. An owl screeches in the woods, its warbling slicing through the night. The medium scurries up the cracked steps to the mansion and knocks three times.

Donned in black satin and an evil smile, Oliver opens the heavy chamber door. It creaks on its rusty hinges. Kissing the medium on each cheek, he escorts her into the parlor.

In the flickering candlelight, willowy spider webs hang  from the four corners. Mold and rot seep from cracks.  Piano music escalates to a heart-pounding crescendo, followed by blood—curdling screams. Oliver gestures to the dusty and ripped black satin settee, beckoning the medium to be seated. Silver goblets filled with deep red wine are laid out on the coffin table. When the door bangs, Oliver introduces his guest.

Good Evening. With grand pleasure, I present  the lovely and mysterious P. L. Parker. She is here to tell the legend of this manor, followed by an excerpt of her latest work. Take it away, my dear.

The Returning

As she neared the front door, prickles of awareness raced up her spine.  She could sense the ancient evil lurking behind the shuttered windows, oozing through the cracks and holes, tainting the air with its putrid emanations.

The edifice was old, three hundred years or more, and decayed beyond repair. The new owners of the property wanted to rebuild—something modern and fun, and the old building was scheduled for demolition.  But whatever was in this place kept the workers from beginning.

Why did I agree to this! It was said that the house had once been the residence of a malevolent witch or hoodoo woman who’d practiced her trade with vengeance on the surrounding population. The history of the house seethed with tales of murder and mayhem and few were brave enough to venture too near.

She drew a deep breath, steeling herself for the next step. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. I’m here to force the entity to leave! A medium with some following, she’d agreed and took the new owner’s money before she’d researched the place. I needed the money, she mentally defended herself. And now it was gone and her only recourse was to do the job she’d been paid to do.

Sweat ran in rivulets from her forehead, palms grew slick with moisture. Heart pounding in her breast, she reached for the door handle, twisting it before she had a chance to change her mind.

The door grated open with a rusty moan. Stepping into the shadowy interior, she waited as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Huge spider webs hung from the ceiling fluttering in the slight breeze generated by the open entryway. Dust covered the rotted furnishings spiraling in small whirlwinds as the dust motes caught in the puff of circulating air.  But it was the knowledge the entity was very near that caused her heart to freeze.  Foul secretions permeated everything.  Her tongue swiped lips suddenly dry. Already afraid, sheer terror surged in a blinding rush.

She felt rather than heard the entity’s wicked laughter, thrilled by her rush of emotion. It lives for terror!  She opened her senses, seeking the source of the being. Not upstairs. Not in the rooms leading off from the foyer. Below…in the basement.

I can’t do this! Bitter bile rose in her throat causing her to gag. Again, the entity drew from her fear! Hideous howls of pure glee raged through her mind.

It’s just stupid stuff made up by lazy workers, the new owners said. Just a bunch of old wives’ tales stirring the pot!

She knew better.  She’d been in the presence of evil before, but nothing had prepared her for that which lurked in this dreadful place. Compelled by a force not her own, she stumbled down the long hallway, drawn to a small door at the far end.

This is the entrance to hell! For long moments she stared at the door, every fiber of her being quaking with fright. I wish Maman were here! Maman was so much stronger that she would ever be. Maman would not have been so foolish.

With shaking hands, she gripped the handle, gasping as the door banged open. Broken and rotted stairs led down into the darkness below.  She stepped on the first step. It groaned beneath her weight. Then another step.

Don’t go down there or you’ll never return, the voice of her long dead Maman hissed.

Blood pounded in her veins loud enough to hear. I have no other choice, Maman!

You do! Run before you are lost!

She reached the bottom of the stairs. The darkness seethed with the entity’s evil presence. Rage, hate, murder, corruption hit her with full force, destroying the last reserves of strength and will.

Too long have you been away, the entity’s words slithered through her brain.

She bowed low. “I am here, Master.”

Taking a deep breath, Gemma offered in a trembling voice. “Food sickens her and

sunlight burns her skin. She stays abed most days and only ventures out in the eve.”

Lord Alric’s face grew grave. “How long?”

“A week, perhaps more.”

“And ye didst not think to advise me?”

Gemma twisted her hands in agitation. “Lady Chloe forbade me. She said it was a passing thing. I knew not what else to do!”

Gruesome memories long denied flooded Lord Alric. The last hours of Lady Isabet’s life had been horrific and he was want to forget any remembrances of that night.

Striding from the hall and running up the wide stairway, he paused at the entrance to Chloe’s chambers.

