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The Rudolph family of Waynesville, Mississippi gathered around the television as usual, ready for their Monday night routine of watching a children’s show that had been a bit of a running joke between them. It was a show with a simple, silly premise—a group of mischievous kids up to no good—that was somehow inexplicably captivating. Enough of a Disney feel that it placated Mom and Dad's worries about exposing their children to too much television.
Tonight, however, the show didn't come on. Instead, static filled the screen, and Virgil Rudolph began his normal troubleshooting routine. His son Andy wanted to help his father, but Virgil was old school. He had to do these kinds of things by himself, as a man should. Virgil fiddled with the rabbit ears on top of the television set, while his wife Dara checked the connections in the back, and the two children hit the side of the set in frustration. But nothing seemed to work, and the static remained, buzzy and constant. Then, as if by some unseen hand, the static began to clear, and the image on the screen began to sharpen. The Andy and Rowena clapped excitedly hoping that their Monday night routine of watching Roger and the Blinkers remained intact. The family's mouths dropped in disbelief when they saw the image that slowly came into focus. It was the deck of a large, broken-down ship, engulfed in flames and bobbing in the turbulent ocean. The ship was clearly sinking, its bow slowly disappearing beneath the waves. "Oh no, Virgil! Change the channel! Kids, cover your eyes!" Dara ordered as she set up trying to prevent her children from witnessing the horrors unfolding on the television screen before them. But Virgil was transfixed by the horror on the screen, as was his son, Andy. Though the family knew the ship was not real—that it was simply a video playing on the television—they could not tear their eyes away. It was as if they were looking into another world, a place of chaos and destruction that seemed to be so alive and so real. The family noticed figures in the wreckage, clinging to the bow of the ship and desperately trying to escape. Dressed in old fashioned clothing and unable to prevent the disaster unfolding around them, the wreck victims began to slide into the ocean. Children screamed for their mothers before they drowned. It was too late: the ship was already sinking too quickly. Soon, the image on the television changed and the family found themselves looking at a beach, with a large crowd gathered near the shoreline. The Rudolph family watched as a row of stretchers were laid out on the sand, and people weeping and consoling each other. They knew without a doubt that this was the aftermath of the sinking ship they had just seen. The family was in shock, unable to comprehend what they had just seen. How had this footage been captured? How had it been broadcast to their living room television set? But the questions only increased as the television changed channels again and the family was presented with an entirely new scene: a newsroom studio, with a woman speaking in front of a large crowd. She said the footage the family had just seen was of the sinking of the HMS Titanic, a ship that had sunk in 1912, over a hundred years before the development of television and video recording. Virgil Rudolph turned off the television, but the damage had been done. The family knew what they had just witnessed. A true shipwreck, a historical disaster no less. It was clear to them that the footage they had seen had been recorded live. But how was that possible? And it was equally clear that the people in the footage had been real, and that they had lived at least until they hit the icy water and perished. The children wept a little as they held their parents. Yes, the Rudolph family had just witnessed a recording of a century-old event that had taken place—as far as they could tell—in the middle of the ocean. But now, their curiosity was piqued. The family finally made their way to bed, unable to sleep. For the first time in her life, Dara Rudolph didn't pray before bed. Instead, she asked Him questions. God, what has the world come to? Why would You allow such a thing to happen to those people? Eventually, Virgil Rudolph drifted off to sleep, but he was awakened by a telephone call first thing in the morning. His boss at the bank said there was an emergency meeting at the bank that morning. After the meeting, Virgil did not return home. He arrived home only at the end of the day, after work. "Virgil? Where have you been this whole time?" Dara asked in disbelief. "Somewhere where I could get a chance to think about the footage we saw last night on television," Virgil responded, with a thoughtful look on his face. "What footage? What are you talking about?" Dara asked as she finished making her famous potato salad. "The footage of the sinking of the Titanic," Virgil said. "What? What are you talking about?" She laughed as she poured him a glass of tea. "I'm talking about seeing video footage of the real sinking of the Titanic that took place almost a hundred years ago," Virgil said, shaking his head. He couldn't believe he was telling his wife about what he had seen. But he knew she wouldn't laugh at him. She set down the glass of tea and looked at him like he was crazy. "Virgil! Stop having me on. I don't know what movie you're talking about. I never saw a movie about the Titanic. Ugh. Never would I sit down and watch something like that. And neither would the kids." "It wasn't a movie. I saw it happen. We all did, Dara! It may have been special effects, but it was real things! That all happened when the Titanic sank." "Oh, Virgil," Dara shook her head and walked toward the television set. "The television set hasn't worked all week. Remember? You were supposed to take it to the repair shop this morning. I see that you forgot. Hey, any word on that cruise your brother Archie offered us? I'd love to take the kids on a family vacation this year." Virgil stared at his wife as if she had three heads. Had he stepped into an alternate universe? Clearly, he and his wife had different memories of their recent life together. Thankfully the house phone rang, and Virgil picked it up happy to have a moment to think about what was happening here. "Rudolph residence. This is Virgil speaking." To his surprise, the caller was his brother. They hadn't spoken since Christmas. "Hey, Virg. I've got those tickets. Pay me when you can and if you can't...well, let's just call it even. You've done so much for me." "Tickets?" "Yeah, you workaholic. You know, it's not a good idea to skip multiple vacations with that pretty wife of yours. She's a keeper and that means you need to keep her happy. By the way, you'll get a kick out of this year's cruise theme. Welcome Aboard the Titanic! Isn't that a hoot? I tell you; Kathy is pulling all the stops for this one. I'll pop those into the mail to you, Virg. Have a good one!" Virgil woke up on the floor with Dara's worried face looming over him. This couldn't be good...
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The Grandfather’s words stirred a forgotten song that had long been hidden away in her memory. Low Feather hummed it to herself as she made her way through the Black Forest. They were going deep into the forest and the men she led had no idea how dangerous this trip would be for them. But Low Feather couldn’t worry about that. This is what they wanted and what they paid for. As Grandfather reminded her in the presence of Adam Darcy, the expedition leader. There was purpose to that. She had a sacred trust, the trust between the tracker and the people she led.
“A sacred trust, granddaughter. You must act honorably until trust is broken.” “Until trust is broken,” Low Feather murmured back, their dark eyes meeting one another in the smoky cabin. “I go now. I will return soon. Stay well, Grandfather.” “Stay well, Granddaughter.” Low Feather wondered why her grandfather hadn’t finished the saying. Maybe, like many things, the second half of the mantra were for Cherokee ears only. Somethings the white man didn’t need to know. But she knew. She remembered. She always remembered the old stories and all of Grandfather’s sayings. Low Feather hid them in her heart and pulled them out when she needed them. She needed them now. Low Feather left her home four days ago and trust had been broken. In ways she had not imagined. The men took from her. They abused her. Even Adam Darcy could not protect her, not that he’d tried beyond a few stern shouts. In the end, he’d gone to bed and left her to fend off the other four men by herself. She had not been successful. The sun was about to rise. She sensed the shifting of the air, the kind that occurs between light and dark, morning and night. She put her clothes on hurriedly ignoring the pain between her legs and in her abdomen. Time to deliver the men to their destiny. She continued to hum the half-forgotten song. Adam Darcy met her outside her tent. Her eyes met his without fear. He’d betrayed her, failed her. Failed to protect her from the wild men he’d hired. “Low Feather, what…” No. He isn’t going to pretend with me. “Time to see what you came for, Darcy. Get the men up. Today is the day. Now is the moment.” And there I will leave you. Forever. “Are we really that close? We should have pressed on last night. That would have kept the men happy.” Darcy wiped at his handlebar moustache with nervous hands. He wanted to ask me about last night but Low Feather wouldn’t allow it. How dare he make excuses for the savages. Yes, they were savages, although Low Feather and her people were often stuck with that label. If they thought me a savage, wait until they meet my ancestors! Low Feather walked into the woods ignoring Adam Darcy’s pleas for her to wait. She would not wait. They would find her, she would make sure of it. She broke a branch, tied a piece of fabric to it. She kicked over rocks, piled up twigs. It was taking the men some time to catch up with her. Last night’s drunken behavior had left them in a stupor apparently. She had no pity for them. They had taken her honor. Trust had been broken. The debt must be paid. It did not take long to come upon the cave. This had been a sacred place for her people. It was not a burial ground but a Place for Dying. Once death was achieved, the bones would be collected and gathered in a Place for Rest. No, this was a place to give up the ghost and there were many ghosts here waiting for them. The white men believed it to be a treasure house for plundering. A place that held silver and gold, but they were fools. The people of the red clay, the Cherokee cared nothing for silver and gold. Life was their treasure. The life of their tribe. The life of the people. She was about to be one of them. Low Feather allowed the hot tears to flow as she sang her song. The men had savagely cut her braids, keeping them as souvenirs after their dark deed. She was a maiden no longer. Her virtue stolen, Low Feather would walk into the shadow realm and seek justice there for she would find no justice in this world. But in the other world, her ancestors would deliver what she needed. All she needed to do was join them. And when they found her, when they found the Place of Dying they would join her. They would have no choice for the dead among her people were stronger than the living among theirs. An hour later, Adam Darcy, the Langley brothers and Arlo Tavistock were standing before the cave entrance. It didn’t take long for their eyes to make out the hanging woman. “Oh no! Oh God! What have you idiots done? What have you done? She’s dead! Low Feather, no!” He dropped his sack of tools. This was bad. This was really bad. How would he face the Old Man now? An assault he could pay his way through that but not a death. Old Man loved his granddaughter. He inched closer as Arlo lit a torch that lay on the ground. