True paranormal story told by Candace Morehouse

‘Twas the week before Halloween and all through the village, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Out to explore the beauty of nature one crisp fall day in the White Mountains, Candace Morehouse became disoriented. She allowed her writer’s mind to carry her away to another place and time. Candace was always mesmerized by the castles, vineyards and majestic mountainsides of Germany, and she found herself leaving Arizona to venture into the Black Forest.

Before long, she was in the deepest thicket of the woods, far from civilization. A dark shadow fell over the forest--and with a shudder--Candace realized nighttime had set in. The wind swooshed through the mighty pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated the grounds thousands of years ago. But suddenly, shivers danced down Candace’s spine. And when she heard blood-curdling screams coming from deep in the thrush, her heart caught in her throat.

Bathed in the eerie glow of the full moon, busy little dwarves hammered and pounded, chiseling beautiful cuckoo clocks out of the barks of pine. In the distance, werewolves howled and witches cackled, their blood-curdling cries slicing through the forest. Over the pummeling of nails, the dwarves kept right on working. But as Candace moved in closer, she heard them chattering amongst themselves and her blood ran cold.

“Beware,” the tiny man’s scratchy voice echoed in the wind. “Tis the witching season when one clock will be snatched up by the werewolves and witches that come out during a full moon. And with the powers bestowed upon them by the Mogollon Indians, they cast a wicked spell on a clock.”

“Indeed so,” another little man screeched. “And that clock will haunt its owner. It will cuckoo precisely three times, even though the hands of the clock will show a different time. The witches and werewolves of the Black Forest play this trick to frighten a person out of their wits. And we are the only ones that can break the spell with our chanting.”

Captivated by this mystical legend, Candace moved closer, her feet crunching dry twigs and pinecones. The dwarves stopped hammering and gawked, their wrinkled little faces twisted into gasps.

“Who are you and what do you want, mere mortal?”

“I’m Candace Morehouse and I have one of those haunted clocks. Please help me. Can you break the ancient spell so I can sleep at night?”

“Sit a spell on this pine stump and tell us your tale of woe,” a tiny bearded man gestured with a gnarled green fingernail. “And we’ll help if we can. But first, we need to hear the entire story.”

Sucking in her breath, Candace began to tell the tale of the Haunted Cuckoo Clock:

“A couple years ago my folks took a trip to Germany. My dad loves going there and exploring his ancestral roots. Of course, shopping for gifts for their brood of kids and stepkids is always part of their trip. Especially for me they brought back an authentic cuckoo clock manufactured in Germany’s famous Black Forest region.

“I was tickled pink. I’ve always wanted a cuckoo clock, and this one features a delightful tune and a cute little boy and girl that dance in and out of the doors. I put it up in my Mesa home (much to the chagrin of both my son and my husband, who hated hearing the cuckoo noise). A few months later I moved up to my current home hear in northeastern Arizona. Of course, the clock came along with us. Unfortunately I didn’t pack it correctly for the move and when I hung up in my kitchen, it never worked right; it kept stopping at will. I got tired of starting it back up again so I let it hang as a decorative object.

“Some months later I was all alone working away doing my freelance writing. It was a blustery, gray, gloomy sort of day. The wind was blowing and a chill was in the air. As I was sitting in the living room at my laptop typing, all of a sudden I heard the cuckoo clock strike three o’clock in the afternoon. I got immediate goose bumps. I glanced at the clock on my laptop and noted it was exactly three o’clock. The cuckoo clock tick-tocked several times, then abruptly stopped. When I went into the kitchen to look at it, the hands were pointing at a completely different time.

“I got so freaked out I had to leave my house for a while. I told my husband the story when he got home that night and he pooh-poohed the whole idea of a haunted clock. To this day, I still think something paranormal was going on. After all, what are the odds that a malfunctioning clock would suddenly strike exactly on the hour even when it wasn’t set to that time, start out of the blue, and then stop and never do it again?

“Perhaps it has something to do with the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated this area thousands of years ago…”

“Indeed so,” the little man stood, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “You have a haunted clock. And we can break the ancient spell but it must be done before the clock strikes midnight tonight.”

“But,” Candace stammered, fear blazing in her eyes. “I’m so far from home and I’m lost. I can never…”

“Hush up and listen,” the bearded man took charge. “Drink this, dearie.”

“What’s this?” Candace peered at the blood red liquid in the silver cup the size of a thimble.

“Tis shiraz, m’dear. Drink up and you’ll be home.” He then proceeded to hand her a clove of garlic he snatched up from the floor of the forest. “Then rub this on the face of the clock. It’s been sprinkled with root of the pine. As you are rubbing the garlic into the face of the clock, you must repeat the chant three times.”

“What chant?”

“Spell of the ancient druids begone. Now drink the …ah…” A wicked chuckle spewed from his lips, “…shiraz and off you go. But you must never enter the Black Forest again…or else….”

And as Candace disappeared from the deep dark woods of the Black Forest, the mournful wails of the werewolves warbled through the mighty pines.

Beware haunted cuckoo clocks and have a happy Halloween!

To learn more about Candace Morehouse and purchase her books, visit her at:
www.candacemorehouse.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!