“Find Gavin!” he roared. Throwing open the door, he marched in, not knowing what to expect.

Bathed by the soft light of a single flickering candle, the room was a myriad of dancing shadows and dark corners and only the logs snapping in the fireplace broke the blanketing silence.

A lump formed in Alric’s throat. Willing his feet to move, he approached the bed, fearing what he would find. Chloe reclined on the bed, hands crossed on her chest, looking like nothing more than a newly dead corpse. Cast in the flickering light, her countenance was angelic and virginal, not the face of evil as he’d imagined. As he watched, she stirred and, yawning, opened her eyes. For a brief moment, red shimmered in their depths, but just as quickly, it was gone. Startled, she jerked upright, eyes wide with shock.

“Papa!” she gasped. “Ye frightened me.”

Smoothing her soft cheek, Alric murmured. “Gemma said ye be unwell. I came to see.”

“‘Tis nothing.” She smiled, swinging her feet over the side of her bed.

“Ailments never affect ye. I’ve yet to see a child so healthy.”

Chloe stood up, gripping the bedpost as she swayed. “I’ve not been myself,” she admitted, shivering in the drafty room.

Bio:

I love paranormal and as a result, it's the perfect genre for me. I started seriously writing about 5 years ago and have since published five novels, Fiona, Riley's Journey, Aimee's Locket, Absolution and Into the Savage Dawn, one short, Heart of the Sorcerer, and two free reads, Prophecy's Bride and Songbird. I am currently working on a sequel to Into the Savage Dawn and have another manuscript, The Chalice, a SciFi story, which is on the merry-go-round of finding a publisher.  Recently, I contracted with Willow Moon Publishing for another short story, Will-o'-the-Wisp. I am a mother of grown sons, a grandmother to my darling Tannis, and wife to my best friend and soul mate, Jack.

Patsy

P. L. Parker

Romantic Adventure at its Best

www.plparker.com

www.plparker.blogspot.com

www.myspace.com/mrsplparker

Haunted Mansions of Wales ( Hywela Lyn) 2 - Gregynnog

At the beginning of October I commented on one of Sharon’s Halloween posts that I've only had one really eerie experience. It was some years ago when I was attending a writing weekend at an old mansion in Wales, Gregynnog. Various halls have occupied the site since the twelfth century and it was the ancestral home of the Blayneys and the Traceys from the fifteenth century. The house, a very large, mock Tudor building, was given to the University of Wales in 1963 by owners and art-collectors, Margaret and Gwendoline Davies, the granddaughters of Victorian tycoon, David Davies of Llandinam.

Some years ago, I attended a writing workshop at Gregynnog. We were told there was a legend that the house was haunted by a lady whose family used to own it but who lost their money and had to leave. Apparently she returned to the house after she died because she loved it so much. I felt nothing but a warm, welcoming presence, not cold or frightening at all. I slept soundly at night and enjoyed exploring the house and grounds, and writing in the large, comfortable music room.

The gardens were mostly formal, and extend to 700 acres, although they used to be considerably larger. There was an interesting statue of a huge hand in a secluded area, not far from the house I took a photo of a friend standing beside it, and he took one of me. When they were printed the one of him was fine, nice and clear and sharp. The one of me, taken seconds later, with the same camera, showed a mist in the bushes behind me and the shadowy figure of a lady in a long flowing dress. It wasn't easy to see unless you looked really hard, and it was another friend who first spotted it.
The figure eventually faded over time, although it was still visible once you knew where to look.

I’ve kept it in an album with several other photographs. Strangely enough, when I went to remove the photographs to scan some of them for this article, and see if anyone reading this could see the lady, that particular one had disappeared. It still hasn’t come to light. Is that a coincidence do you think, or something more...supernatural?

I would add that I’m not the only one who has had strange experiences regarding this beautiful old house.

I came across this, on the website ‘Ghosttheory’:

Sports reporter Gavin Grosvenor wrote that he believed he had encountered the spirit of the Davies sisters at Gregynog.

He said: “One cold winter evening near the hall my friend and I felt the presence of one of the Davies sisters. “We had stopped on a small bridge near the entrance to Gregynog Hall, known locally as Squew Bridge. It was a cold night but we decided to stop for a cigarette while hanging our legs over the side of the bridge.

“To this day I have no idea why I looked down into the river below but when I did I noticed the reflection of the moon on the water through an overhanging tree branch had created a very clear outline of a woman.