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could rescue her. No, the time for rescuing was last night but he’d been afraid. Afraid of the drunken men. Afraid of what they would do. They were a murderous lot. “Low Feather! No!” He raced toward her, Arlo beside him holding up the torch. But she was dead and already stiffening. He wanted to cut her down but something was wrong. Her head moved, the dark hair fell over her open eyes. “Did you see that?” “What? Cut her down!” That’s when her body swung around in a heavy movement. Suddenly, she was on the ground, on all fours, the rope still attached to her neck. She cocked her head up at them as all the men swore in unison. Adam Darcy couldn’t move. He couldn’t run. And they weren’t alone. Low Feather rose to her feet, her head crooked to the side. She screamed like a dead wild thing. It would be the only warning they had before the ghost swarm descended upon them. They were never seen again. I sneezed seven times today. It was the first time that EVER happened and believe me, I would remember such an event. This ghost story author grew up in a very superstitious family. We were raised to count our sneezes like some people counted strikes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. (It’s one of the country folks’ storm watching secrets.) If you don’t understand ask someone from the south where thunderstorms can lead to terrible things. Am I the only superstitious person in the room? Can’t be. Right? If you sneeze to five, you’ll be fine. Sneeze to seven, you’ll go to heaven. I don’t remember much else of that well repeated verse from my childhood but still to this day I count sneezes. My sneezes. My husband’s sneezes. Certainly, the sneezes of my children. Got to be prepared, right? Luckily, it’s been a few hours and I haven’t sprouted wings yet. Trust me, I’m not testing God here. I’ve been close to death several times and I don’t want to invite a rematch. (See? I am superstitious and didn’t even know it.) What about you? Did you grow up in a superstitious household? I learned to avoid stepping across water in a skirt. And certainly, you don’t whistle in the house because the devil will hear you. As I was taught these things by my elders, I accepted their warnings without questions. I surely didn’t need the devil harassing me, so I did my best to follow the whistling rule. I may have whistled a few notes a few times because I was a rebellious child. The skirt thing—well, I didn’t understand the consequences until much later. This superstitious warning never really applied to me as I was never one to willingly wear a skirt. I’m a tomboy. Was. Am. Will always be. No skirts for me. Especially when someone finally whispered the rest of that warning in my ear. You can get pregnant that way! I grew up accepting all these warnings on faith.
You’re probably asking yourself why I’m sharing this with you. (I’m asking myself the same question.)
If you want insight into my writing process here it is. I write ghost stories because I was taught to be spiritual. To look at the world with an extra pair of eyes. Despite all this, my sometimes living yet bewildered extended family is quite puzzled as to why I write ghost stories. I apparently have a better memory than they do. Or perhaps, I listened more attentively to those ominous warnings and took them to heart. Either way, I believed and that’s the key to a good ghost story. Believe the story. Even if it’s fiction. You see, I don’t set out to make fiction believable. I believe it from the beginning. In a way, writing ghost stories is a bit like channeling spirits, I suppose. I don’t consciously set out to pull a haunting tale out of my brain. Instead, I offer myself up, fingers on keyboard, as a conduit for whatever bubbles to the surface in my brain, or spirit. Depending on what day it is. And in my brain and spirit are many strange warnings from the past. Lots of odd superstitious sayings. Memories that remind me of childhood fears and of the wonderful family I evolved from. There are lots of things I quietly tucked away and don’t think much about until I set out to write. As I am this morning. I had a plot but guess what, that’s shifting slightly because of this memory. And just like that, everything changed when I sneezed seven times… Now, on to writing Dead Is the Loneliest Place to Be.
So my solution was Butterbean, a lop eared, long hair Angora. She's a house pet. She has her own habitat but she also interacts with the family regularly. No free ranging rabbit though. She likes chewing cords too much.
 Third floor window of the Pauly Jail in Union Springs, Alabama. What do you see? It's every paranormal lover's dream. Joining a team of knowledgeable investigators to explore a haunted location. It's my jam. (How old am I, right?) |
 | It's interesting that Union Springs is located in Bullock County. That's my last name, right? As far as the town goes, it's as if it has a paranormal battery hooked up to it. You know, super charged and energetic. Not entirely bad, not entirely good. Just ready to show up when you least expect it. It's not surprising considering the shocking crime (or crimes) that occurred in the old jail. But there is also a battlefield nearby along with a heartbreaking burial that I have to tell you about. Check out the picture below. See the church? There's also a cemetery. |
Also noted by the low brick wall. All the confederate soldiers are buried on the hallowed ground side. I found one, just one marker for the Union soldiers. I took several pictures of the marker but low and behold, it's not on my camera. Where it went? I have no idea. So no close up. Sorry. Sill if you're interested, it's in a public space, just travel to Union Springs, Alabama. You'll have no problem finding it. It's very close to the Log Cabin Park.
The text on the marker said, "Union Soldiers Who Died From the Plague." And that was it. All the poor unfortunate Union soldiers, dead hundreds of miles from home, piled in together in one mass grave. It was heartbreaking. We were able to communicate with one man named Dale who very clearly wanted to move on. A member of the group prayed with the spirit and we sent him to his next destination. Those are the moments I live for, y'all. When you can help someone find peace.
If you get a chance to investigate with the Searchers, go. They treated us well, allowed us to lead parts of the investigation and were very personable and approachable. I'm not big on fan girling, so I didn't get any photos with the guys but I encourage you to support them. They're real people who genuinely want to help.
And I found the house I've been dreaming about. I'll tell you all about it soon. In the meantime, follow the Searchers. They've got some interesting videos, if you need a paranormal fix.
--Monica Leigh
The text on the marker said, "Union Soldiers Who Died From the Plague." And that was it. All the poor unfortunate Union soldiers, dead hundreds of miles from home, piled in together in one mass grave. It was heartbreaking. We were able to communicate with one man named Dale who very clearly wanted to move on. A member of the group prayed with the spirit and we sent him to his next destination. Those are the moments I live for, y'all. When you can help someone find peace.
If you get a chance to investigate with the Searchers, go. They treated us well, allowed us to lead parts of the investigation and were very personable and approachable. I'm not big on fan girling, so I didn't get any photos with the guys but I encourage you to support them. They're real people who genuinely want to help.
And I found the house I've been dreaming about. I'll tell you all about it soon. In the meantime, follow the Searchers. They've got some interesting videos, if you need a paranormal fix.
--Monica Leigh
In the last blog post, I discussed (in a general sense) the difference between ghost and demons. I was excited to see comments pop up. I knew I wasn't the only one that had experienced covenant dreams.
See, that's what dreams can be. The place for potential covenants. It doesn't matter if you're awake or asleep, these entities can gain deeper penetration into your life, they don't care whether you remember it or not. Whether you fully consented to it or not.
As long as the intention is there, that's all they need. You see, demons don't typically show up fully manifested. They come at you targeting areas of your life where you are unhappy. They seek incremental permission.
That doesn't make you less than or weak. That makes you human therefore a target for these creatures.
Yes, I'll kiss you. It's only a dream, right?
Maybe it is my imagination. Maybe it is not. I've been in both situations.
Sensual and seductive and perhaps even enjoyable in the beginning, the experience is strange yet memorable but despite all the oohs and ahs, the endgame is possession. Make no mistake about it there is intent here and it is always evil.
First the dreams become obsessive. You hope for them — invite them. It's kind of like a relationship. It's only a dream, right?
See, that's what dreams can be. The place for potential covenants. It doesn't matter if you're awake or asleep, these entities can gain deeper penetration into your life, they don't care whether you remember it or not. Whether you fully consented to it or not.
As long as the intention is there, that's all they need. You see, demons don't typically show up fully manifested. They come at you targeting areas of your life where you are unhappy. They seek incremental permission.
That doesn't make you less than or weak. That makes you human therefore a target for these creatures.
Yes, I'll kiss you. It's only a dream, right?
Maybe it is my imagination. Maybe it is not. I've been in both situations.
Sensual and seductive and perhaps even enjoyable in the beginning, the experience is strange yet memorable but despite all the oohs and ahs, the endgame is possession. Make no mistake about it there is intent here and it is always evil.
First the dreams become obsessive. You hope for them — invite them. It's kind of like a relationship. It's only a dream, right?
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My haunting experiences evolved from the ghostly kind to the demonic at around age fifteen.
Consensual covenants are arguments of other agreements between you and incubus or succubus. These are entities that pray upon the sexual nature of humanity. Their specialized in seducing and destroying. At first, held the welcoming even loving. Then it will become possessive.