“I have been known to have vivid imagination so asked my friend whether he also saw the shape of a woman. He agreed it was definitely the shape of a woman in a long dress.
Before he could finish his sentence there was an inexplicable strong wind which seemed to come from nowhere.

“Minutes before the evening had been calm and quiet but now we could hardly hear each other for the screeching cold wind which seemed localised to the bridge.” Gavin and his friend quickly headed for home.

“With the wind screaming into our faces to the extent that tears were almost in our eyes we picked up the pace and just thought the person behind us was walking their dog and had been caught in the same bad weather. “As we approached the hill I looked behind and noticed this person had no dog. “No big deal I thought but I double taked and what I saw next will stay with me forever. Not only was this person not walking a dog but this person appeared to have no legs. There was also something eerily familiar about this person’s shape. It was the same shape we had both seen reflected in the water.” They picked up pace, but the spectre just followed suit.

“The wind was still strong and by now the spectre was within touching distance. Before we reached light we looked behind again. There it was. A faceless shape of a woman wearing clothes from over 100 years ago.

“I don’t know why but we both agreed afterwards that we had seen the ghost of one of the Davies sisters and it had wanted us to stay away from her former mansion home.”

Tom, the house manager, stated that he walked out of the outside office block, to go into the house proper, and had to walk past the windows of the old Edwardian laundry room (they were still used at times, but were obviously barred to guests. One evening, at one of the windows stood a burly white haired woman, with her hair up in a bun and wearing some kind of an apron. “She just stood and looked at Tom sternly, and as he was the overall boss at Gregynog, he marched round to the laundry room to see who she was, and to get her out of there.

“Needless to say the room was totally deserted.”

http://www.ghosttheory.com/2008/12/03/gregynog-former-employee-has-a-haunted-tale-to-tell

http://www.hywelalyn.blogspot.com

Ghostly Research with Candace Morehouse

The crisp fall air swooshed through the pines as Candace scampered up the rickety old steps to the Haunted Saloon. Bats hurled about the steeple of the bell tower, flapping their wings. A ghost of a moon skittered across the midnight black sky just as a coyote howled from the nearby woods. And when the bone-chilling wind billowed through her red satin dress, flipping it up to reveal her corset, fishnet stockings and garter belt, the sheriff keeping vigil in the graveyard smiled. The wild horses lassoed to the post whinnied, kicking up their hooves.

Hanging on to her feathered headpiece with one hand, clutching her flimsy black lace shawl with the other, Candace sauntered through the swinging doors of the haunted saloon, her satin dress rustling.

The lights were dim and the sultry vocals of Patsy Cline floated through the room, the bitter-sweet lyrics laced with heart-wrenching pain. Legendary outlaws sat around card tables, shuffling decks of cards while doing shots of whiskey. The smell of tobacco singed the air. As Candace sacheted her way up to the bar, Jessie James looked up and gave her a wicked wink before resuming his card game with Frank, the brothers Cole and James Younger. Candace’s high-heeled boots tapped rhythmically on the hardwood floor as she joined Mae West at the bar.

“Howdy, Candace,” Mae smiled, crossing one leg. Dressed in a black satin dress with red ruffled bottom, she raised her wine glass to the bartender. “Another one here, darlin’ and one for my friend.”

Posters of wanted outlaws framed the walls and empty whiskey jugs lined the scarred surface of the mahogany bar. Peanuts in cowboy boots were on either side while the cactus candles flickered, displaying bullet holed walls.

The bartender placed two glasses of shiraz down and smiled. “Courtesy of the James brothers, girls.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” Mae winked, turning to smile at Jessie and Frank.

“Aren’t they something,” she turned to Candace.

Candace: “Sure enough. But I’ve got my eye on that hunky sheriff prowling about. He can do a strip search on me anytime, Mae.”

Mae: “So tell me, surely you are aware of the ghosts that haunt this saloon. Why, the brothers James and the brothers Cole and James Younger are all dead and gone. But their ghosts come by every night to drink, play cards and socialize with the saloon gals, just the way they did back in the days of the Wild, Wild West. So why are you here, m’dear?”

Candace: “Research, Mae, research. One cannot write effectively about a topic like ghosts unless one has experienced it for herself.”

“Do you really believe in ghosts?” Mae swiveled around on her bar stool to openly gawk at the outlaws, noticing with a gasp their images are not reflected in the mirror above the bar.

Jesse throws his deck of cards down and stands up and approaches the bar, walking straight through the table where two cowboys sit doing shots.