You will find every other relationship unsatisfactory. Nothing will compare to you are demon lover. It sounds crazy to say these words out loud. A lot of women suffer with this type of attachment. It's a secret that we keep, some of us. A secret which gives the demon even more permission because it is secret. It's another incremental permission that gives them access to the dreamer.
Later, the demon demands more. Intimacies you would never consent to in your waking life. You may even experience rape or sodomy. These beings are ancient and familiar with human sexuality.
It only pleases you in exchange for access to your body and eventually your soul.
This is this is no story I'm telling you. Again, I’m not talking about ghosts. This type of demonic attachment happened to me. I endured this kind of captivity for years it is hard to break free but you can do it. I did it.
My experiences involved dreams that then became night terrors, to rape to a dark and evil haunting. Even after accepting Christ, I had a battle ahead of me and the church couldn't or wouldn't help me. I don't think they knew how because people don't talk about these kinds of things.
It's just a dream, right?
I was told to use the name of Jesus--which works if you're not captured by sleep paralysis. And then eventually it'll work but it could be minutes, hours even longer before you can think of the name or speak the name.
Don't get me wrong, the Lord is with us. He keeps us but there is a battle. The battle is real and you’re at the center of it.
If you're bound in this kind of paranormal activity at even any level the best thing to do is renounce the covenant.
Rebuking and renouncing are two different things. Saying, “I rebuke you, Satan,” will avail you little at this point. But saying, "I renounce you, Satan, or demon I break all covenants with you in the name of Jesus Christ and accept him as my Lord and Savior. Leave me forever."
That's renouncing. I’ll be covering about this subject in my book, Delivered Me From Evil. It will be out July.
Next week, I’ll be talking about ghosts. A much happier and interesting subject.
You will find every other relationship unsatisfactory. Nothing will compare to you are demon lover. It sounds crazy to say these words out loud. A lot of women suffer with this type of attachment. It's a secret that we keep, some of us. A secret which gives the demon even more permission because it is secret. It's another incremental permission that gives them access to the dreamer.
Later, the demon demands more. Intimacies you would never consent to in your waking life. You may even experience rape or sodomy. These beings are ancient and familiar with human sexuality.
It only pleases you in exchange for access to your body and eventually your soul.
This is this is no story I'm telling you. Again, I’m not talking about ghosts. This type of demonic attachment happened to me. I endured this kind of captivity for years it is hard to break free but you can do it. I did it.
My experiences involved dreams that then became night terrors, to rape to a dark and evil haunting. Even after accepting Christ, I had a battle ahead of me and the church couldn't or wouldn't help me. I don't think they knew how because people don't talk about these kinds of things.
It's just a dream, right?
I was told to use the name of Jesus--which works if you're not captured by sleep paralysis. And then eventually it'll work but it could be minutes, hours even longer before you can think of the name or speak the name.
Don't get me wrong, the Lord is with us. He keeps us but there is a battle. The battle is real and you’re at the center of it.
If you're bound in this kind of paranormal activity at even any level the best thing to do is renounce the covenant.
Rebuking and renouncing are two different things. Saying, “I rebuke you, Satan,” will avail you little at this point. But saying, "I renounce you, Satan, or demon I break all covenants with you in the name of Jesus Christ and accept him as my Lord and Savior. Leave me forever."
That's renouncing. I’ll be covering about this subject in my book, Delivered Me From Evil. It will be out July.
Next week, I’ll be talking about ghosts. A much happier and interesting subject.
That’s a question I hear a lot from both readers and the paranormally curious. In fact, many people believe they are one and the same. That is a point of view I vigorously disagree with because of my personal experiences. There are major differences between the two, and they are as wide as any ocean.
Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
Here in the southern part of the United States, many of us have deeply held religious beliefs. For one, it’s widely accepted that when you die you immediately ascend (to heaven) or descend (to hell). Others believe you rest in your grave until the return of Jesus Christ.
I am a believer in and follower of Jesus Christ but things aren’t always as cut and dried as so-called biblical scholars would have you believe. I encourage you to do your own study about the paranormal. Didn’t Rhoda believe Peter returned as a ghost? Didn’t the disciples fear that Jesus (who was walking on the water) was a ghost at first glance? Didn’t the ghost of Samuel appear to Saul after the dead prophet had been summoned back? (I don’t advise summoning.) People have recognized ghosts for centuries—no millennia. Why is it in the scientific age we largely reject anything of a spiritual nature?
It's a quandary. That's for sure. Are we so evolved we can't acknowledge the invisible anymore?
Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
Here in the southern part of the United States, many of us have deeply held religious beliefs. For one, it’s widely accepted that when you die you immediately ascend (to heaven) or descend (to hell). Others believe you rest in your grave until the return of Jesus Christ.
I am a believer in and follower of Jesus Christ but things aren’t always as cut and dried as so-called biblical scholars would have you believe. I encourage you to do your own study about the paranormal. Didn’t Rhoda believe Peter returned as a ghost? Didn’t the disciples fear that Jesus (who was walking on the water) was a ghost at first glance? Didn’t the ghost of Samuel appear to Saul after the dead prophet had been summoned back? (I don’t advise summoning.) People have recognized ghosts for centuries—no millennia. Why is it in the scientific age we largely reject anything of a spiritual nature?
It's a quandary. That's for sure. Are we so evolved we can't acknowledge the invisible anymore?
Magnolia Cemetery in Mobile, Alabama. Photo credit: M.L. Bullock
Read my upcoming book Delivered Me From Evil to understand my views about death and life after death.
We tend to forget that we are made in the image of God, a triune God. The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. That’s right, I said spirit. We are made of spirit, soul and body. There is a difference between the soul and spirit. There’s a bible verse that makes this plain.
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit has exalted in God my Savior.
That’s Luke 1:46-47, in the New Testament.
Our soul is who we are, our personality, and is composed of our mind, our emotion, and our will. God created us with these faculties so we can express Him.
Our spirit, the deepest part of our being, is related to the spiritual realm: it enables us to contact and receive God Himself and interact with the spirit world.
Our body is a corpse, a created vessel that allows the spirit to receive and the soul to give and interact with the physical world. The body is only temporary whereas your spirit and soul lives on.
I don’t know why some spirits interact with us. In my experience, many confused dead return just to tell their story to someone that will listen. It’s not usually a long encounter and for me at least, it often occurs when I'm asleep. I "dream" about them, hence the reason for all my books about dream catchers.
I am one!
I’ve had a dead child tell me about his brother and how he liked to play a certain game with him. Afterward, he passed on in peace.
I’ve interacted with a murdered young man who attended our church once. He died in the throes of addiction and found himself still fleeing that particular demon in death. I prayed for God’s help and he moved on. (I did not promise him anything except that God loved him and would lead him to safety.)
I don’t know why some of the dead walk around their old homeplaces or visit their loved ones from time to time but I know that it happens.
But there is a difference between a dead person and a demon. Demons would very much like you to fool you. They are all tricksters of the highest order.
Demons have never lived as humans. They are corrupt beings who have their own agendas. Agendas that always involve death, disorder, and dysfunction.
Yes, there are ghosts that aren’t nice but they are not demons. You will rarely encounter one but when you do, you'll know it.
The dead that refuse to pass through the light fear judgment. Demons have already been judged and will one day be banished forever. They have nothing to lose.
Unfriendly ghosts can create problems in a home and in families for generations. However, you have authority over these types of spirits. Matthew 10:1 says, “And calling His twelve disciples to Him, Jesus gave them authority over unclean spirits, so that they could drive them out and heal every disease and sickness. And having summoned His twelve disciples, He gave to them authority over unclean spirits, so as to cast them out and to heal every disease and every sickness.”
Do a word study on the word “unclean” here and it will blow your mind. Unclean includes more than demons, my friends. Unclean spirits are the dead too. You have authority over and can create boundaries for yourself with prayer, anointed oil, sage and salt. You do not have to tolerate a haunting.
Demons operate a bit differently.
They need permission to really dig into the life of a living person and that permission isn’t as easy to recognize as you might think. The devil isn’t going to appear to you with a contract and a blood-soaked pen. (Not usually anyway.) That's only in the movies.
Permission is granted in degrees.
You ignore the things you see out the corner of your eye.
You don’t confront the shadow figures that appear in your home.
When terror strikes you out of nowhere and you feel threatened in a particular room and avoid it.
Degrees, my friend.
When we fail to take early action against the demonic those demonic entities interpret that as acceptance. An agreement. I know this from personal experience.
Other ways you can unknowingly grant demons permission to interfere in your life is through your words. I’ve done this as a confused teenager and it took years to break that horrible covenant. Offering yourself to the darkness in exchange for ANYTHING is a huge mistake. You won’t receive what you asked for and you will put your soul in jeopardy. Not only that, you will be tormented in ways I can barely describe.
And yet another way to allow demonic activity is through dreams.
Have you ever had a sexy dream about a faceless stranger, or maybe a dream about a celebrity or someone you are attracted to? It’s natural to have those kinds of dreams but a simple kiss (or other activities) in your dream state can be considered agreements as well. You can’t stop those dreams from coming but you can recognize them for what they might potentially be--a covenant. Especially if you are a person who has abilities or sensitivities to the spirit world.
Next week I’ll share with you how to break those unwanted covenants. I hope this helps someone. Besides entertaining you with my ghost stories, it is also my passion to help the spiritually oppressed. If you have questions about this topic, be sure and post them below but please, no arguments. I won’t tolerate bullying on my website.
Until next time,
Monica Leigh
We tend to forget that we are made in the image of God, a triune God. The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. That’s right, I said spirit. We are made of spirit, soul and body. There is a difference between the soul and spirit. There’s a bible verse that makes this plain.
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit has exalted in God my Savior.
That’s Luke 1:46-47, in the New Testament.
Our soul is who we are, our personality, and is composed of our mind, our emotion, and our will. God created us with these faculties so we can express Him.
Our spirit, the deepest part of our being, is related to the spiritual realm: it enables us to contact and receive God Himself and interact with the spirit world.
Our body is a corpse, a created vessel that allows the spirit to receive and the soul to give and interact with the physical world. The body is only temporary whereas your spirit and soul lives on.
I don’t know why some spirits interact with us. In my experience, many confused dead return just to tell their story to someone that will listen. It’s not usually a long encounter and for me at least, it often occurs when I'm asleep. I "dream" about them, hence the reason for all my books about dream catchers.
I am one!
I’ve had a dead child tell me about his brother and how he liked to play a certain game with him. Afterward, he passed on in peace.
I’ve interacted with a murdered young man who attended our church once. He died in the throes of addiction and found himself still fleeing that particular demon in death. I prayed for God’s help and he moved on. (I did not promise him anything except that God loved him and would lead him to safety.)
I don’t know why some of the dead walk around their old homeplaces or visit their loved ones from time to time but I know that it happens.
But there is a difference between a dead person and a demon. Demons would very much like you to fool you. They are all tricksters of the highest order.
Demons have never lived as humans. They are corrupt beings who have their own agendas. Agendas that always involve death, disorder, and dysfunction.
Yes, there are ghosts that aren’t nice but they are not demons. You will rarely encounter one but when you do, you'll know it.
The dead that refuse to pass through the light fear judgment. Demons have already been judged and will one day be banished forever. They have nothing to lose.
Unfriendly ghosts can create problems in a home and in families for generations. However, you have authority over these types of spirits. Matthew 10:1 says, “And calling His twelve disciples to Him, Jesus gave them authority over unclean spirits, so that they could drive them out and heal every disease and sickness. And having summoned His twelve disciples, He gave to them authority over unclean spirits, so as to cast them out and to heal every disease and every sickness.”
Do a word study on the word “unclean” here and it will blow your mind. Unclean includes more than demons, my friends. Unclean spirits are the dead too. You have authority over and can create boundaries for yourself with prayer, anointed oil, sage and salt. You do not have to tolerate a haunting.
Demons operate a bit differently.
They need permission to really dig into the life of a living person and that permission isn’t as easy to recognize as you might think. The devil isn’t going to appear to you with a contract and a blood-soaked pen. (Not usually anyway.) That's only in the movies.
Permission is granted in degrees.
You ignore the things you see out the corner of your eye.
You don’t confront the shadow figures that appear in your home.
When terror strikes you out of nowhere and you feel threatened in a particular room and avoid it.
Degrees, my friend.
When we fail to take early action against the demonic those demonic entities interpret that as acceptance. An agreement. I know this from personal experience.
Other ways you can unknowingly grant demons permission to interfere in your life is through your words. I’ve done this as a confused teenager and it took years to break that horrible covenant. Offering yourself to the darkness in exchange for ANYTHING is a huge mistake. You won’t receive what you asked for and you will put your soul in jeopardy. Not only that, you will be tormented in ways I can barely describe.
And yet another way to allow demonic activity is through dreams.
Have you ever had a sexy dream about a faceless stranger, or maybe a dream about a celebrity or someone you are attracted to? It’s natural to have those kinds of dreams but a simple kiss (or other activities) in your dream state can be considered agreements as well. You can’t stop those dreams from coming but you can recognize them for what they might potentially be--a covenant. Especially if you are a person who has abilities or sensitivities to the spirit world.
Next week I’ll share with you how to break those unwanted covenants. I hope this helps someone. Besides entertaining you with my ghost stories, it is also my passion to help the spiritually oppressed. If you have questions about this topic, be sure and post them below but please, no arguments. I won’t tolerate bullying on my website.
Until next time,
Monica Leigh
Here's a sample of our latest book, A Watch of Weeping Angels Book Three in the Devecheaux Antiques and Haunted Things Series by me (M.L. Bullock) and fellow author A.E. Chewning.
Chapter One--Aggie
Tugging at my new accessory had become a hard habit to break. These gloves were the only things that kept me from running away from my job and newfound circle of friends. They had come into my life rather unexpectedly and I didn’t want to leave them. Placing the gloves on my hands had become as natural as brushing my teeth in the morning. My new ritual kept me sane amid the chaos of just being me. Who would have thought that a pair of gloves would be my saving grace? It was a part of who I was now. Another weird element to all that is Aggie Kelly.
Detra Ann was sending me on this dreaded task--more like a wild goose chase, something that had become a regular thing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that she wanted me out of the shop. I really couldn’t blame Detra Ann after everything that had happened since I got there. I mean the tea set and then the freaky radio. Trouble seemed to follow me, especially with this gift of mine. Maybe I was being unfair. Yeah, probably.
This task was a little different though and seemed risky, especially for someone like me. Cemetery statuary wasn’t something that I wanted, or needed, to hang around. Smoothing out the wrinkle that ran across the top of the glove I couldn’t help but worry about the minefield I was about to step in.
The old iron gate hung off the rust-covered hinges; it was covered with vines. But for their tight clinging, they would not be standing upright. The green vine roof attempted to wrap the stone gate that surrounded the property and hid some of what was left of the old crumbling mansion. Unsuspecting travelers casually driving past this hidden gem day after day would never know that it was even here. Kind of creepy, like a scene from a B horror movie. Or an A. Definitely an A.
Man, I should have insisted that Patrice tag along.
Bricks were lined up in a semi-circle that led me to a portico that had seen better days. Cracks ran up the side of the off-white stucco walls and the same vines that held the old iron gate together, worked its magic here too. The old mansion surely would have fallen to the ground by now, if it weren’t for the protection of the vines and the years of paint that clung to it like glue. Like a rotten old mausoleum. I shivered at the appalling scenery.
What have you gotten me into now, Boss Lady?
Staring up at the old mansion, I couldn’t help but feel I must have done something terrible in a previous life. Why else would Detra Ann send me to this ticking time bomb?
Before I had a chance to really examine that possibility, the cherry on top of this nightmare sundae appeared. The old man stood in front of my car, glaring in at me. His steel blue eyes, cloudy from the years, met mine. He smiled and it was not soothing at all. Mr. Glass looked at me as if he were a hungry predator that had just trapped his prey. An old vulture maybe. With that scrawny neck and the strange red coloring of his skin, that was an apropos comparison.
Everything inside of me screamed, “Get in the car! Put it in reverse and get out of here as fast as possible!” But that would not be professional, would it? Nevertheless, nothing about him seemed warm or inviting. I was so glad that I sent a text to Phoenix with the address and a message that if he didn’t hear from me within the hour to call 911. He sent back an LOL but I made sure he knew I was serious.
Reluctantly relinquishing my desire to make a dash for the car, I extended my hand to the old guy. “Good morning Mr. Glass. I’m Aggie. Detra Ann sent me to have look at the statuary you spoke to Henri about.”
Mr. Glass refused my handshake by sticking his aged hands into his faded jeans pockets. The smell of some type of oil lingered around him. Motor oil? “Yeah, I guess you’ll do. At least you’re easy on the eyes,” he grunted. “I’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes.” This was not going well already.
“Yes, I almost couldn’t find the place. My apologies.”
Looking me over and hesitating at my breasts he said in a rough voice, “Let’s get on with it. I haven’t got all day.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you,” I replied, sticking my hands in my well-worn sweatshirt. To my relief we traveled around the old creepy mansion and into an unusually well-kept garden area. It certainly didn’t match the run-down appearance of the house. Who would keep a garden up but not a mansion? There was no historic preservationist living here, that was for sure. Garden enthusiasts, yes. Restoration guru? Very unlikely.
I wondered what priceless art and artifacts clung to life within the crumbling walls and if old Mr. Glass would even consider letting me have a look at them. Curiosity was going to kill this cat if I wasn’t careful.
Get a grip Aggie, one thing at a time.
Mr. Glass pulled at the old wooden doors, breaking them free from the ivy that had started to encase them. He pulled an old brick from the ground and propped one side up, shedding some light into space.
“Here they are. Come have a look see. I know the Devecheauxs said they couldn’t take them all, but as you can see there’s plenty to choose from.” His lips parted into an unattractive smile made worse by exposing pockets of missing teeth. Glass resembled a badly carved Halloween pumpkin. “Take your pick. You’ll see that it’s an excellent collection. Nothing like it anywhere around these parts.”
Rows and rows of headstones and statuary filled the old musty warehouse. Some were covered with moss and others cracked and chipped. Intricately carved statuary stood guard, like the terracotta warriors armies of Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China. Their stone features were hidden within the dark shadows. I was immediately enchanted. Running my gloved hand across the lettering on one of the stones, “How long have you had all of these?”