“Did you see that? Mae gasped, chugging down her shiraz in one gulp. She holds it up to the bartender. “Another round, Oliver.”

Oliver obliges.

Jesse James materializes behind Mae and Candace, his handsome face a tad pale up close. But his beguiling smile is dazzling. “Even’, ladies. Me and the boys would like to request the pleasure of your company. Come join us at our table.”

Mae and Candace join the outlaws, drawn into the scene of the Wild, Wild West.

“So what brings you ladies to the Haunted Saloon tonight?” Frank asked, the wooden legs of his chair squeaking on the floor as he moved closer to Candace. “How’s about you, sugar?”

Mae adjusts herself to reveal her legendary bosom. “Well now honey, I belong here, being dead and gone myself. But my friend Candace is an author and she’s doing research on her book Suspicion of Love. And in one of her scenes, a ghost appears to her main character. Go on, tell them about it, Candace.”

“Sure, sugar,” Frank winked, ordering more shiraz. “Tell us all about it.”

Candace: “Well, this is what I came up with for a scene in an old, drafty English castle. Tell me what you think.”

Jacqueline was now lying abed, a thick wax candle dripping into its heavy pewter holder on the table next to her, a mountain of fluffy bed linens piled up around her body, and a book open in her lap that she’d barely read two lines from. There was a listless fire burning in the grate of the fireplace; it, along with the thick wool rug on the wood floor, the soft shine of the highly polished oak paneled walls, and the fine linen drapings about the canopied bed, should have made the room comfortable and cozy. It did not.

Although she was well acclimated to the bitter cold winters in Wisconsin, the castle’s brisk humidity and the cool, dank air seeping in beneath the door and around the windowpanes of her room brought on a chill that Jacqueline could not seem to shake.

She was tired enough to yawn continuously, but her mind refused to follow suit, replaying, instead, the events of the day over and over in an unending loop: Hayden avidly taking the role of tour guide throughout the long coach journey, Stephen standing rigid and stony-faced before the immense fireplace in the priory parlor, the somber view of the gray-cloaked river and churning sea visible beyond the heather and nettle-covered cliff as seen through the castle’s lead-paned windows. Abruptly Jacqueline tossed the book to the side of the bed and blew out the sputtering candle, drawing the fine bed linens up tight beneath her chin and closing her eyes, willing sleep to come quickly and cease the pictures in her mind’s eye.

She must have slept for some time—how long she was unsure. Something had awakened her with a start. Disoriented, Jacqueline slowly opened her eyes and strained to make out shapes in the unfamiliar chamber by the dim light of dying embers in the stone fireplace.

It was the odor that had first awakened her, she thought, waking up fully. She sniffed at the air, and the scent of lilacs in the room became suddenly overwhelming. It didn’t make sense. Where could it possibly be coming from? How could there be lilacs blooming in a castle next to the sea?

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Jacqueline propped herself up on her elbows, recognizing the shape of the bedside table, the rocking chair, the embroidered ottoman next to the fireplace, and the massive bureau with wide mirror above on the wall opposite her bed. As she peered at the far wall of the room between panels of soft green linen draped over the bed’s canopy, a flicker of movement was reflected in the looking glass opposite. She squinted her eyes and swiveled her head left and right, trying to determine what might have caused it.

There it was again—a wisp of white curling about the edge of the mirror. She looked behind her, finding nothing and knowing it could not be her own reflection. There was no movement of any kind save for the strange white miasma in the mirror.

Goose pimples freckled Jacqueline’s arms, and the hairs at the back of her neck danced with fear as Jacqueline lay frozen in one spot, the wisp of white swirling and twirling alongside the bed now, elongating and dangling just inches from the floor. The smell of lilacs was even more pervasive, wafting about on the breeze created by the white wisp. The temperature in the room plummeted, and Jacqueline shuddered with the cold.

Although she was frightened, Jacqueline found she could not look away from the scene unfolding before her. The smoky tendrils started to bond together and lengthen into something more substantial, although she could see right through the mist clear to the fireplace beyond. A face began to form, a woman’s face surrounded by a cloud of white-colored hair. A pair of ethereal hands fisted at the sides of the white mist, but then the image trailed off into nothingness.

“Stay…help…,” it whispered, the transparent mouth opening and closing with each syllable, “help…please…”

One of the ghostly white hands reached out to touch hers, and it was when she felt the ice-cold mist across her hand that Jacqueline finally found her voice. She cringed, hunching back against the headboard and let out a scream, the likes of which would surely disturb any lingering occupants of the room.