“Like I told your boss, my parents had to remove them. The city wouldn’t let them keep them on the property after they began moving the bodies. These statues have been in the family for well over fifty years,” he licked his cracked lips. “I need to sell them in order to have the rest of the bodies removed. The city decided to renege on the agreement. They won’t cover the costs. Can’t sell the old house without doing so. People get awfully jumpy when you tell them there’s bodies buried on the grounds.”
I tried to smile, “I guess they would.” The thought of all of the people buried nearby on the property and this old guy having them removed, I suspected unceremoniously, made me want to slap him and knock the rest of his teeth out. I don’t know what he was doing but I didn’t feel good about this. I knew Detra Ann and Henri would not approve of his little plan.
“Do you want to take one or not?” he huffed, “Can’t stand here all day gawking at them. Although,” he dropped his voice to a purr, “I wouldn’t mind hanging out with a pretty little things like yourself somewhere else.” He stepped closer to me and pawed at my shoulder playfully.
I took a step back. “I have to go.” I backed away, forcing his hand away. “I’m afraid the two of us hanging out is not going to happen today or any other day. Try touching me again and you might join the other bodies buried here.”
“I guess you just can’t take a little playing around,” he winked as he dug a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and began flicking his lighter. “Suit yourself but you’d be hard pressed to put me in the ground. I’m a vet, little girl. I’ve seen plenty of action.” He huffed as he patted his jacket pocket again. Wait, did he have a gun? “I can protect myself.”
What a creep!
“There are people who know I’m out here and if you want to sell these items, I suggest you just give me a minute. Alone.” I insisted through clenched teeth. I couldn’t spend one more minute with this guy. A row of decrepit angels watched us. Did I see one move? What was that?
“Make it quick,” he replied, walking out of the warehouse towards the mansion.
Finally. My hand released from the fist that I had unknowingly created. The nerve of that weirdo. Okay, Aggie. Get it together. You’ve got a job to do. Get it done and leave!
Most of the statuary was just too big to carry in my little car. As much as I wanted to take them all from this horrible man, there was no way that was possible. We would, unfortunately, must take more than one trip to free these precious memorials from the grasp of such a horrible creature. His irreverence was mind boggling. Obviously, his parents taught him to view these items as a mere nuisance and nothing more.
My heart sank as I scanned the room. I began snapping photos. There was a palpable heaviness within the darkness. Even with the door propped up, no amount of light could dispel the sadness within these walls. Out of my peripheral I caught a glimpse of a small cherub statue laying on its side. Small enough to put in my car and carry. It was perfect for me to take back to the shop.
The little cherub was solitary, no headstone seemed to go with it although the roughness of the underbelly of the statue seemed to indicate that it had been attached to something at one point in time. I’d have to come back with Henri or even Phoenix to do any further investigation. I’d been there long enough by myself with old man Glass. The thought did cross my mind that I could take him, but I had a feeling that he had more secrets hidden on these grounds. He would protect them at any cost. I am sure whatever weapon I had couldn’t match a bullet.
My gloves protect me nicely and would allow me to detect where this little angel came from. I had no vision, no breathing hard. Nothing. Thank God for small favors. Who knew a little piece of fabric could save me from a world of trouble? With the angel in my grasp and a collection of photos on my phone I left Mr. Glass’ place without so much as a goodbye.
I couldn’t get that rotting mansion in my rearview mirror quick enough. Detra Ann would be getting an earful from me as soon as I got back to the shop. I hope she will be happy with my choice. There was just something about the sad little cherub. I couldn't leave it there unprotected in that awful place with Mr. Grabby Hands.
I can’t say why but I arranged it in the seat next to me like it was a small child. An unexpected tear rolled down my cheek as I sped down the drive and onto the road that would lead me back to the store.
What just happened? I wasn’t seeing anything, but I had all kinds of feels.
Disgust. Revulsion. Anger. Sadness.
Mostly sadness and this time it was not my own.
Time to get out of here.
Tugging at my new accessory had become a hard habit to break. These gloves were the only things that kept me from running away from my job and newfound circle of friends. They had come into my life rather unexpectedly and I didn’t want to leave them. Placing the gloves on my hands had become as natural as brushing my teeth in the morning. My new ritual kept me sane amid the chaos of just being me. Who would have thought that a pair of gloves would be my saving grace? It was a part of who I was now. Another weird element to all that is Aggie Kelly.
Detra Ann was sending me on this dreaded task--more like a wild goose chase, something that had become a regular thing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that she wanted me out of the shop. I really couldn’t blame Detra Ann after everything that had happened since I got there. I mean the tea set and then the freaky radio. Trouble seemed to follow me, especially with this gift of mine. Maybe I was being unfair. Yeah, probably.
This task was a little different though and seemed risky, especially for someone like me. Cemetery statuary wasn’t something that I wanted, or needed, to hang around. Smoothing out the wrinkle that ran across the top of the glove I couldn’t help but worry about the minefield I was about to step in.
The old iron gate hung off the rust-covered hinges; it was covered with vines. But for their tight clinging, they would not be standing upright. The green vine roof attempted to wrap the stone gate that surrounded the property and hid some of what was left of the old crumbling mansion. Unsuspecting travelers casually driving past this hidden gem day after day would never know that it was even here. Kind of creepy, like a scene from a B horror movie. Or an A. Definitely an A.
Man, I should have insisted that Patrice tag along.
Bricks were lined up in a semi-circle that led me to a portico that had seen better days. Cracks ran up the side of the off-white stucco walls and the same vines that held the old iron gate together, worked its magic here too. The old mansion surely would have fallen to the ground by now, if it weren’t for the protection of the vines and the years of paint that clung to it like glue. Like a rotten old mausoleum. I shivered at the appalling scenery.
What have you gotten me into now, Boss Lady?
Staring up at the old mansion, I couldn’t help but feel I must have done something terrible in a previous life. Why else would Detra Ann send me to this ticking time bomb?
Before I had a chance to really examine that possibility, the cherry on top of this nightmare sundae appeared. The old man stood in front of my car, glaring in at me. His steel blue eyes, cloudy from the years, met mine. He smiled and it was not soothing at all. Mr. Glass looked at me as if he were a hungry predator that had just trapped his prey. An old vulture maybe. With that scrawny neck and the strange red coloring of his skin, that was an apropos comparison.
Everything inside of me screamed, “Get in the car! Put it in reverse and get out of here as fast as possible!” But that would not be professional, would it? Nevertheless, nothing about him seemed warm or inviting. I was so glad that I sent a text to Phoenix with the address and a message that if he didn’t hear from me within the hour to call 911. He sent back an LOL but I made sure he knew I was serious.
Reluctantly relinquishing my desire to make a dash for the car, I extended my hand to the old guy. “Good morning Mr. Glass. I’m Aggie. Detra Ann sent me to have look at the statuary you spoke to Henri about.”
Mr. Glass refused my handshake by sticking his aged hands into his faded jeans pockets. The smell of some type of oil lingered around him. Motor oil? “Yeah, I guess you’ll do. At least you’re easy on the eyes,” he grunted. “I’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes.” This was not going well already.
“Yes, I almost couldn’t find the place. My apologies.”
Looking me over and hesitating at my breasts he said in a rough voice, “Let’s get on with it. I haven’t got all day.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you,” I replied, sticking my hands in my well-worn sweatshirt. To my relief we traveled around the old creepy mansion and into an unusually well-kept garden area. It certainly didn’t match the run-down appearance of the house. Who would keep a garden up but not a mansion? There was no historic preservationist living here, that was for sure. Garden enthusiasts, yes. Restoration guru? Very unlikely.
I wondered what priceless art and artifacts clung to life within the crumbling walls and if old Mr. Glass would even consider letting me have a look at them. Curiosity was going to kill this cat if I wasn’t careful.
Get a grip Aggie, one thing at a time.
Mr. Glass pulled at the old wooden doors, breaking them free from the ivy that had started to encase them. He pulled an old brick from the ground and propped one side up, shedding some light into space.
“Here they are. Come have a look see. I know the Devecheauxs said they couldn’t take them all, but as you can see there’s plenty to choose from.” His lips parted into an unattractive smile made worse by exposing pockets of missing teeth. Glass resembled a badly carved Halloween pumpkin. “Take your pick. You’ll see that it’s an excellent collection. Nothing like it anywhere around these parts.”
Rows and rows of headstones and statuary filled the old musty warehouse. Some were covered with moss and others cracked and chipped. Intricately carved statuary stood guard, like the terracotta warriors armies of Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China. Their stone features were hidden within the dark shadows. I was immediately enchanted. Running my gloved hand across the lettering on one of the stones, “How long have you had all of these?”
“Like I told your boss, my parents had to remove them. The city wouldn’t let them keep them on the property after they began moving the bodies. These statues have been in the family for well over fifty years,” he licked his cracked lips. “I need to sell them in order to have the rest of the bodies removed. The city decided to renege on the agreement. They won’t cover the costs. Can’t sell the old house without doing so. People get awfully jumpy when you tell them there’s bodies buried on the grounds.”