Mae West: How ‘bout it, boys. Think she’s come to the right place for research?”

A low chuckle erupts as Frank and Jessie exchange a wicked wink.

Suddenly Oliver appears, costumed in a sheriff’s costume. And as the Monster Mash blasts on the CD player, he handcuffs Candace, but not before frisking her. As the ghost of the headless horseman gallops through the saloon, the candles flicker once then go out. And when the lights come on, all the Halloween guests have arrived, masquerading as characters from the Wild, Wild, West.

To read the entire Suspicion of Love to learn more about Jacqueline’s ghost, visit Champagne Books at:
http://www.champagnebooks.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=1_28&products_id=287

Or visit Candace Morehouse at her website:
www.candacemorehouse.com

Tell us your favorite ghost story. We’d love to hear it!

Ghosts Haunt White House

Psychics believe the spirit of the sixteenth president of the United States never left the White House. Abraham Lincoln (1861-65) is best remembered for his leadership in preserving the Union during the Civil War and for beginning the process to end slavery in the US. Lincoln was assassinated on April 14, 1865 by Southern sympathizer John Wilkes Booth in Ford’s Theater. President Lincoln died the following day. Since his death, members of the White House staff have claimed to have seen or felt his presence. Strangely, prior to his death, President Lincoln is said to have foreseen his demise on several occasions.

According to a close friend, Lincoln retired late one night and fell into a restless sleep and began to dream. He heard mournful sobbing from somewhere in the White House. He followed the mysterious weeping to the East Room where soldiers guarded a catafalque. On it, a corpse rested, gowned in funeral vestments. A throng of mourners surrounded the body. Lincoln demanded to know who had died and was told “The President.”

This was not the first time Lincoln had a premonition of his death. He once saw a double image of his reflection in the mirror, himself and a chalky image. His highly superstitious wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, perceived it to mean the president would be elected for a second term but would be assassinated. Lincoln’s morose account of his own mortality was never more pronounced than the morning of his death. He called a cabinet meeting and told them they would receive news the following day. When pressed, he informed them he had the same dream three times that he was in a boat in the ocean with no oars. That night he was fatally shot in the head with one bullet and died the following day.

The Lincolns had three sons but only one of them lived to adulthood. Edward died at the age of four and young Willie succumbed to a fever during his father’s first term. Lincoln took the death of Willie very hard and often visited his crypt where he was buried and would weep copiously. Mary Todd Lincoln suggested holding seances in the White House to bring back their dead son’s spirit. These seances were not thought to be successful and Lincoln was said to have attended only two of them.

During the administration of Ulysses S. Grant, a staff member of the White House is said to have had a conversation with young Willie when he saw his spirit. And during the presidency of Lyndon B. Johnson, Lynda Johnson Robb occupied the room where Willie died, which was also the room where Abraham Lincoln’s autopsy was performed and where Truman’s mother expired. Lynda Johnson Robb is said to have felt the sadness in that room.

Lady Bird Johnson reported feeling the spirit of President Lincoln one spring night when watching a documentary about his death. She noticed a plaque she’d never seen before hanging over the fireplace. It mentioned the importance of Lincoln in this room. Mrs. Johnson is said to have felt a cold draft go through her and a sense of uneasiness. This disquieting presence has been felt by others. Grace Coolige, wife of Calvin Coolige, thirtieth president of the United States, was the first person to report having actually seen the ghost of Lincoln. She said he stood at the Oval Office, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window overlooking the Pontiac, perhaps still seeing the bloody battlefields beyond.

The ghost of Lincoln was reported to be seen frequently during the administration of Franklin D. Roosevelt when the country went through a great depression and world war. When Queen Wilhemina of the Netherlands was a guest at the White House she was awakened by a knock at the door. When she opened it, an apparition stood there in a top hat. The queen fainted and when she came to, the apparition had vanished.

Eleanor Roosevelt used Lincoln’s bedroom as a study and while never seeing his ghost, often felt his presence standing behind her, peering over her shoulder. Her secretary once spotted Lincoln’s ghost sitting on the bed in the Northwest Room, pulling on a pair of boots.

During the administration of every president since the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, his benevolent spirit has been seen or felt. The ghostly image of the tall, gangly man with the black stovepipe hat and long, sad face is thought to linger in the home of the nation he fought so hard to preserve.

Have you felt the presence of a spirit in your house? Seen an apparition? Heard unexplained tapping or the thundering of footsteps? Have a ghost story to share with me? I’d love to hear it. Please leave a comment.