I tried to smile, “I guess they would.” The thought of all of the people buried nearby on the property and this old guy having them removed, I suspected unceremoniously, made me want to slap him and knock the rest of his teeth out. I don’t know what he was doing but I didn’t feel good about this. I knew Detra Ann and Henri would not approve of his little plan.
“Do you want to take one or not?” he huffed, “Can’t stand here all day gawking at them. Although,” he dropped his voice to a purr, “I wouldn’t mind hanging out with a pretty little things like yourself somewhere else.” He stepped closer to me and pawed at my shoulder playfully.
I took a step back. “I have to go.” I backed away, forcing his hand away. “I’m afraid the two of us hanging out is not going to happen today or any other day. Try touching me again and you might join the other bodies buried here.”
“I guess you just can’t take a little playing around,” he winked as he dug a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and began flicking his lighter. “Suit yourself but you’d be hard pressed to put me in the ground. I’m a vet, little girl. I’ve seen plenty of action.” He huffed as he patted his jacket pocket again. Wait, did he have a gun? “I can protect myself.”
What a creep!
“There are people who know I’m out here and if you want to sell these items, I suggest you just give me a minute. Alone.” I insisted through clenched teeth. I couldn’t spend one more minute with this guy. A row of decrepit angels watched us. Did I see one move? What was that?
“Make it quick,” he replied, walking out of the warehouse towards the mansion.
Finally. My hand released from the fist that I had unknowingly created. The nerve of that weirdo. Okay, Aggie. Get it together. You’ve got a job to do. Get it done and leave!
Most of the statuary was just too big to carry in my little car. As much as I wanted to take them all from this horrible man, there was no way that was possible. We would, unfortunately, must take more than one trip to free these precious memorials from the grasp of such a horrible creature. His irreverence was mind boggling. Obviously, his parents taught him to view these items as a mere nuisance and nothing more.
My heart sank as I scanned the room. I began snapping photos. There was a palpable heaviness within the darkness. Even with the door propped up, no amount of light could dispel the sadness within these walls. Out of my peripheral I caught a glimpse of a small cherub statue laying on its side. Small enough to put in my car and carry. It was perfect for me to take back to the shop.
The little cherub was solitary, no headstone seemed to go with it although the roughness of the underbelly of the statue seemed to indicate that it had been attached to something at one point in time. I’d have to come back with Henri or even Phoenix to do any further investigation. I’d been there long enough by myself with old man Glass. The thought did cross my mind that I could take him, but I had a feeling that he had more secrets hidden on these grounds. He would protect them at any cost. I am sure whatever weapon I had couldn’t match a bullet.
My gloves protect me nicely and would allow me to detect where this little angel came from. I had no vision, no breathing hard. Nothing. Thank God for small favors. Who knew a little piece of fabric could save me from a world of trouble? With the angel in my grasp and a collection of photos on my phone I left Mr. Glass’ place without so much as a goodbye.
I couldn’t get that rotting mansion in my rearview mirror quick enough. Detra Ann would be getting an earful from me as soon as I got back to the shop. I hope she will be happy with my choice. There was just something about the sad little cherub. I couldn't leave it there unprotected in that awful place with Mr. Grabby Hands.
I can’t say why but I arranged it in the seat next to me like it was a small child. An unexpected tear rolled down my cheek as I sped down the drive and onto the road that would lead me back to the store.
What just happened? I wasn’t seeing anything, but I had all kinds of feels.
Disgust. Revulsion. Anger. Sadness.
Mostly sadness and this time it was not my own.
Time to get out of here.
Chapter One—Janie
Janie smothered a giggle as she raced up the crooked staircase. Robbie was right—this staircase did have a kind of funhouse affect. Janie had been at the Wayland Manor more than a dozen times, so she knew what steps to skip and where to walk without making a sound.
The docent—her name was Amanda--liked Janie but she trusted the teenager a bit too much. Janie liked Amanda too and she did not want to let her down. Although she had done that a few times. Like forgetting to lock the back door and setting the alarm off.
The older woman was one of the few people that did not take her at face value. Meaning Amanda did not treat Janie like a child. She paid no mind of her baby face and petite stature. Janie wished with all her heart that her parents would take a cue from Amanda.
Janie was nineteen and she liked her job with the Mobile Historical Society, but she resented the fact that she did not get paid much and she never got to do the speaking tours, but she did like it. She aced her public speaking course, why wouldn’t they give her a chance?
Fine, if she had to make a scene, she would. Janie needed a break. Wouldn’t it be great if she could lead a tour at Oakleigh or Bragg Mitchell? The Wayland place had plenty of history, but no one was really allowed to talk about it.
Crazy, huh? Well, if Janie was not allowed to give an oral history, she’d be the best damn actress on this tour. The best non-speaking actress ever. Like her Aunt Valerie always said, “If you want something bad enough you had to take risks.”
Most girls her age dreamed of leaving her hometown and making it big in a much bigger city and she was no different. Honestly, she didn’t know what she wanted to be. Being an actress would be a dream come true, but it was just a dream and not likely to occur. Maybe she should be a teacher? A professional violinist? Neither of those were likely either. She never achieved first chair violinist. Not even close.
But today was one of those quarterly paranormal events, the kind that was immensely popular with the weirdos. Okay, not all weirdos. Some of Mobile’s snobby families liked the spooky stuff. They did not go around wearing goth clothes or black lipstick but they loved hearing about hauntings and murder and mayhem. The Wayland Manor had that in spades, but again, they were strongly encouraged to keep that part of the history on the down low. However, knowing Mobile’s history more than others on her team, she knew the old stories. The juicy ones that involved cousins eloping and the murder of a nun. Imagine that? A nun was murdered, tortured right here on this property. And then there was the little girl. The poor dead girl whose body was found in the strangest way. She could also tell the people on the tour how old Mr. Hollinger really got his money.
Yeah, it wasn’t just the Wayland Manor that had its creepy places. How about the Angel Bridge and the Boyington Oak.
The truth was that ghosts and goblins did not turn Janie on at all. She didn’t believe any of that stuff, but she did believe in keeping her job, as goofy and mindless as it was.
Okay, she coached herself. This was simple enough, step out of the master bedroom and exit to the smaller bedroom when the guests made their tour upstairs.
Her costumed appearances would startle people, but she was a real living person. If she played her role correctly she might even frighten a few.
Janie never imagined she’d become a paranormal reenactor. This job was like working in one of those haunted houses that popped up in the Mobile Festival Center every October. Only this was steadier work and there weren’t angsty teenagers rolling their eyes at you, or otherwise doing naughty things. At least Janie didn’t have to tote an ax covered in fake blood or don a hockey mask.
But no, the Mobile Historical Society would probably not approve of my intentional scare idea. They would not approve of her powdered wig and the dark circles painted under my eyes. She was not originally hired to do basic tour guide stuff, not this kind of work at all. However, when the opportunity arrived, she did not hesitate. Janie was mean to be an entertainer. To bring the history of the Wayland Manor alive.
Ooh…just the thought gave her chills.
Normally, she would stick to the routine without question. From one room to the next and then up the stairs to the attic, stomp around a bit and then scurry down through the servants’ entrance and light a lamp in the barn. Go there and wait for the docent and the tour group.
But not tonight.
Janie wanted to give the tourists a real thrill. Mostly because Tony Edwards was on the guest list. She had crushed on him hard when she was college, but he never noticed her. Not in any significant way. Once Tony pointed out that Janie dropped a pencil near her desk but that was the limit of their communication. He didn’t even offer to pick it up for her. She mutely did it herself and by the time she collected it, Tony had left the classroom.
Until tonight. He would know me. He would remember.
Janie had even taken the trouble to powder her hair white and she donned the vintage wedding veil. Every time the fabric touched her skin it made her itch. She blew it away and fiddled with it until she positioned it exactly right.
Waiting for the right moment to reveal herself was the hard part.
For this new scare tactic to work she needed to step out at just the right time. Janie would hear the footsteps of the dozen or so people trooping up the stairs and then she would move, as ethereally as possible, from room to room, walking from one closet to the other.
The closet in the master bedroom had a secret chamber behind it. Janie would slip inside one and wait there on the dusty bench until the tourists did their exploration.
They would never find her. Not until her big reveal at the end. Janie would introduce herself when the tour ended. That way Tony would know it was her. Maybe she would be able to clean up a little before then. Powdered wigs were not that flattering. She appeared quite horrible really.
Janie silently closed the small bedroom door and then tiptoed to the closet. The door squeaked a little but not so loudly that anyone would notice it. She hoped anyway. Even if Tony thought she was lame she really did not care. The only thing that mattered was that he noticed her.
She could hear the docent welcoming the guests now. Are we ready to step back into the past? It is my pleasure to lead you back into the past of this great house, the Wayland Manor. Back in the early 1800’s, long before there was this fine house on the property, it was a farmhouse, before the Way lands the Owens family worked this land. There were seven in that family, Horatio and Angelina Owens who had five children. Unfortunately, only one of the Owens children survived, a girl named Greta.
Janie sighed as she listened to the somewhat familiar muffled speech. She’d have a small lamp in her hand, it helped add to the ambiance. There would be other lamps too, positioned around the house to make the experience that much spookier and more genuine. She was indeed sharing more of the scary side of this story with the visitors. Man, why did she pick today to be long winded?
People who worked in the house said that the Owens family haunted the Wayland Manor, much more so than the Waylands. But then again, Janie wasn’t sure. She never saw anything at all. Nothing paranormal in any way shape or form. Kind of disappointing but it was the truth. Sure, there were places in this house that were chillier than others—cold spots are what the ghost enthusiasts called them. Hadn’t they ever heard of a draft?
A few dark corners were not evidence of the paranormal.
“Come on, Mrs. Sutherland. I’ve got to pee,” she whispered to herself.
And she did indeed need to visit the bathroom, in a big way.
Why did this always happen? Janie’s nerves got the better of her every time. How ridiculous to be this excited about pretending to be a ghost. She tugged at her tight, high dress collar. The cameo felt crooked and probably needed adjusting but it would just have to wait.
As people began walking up the steps. She hurried out of the closet, and waited by the door of the room, it had been left ajar. When she heard her cue, she deliberately stomped across the hallway in her old-fashioned boots. They were a bit tight, but she did not plan on wearing them long. As expected Janie heard someone gasp as she moved smoothly across the landing, but she did not linger.
Keeping her face blank, she fought the urge to smile at them. Janie hurried across the long hall and entered the master bedroom. Naturally, the docent would save the master bedroom for last, there were other rooms to see. They would pause and tell her they had witnessed something, a ghost perhaps. They would mostly certainly be curious about what they all had just seen. Surely the docent would realize that she was only trying to improve her role. Not deliberately trying scare anyone to death--only frighten them a little.
In case Amanda did change her routine and come in here first, Janie raced toward the master bedroom closet. To her surprise, it would not budge. The handle felt stiff, immovable.
Why? She had opened this door many times without any worries whatsoever. Crap! She needed to get inside!
Janie banged on the door lightly and then to her surprise the door popped open. Hmm. Maybe it was the humidity. That could be the reason. Whatever the reason, she had to hide. Opening the door, she slid inside and arranged her skirts so no one could see them from outside.
Yes, this was going just as planned. Keeping silent would be the hard part. She could hear Amanda repeating the story about Billy Fowler and the murder of his sister, the nun. Did Billy kill her? Nobody knew but it was rumored that Mr. Fowler hid her skull here at the house. Just rumors. A horrible rumor but that was all it could be.
Why was she thinking about this now? She’d heard Amanda’s polished story so many times but it did not bother her like it did today. Today, it’s like it got under my skin.
Get out.
Janie froze with her hand on the doorknob. She planned on peeking out, watching their faces, especially Tony’s. He would certainly never forget her after this. Janie planned on making a memorable impression.
Get out now. Oh crap! Had someone else gotten in here?
“Hello?” Janie whispered into the dark. “Is somebody there?” The closet was empty. There was absolutely nothing inside. No hangers, or clothing, no storage at all. Just the secret door at the back of the closet.
He didn’t speak again; Janie heard a hiss. A strange hiss. Like the kind you hear when you stab an inflated pool toy. Suddenly my teeth began to chatter. It had dropped at least twenty degrees in this tiny closet. How in the God’s name was that possible? There wasn’t even a vent in here, there were only AC vents in the main rooms. Not the closets.
“Hello?” Janie began to plead with the emptiness. The black emptiness that reached for me, yes hands were coming. She could see the hands, two of them, small hands. Dirty and pale. No make that pale and gray, like they belonged to a dead child. The hands were not reaching for help—they were reaching to hurt.
To hurt her—maybe even kill her.
Janie snatched the veil off her head and threw it into the blackness. Then she could see him. The boy--he couldn’t be more than nine or ten—his head was on backwards. As if someone had twisted it, broken it. His mouth moved again, a strange hiss accompanied the scream.
GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!
She struggled with the door, never taking her eyes off the dead, mangled boy. With a wild shriek of her own she tumbled out of the closet as the hands rushed away from the dim light and once again hid in the darkness.
Janie screamed endlessly and when it was over, when Amanda was standing over her, speaking silently to her, the crowd gathered around her as she sobbed.
Eventually her legs found the strength to work, she found her voice and she left Wayland Manor. Believe it or not, Tony volunteered to drive her home. It turns out he did remember her, even with all the powder and antique clothes. They did not talk as he drove, except when he needed directions.
And when she got home, she couldn’t get out of the car. What if the boy was in her closet? What if it followed her home? What if…
Then Tony kissed her and she remembered real life. Yes, this was real life. Despite the horrible thing that had happened to her it was hers to live. One thing was for sure though.
She would never return to Wayland Manor again. Never.
Looking forward to the next Carrie jo book? Here's the first chapter! It's coming soon, y'all!
Prologue – Mary Fairbanks
1862
I stepped out of the chilly coach and descended into the freezing darkness. My worn boot made a crackling sound as it touched the packed snow. My destination appeared as unimpressive as my departure point, Summiton, Virginia. Although it had an exotic name, Biloxi, Mississippi lacked urban sophistication too. Wooden sidewalks, rickety facades nailed on to the front of poorly built buildings. I had an eye for this sort of thing, my father had been a master carpenter. Sadly, this place was nothing more than a clump of wilderness with poor lighting and all the unpleasant smells that accompanied unwashed humanity. Did they slosh urine in the streets here too? I cast a watchful eye above me but the building behind me was cast in shadow.
The other travelers departed without any pleasant goodbyes. We had not so much as exchanged pleasantries during our trip, so I had no idea what their names were which was simply fine with me. Easier to keep a low profile and avoid questions that may expose me later. Managing light conversation had never been my strong suit. I preferred discourses on interesting subjects, not idle chit chat.
Instead of exchanging pleasantries with absolute strangers, I spent the hours memorizing all the details I could remember about Mary Fairbanks. I could not fail in my recollection. I had stolen her future, taken it for my own. I chewed on my fingernail, a worrying habit of mine and ignored the disapproving stare of the only other woman in our party. Eventually I met her stare with one of my own and after a brief eye roll, she stared at the opposite window.
My plan was to hide my accent, as best I could, and assume the identity that I had stolen without being discovered. Mary Fairbanks was not an Irishwoman but in my letters, I never spoke about my heritage—or more precisely Mary’s heritage. It would be difficult, but I would explain it, if pressed to. I should not like to be found out as a criminal. At least until I was wed. That was the goal here. To marry John Lancaster. I had fallen in love with him, you see. I do not know how such a thing could be possible, but it was a fact.
The strangest thing was how accidental it all had been—from the first letter to his proposal. Yes. What I had done was nothing less than criminal, but I felt little remorse for seizing the opportunity.
Just as he promised, John Lamar Alexander sent a coach ticket and spending money for the journey. This would not be the longest journey I have made; it would be many days, depending on the weather. Whatever the cost, I would be Mrs. Alexander.
Yes, I had every intention on marrying the fine man. I would have a happy life. Funny to think that my former employer, Mary Fairbanks thought she would snare him, rob him blind, no doubt. No woman like Mary Fairbanks could ever become a good wife. Thankfully, she had a short attention span and did not like to write. After the third letter, she didn’t even bother reading them. Mary was content enough to let me “run a game” on the unsuspecting Mr. Alexander but it was not a game to me. He and I were meant to be together. He was my path to happiness.
My prose, my answers intrigued him. He had fallen in love with me, he declared finally. Mary thought the whole thing was very funny in a crude sort of way. If I had allowed her to follow through, she would have shamed him. He would have had a whore for a wife.
I was no whore.
By the time I slid the ticket into my dress pocket and walked down that first flight of steps I was resolved to this course of action. Mary Fairbanks was a drunkard, an unashamed fool--a blemish on society. No two people were more dissimilar than she and I.
Bad things happened to women like me in Summiton. Eventually, I would have no choice; Mary made that clear. She expected me to join her in her ill reputes, to follow in her high heeled boots and become one of the many cast off prostitutes that littered the streets of Summiton. It did not take long for the stained hands of the coal miners to stain a woman. I had seen many pretty young women come and they never left.
Only in a hearse. The bloody stains they left behind would last far longer than any remembrance of them. The most pitiful of the, the least fair, the weak eyed or toothless serviced the poorest of the coal miners. They disappeared into those pits and never re-emerged. I shuddered at the thought. Not only would they die, but their souls would be stained forever. Not merely with inky, blank coal, but they had soul stains. I believed we had a soul. Mine was not perfect but I wanted to keep it as clean as possible.
The fight to keep my virtue had been truly dreadful but I was coming to John Alexander a virgin. Thankfully I excelled at drinking games. Raised on rye whiskey, it was easy enough for me to defeat even the most thirsty drunkard.
For as long as I can remember, I have been small of statue. Smaller than most. Even at eighteen I measure slightly over four feet tall and had no mature feminine attributes. I looked more like a doll, like the paper dolls I love to cut and snip. The oldest of five children, I never grew tall and spindly like my brothers. My mother often joked that I was a changeling, born of the fairy folks, traded at birth for the real Vienna Fitzgerald who was no doubt as fair and as tall as my siblings. I was never offended by my mother’s attempts at humor. I thought my brothers were great fools, although of a better sort than these greedy, lascivious Americans. You are better than that, Vienna.
Forget that name! You are Mary Fairbanks and this is your one chance for happiness. Finally, you’ll have your lucky break!
Although I am small of frame, I do have many good qualities, I reminded myself as I rode for hours in the rickety coach. I reviewed each one of them, so I would know what to say if things turned badly and I had to make a case for clemency.
Yes, I am clever, resilient and hardworking; these were attributes that have helped me in the past. However, like most young women there were times when I would have traded all those attributes for corn silk hair, an ample bosom and luminous blue eyes.
Rather than spend my life sulking over my short stature and general lack of beauty, I chose to enjoy the obscurity my height offered me. People tended to overlook me, to speak of things that they should not, all because I was small, rather childlike. For reasons beyond me, adults tended to talk about the most atrocious things in the presence of children. Or childlike people. That was me, an eternal child.
“Some men,” Mary Fairbanks would whisper in the darkness, “would give a gold mine to spend the night with someone like you, Vienna.” Meaning, childlike, I assumed. Inexperienced. Helpless. She always appeared green with envy while telling me this information. The thought of laying with any man repulsed me.
Only out of necessity. Only if I married. This man, this John Lamar Alexander, he would expect such intimacies but for marriage, to a good man, it seemed a fair trade. I have never been a slave to my emotions or physical impulses, and I would not start now. However, the real Mary Fairbanks cared nothing about her self-respect or dignity. She was for all intents and purposes a whore and not a particularly good one. She got ripped off often, beaten on occasion or drank so much she was easily robbed after her work.
I met her almost a year before I coldly robbed her myself, taking her ticket to her new life with me. I betrayed her too. It was freeing to leave that life behind.
“Vienna, dear. Be a lamb and roll me a cigarette or two. Your little fingers roll the tightest cigarettes.” I did that every day between washing her clothes and cooking her meals. “Think about how rich we would be if you helped out.” Her helping out meant to give my life to prostitution. When she was sober, I politely refused. Later, when she was completely sotted, she would smack me with her hand or hit me with her hairbrush, but nothing would convince me to take up her profession. Not even the threat of poverty or homelessness. No matter how hard she beat me I would never do that. My poor dead mother would roll over in grave.
Besides, it all seemed so foolish. And from what I had witnessed, coupling with a man looked uncomfortable and unpleasant. I had no desire to end up disease-ridden or pregnant or worse--dead. Despite my distain for her occupation, it was because of it that I survived that first winter here in Summit, West Virginia. I had been promised work, I came to Summit by way of a newspaper advertisement. A store needed “willing hands” but by the time I arrived there was none to be had for me. The store burned to the ground a week before I arrived. I applied for other positions, but it was always the same.
“Go home. You are too small for this kind of work. How can you possibly sew with those tiny fingers? You are absolutely grimy. I can see the grime from here.” The woman had been rude beyond words. I was cleaner than most, my nails and hands impeccable but there was no persuading her. I left heartbroken, disappointed and hungry. So very hungry.
And then I met Mary.
She had been patient at first but now Mary’s expectations were becoming more aggressive. I would not be able to say no to her forever hence my need for a hasty departure. And then it all came together. The idea, then a plan and then the opportunity.
Yes, it did seem as if fate once again smiled upon me! I had to take the bull by the horns. Make fortune work for me. Yes. Fortune would continue to lead me to the happy life that I dreamed of so long ago in Ireland. It was the luck of the Irish that I trusted in, and my ability to persevere.
Snow began to fall as I stood clutching my black bag. The others were gone. I was all alone. I tucked my hat down over my ears and waited. Surely whomever expected me would arrive soon.
Where are you, John Alexander? Where are you? You cannot leave me here. Please, let this be real. Let this all be real. I have risked everything. Everything! What else is there for me?
But no one stepped out of the darkness to claim me. A flickering lamp above the sidewalk did not offer me much light but it was enough to see I was by myself.
“John Alexander? Mr. Alexander?” I whispered into the crisp air. The only answer was a heavy falling of snow.
All the world grew silent.
1862
I stepped out of the chilly coach and descended into the freezing darkness. My worn boot made a crackling sound as it touched the packed snow. My destination appeared as unimpressive as my departure point, Summiton, Virginia. Although it had an exotic name, Biloxi, Mississippi lacked urban sophistication too. Wooden sidewalks, rickety facades nailed on to the front of poorly built buildings. I had an eye for this sort of thing, my father had been a master carpenter. Sadly, this place was nothing more than a clump of wilderness with poor lighting and all the unpleasant smells that accompanied unwashed humanity. Did they slosh urine in the streets here too? I cast a watchful eye above me but the building behind me was cast in shadow.
The other travelers departed without any pleasant goodbyes. We had not so much as exchanged pleasantries during our trip, so I had no idea what their names were which was simply fine with me. Easier to keep a low profile and avoid questions that may expose me later. Managing light conversation had never been my strong suit. I preferred discourses on interesting subjects, not idle chit chat.
Instead of exchanging pleasantries with absolute strangers, I spent the hours memorizing all the details I could remember about Mary Fairbanks. I could not fail in my recollection. I had stolen her future, taken it for my own. I chewed on my fingernail, a worrying habit of mine and ignored the disapproving stare of the only other woman in our party. Eventually I met her stare with one of my own and after a brief eye roll, she stared at the opposite window.
My plan was to hide my accent, as best I could, and assume the identity that I had stolen without being discovered. Mary Fairbanks was not an Irishwoman but in my letters, I never spoke about my heritage—or more precisely Mary’s heritage. It would be difficult, but I would explain it, if pressed to. I should not like to be found out as a criminal. At least until I was wed. That was the goal here. To marry John Lancaster. I had fallen in love with him, you see. I do not know how such a thing could be possible, but it was a fact.
The strangest thing was how accidental it all had been—from the first letter to his proposal. Yes. What I had done was nothing less than criminal, but I felt little remorse for seizing the opportunity.
Just as he promised, John Lamar Alexander sent a coach ticket and spending money for the journey. This would not be the longest journey I have made; it would be many days, depending on the weather. Whatever the cost, I would be Mrs. Alexander.
Yes, I had every intention on marrying the fine man. I would have a happy life. Funny to think that my former employer, Mary Fairbanks thought she would snare him, rob him blind, no doubt. No woman like Mary Fairbanks could ever become a good wife. Thankfully, she had a short attention span and did not like to write. After the third letter, she didn’t even bother reading them. Mary was content enough to let me “run a game” on the unsuspecting Mr. Alexander but it was not a game to me. He and I were meant to be together. He was my path to happiness.
My prose, my answers intrigued him. He had fallen in love with me, he declared finally. Mary thought the whole thing was very funny in a crude sort of way. If I had allowed her to follow through, she would have shamed him. He would have had a whore for a wife.
I was no whore.
By the time I slid the ticket into my dress pocket and walked down that first flight of steps I was resolved to this course of action. Mary Fairbanks was a drunkard, an unashamed fool--a blemish on society. No two people were more dissimilar than she and I.
Bad things happened to women like me in Summiton. Eventually, I would have no choice; Mary made that clear. She expected me to join her in her ill reputes, to follow in her high heeled boots and become one of the many cast off prostitutes that littered the streets of Summiton. It did not take long for the stained hands of the coal miners to stain a woman. I had seen many pretty young women come and they never left.
Only in a hearse. The bloody stains they left behind would last far longer than any remembrance of them. The most pitiful of the, the least fair, the weak eyed or toothless serviced the poorest of the coal miners. They disappeared into those pits and never re-emerged. I shuddered at the thought. Not only would they die, but their souls would be stained forever. Not merely with inky, blank coal, but they had soul stains. I believed we had a soul. Mine was not perfect but I wanted to keep it as clean as possible.
The fight to keep my virtue had been truly dreadful but I was coming to John Alexander a virgin. Thankfully I excelled at drinking games. Raised on rye whiskey, it was easy enough for me to defeat even the most thirsty drunkard.
For as long as I can remember, I have been small of statue. Smaller than most. Even at eighteen I measure slightly over four feet tall and had no mature feminine attributes. I looked more like a doll, like the paper dolls I love to cut and snip. The oldest of five children, I never grew tall and spindly like my brothers. My mother often joked that I was a changeling, born of the fairy folks, traded at birth for the real Vienna Fitzgerald who was no doubt as fair and as tall as my siblings. I was never offended by my mother’s attempts at humor. I thought my brothers were great fools, although of a better sort than these greedy, lascivious Americans. You are better than that, Vienna.
Forget that name! You are Mary Fairbanks and this is your one chance for happiness. Finally, you’ll have your lucky break!
Although I am small of frame, I do have many good qualities, I reminded myself as I rode for hours in the rickety coach. I reviewed each one of them, so I would know what to say if things turned badly and I had to make a case for clemency.
Yes, I am clever, resilient and hardworking; these were attributes that have helped me in the past. However, like most young women there were times when I would have traded all those attributes for corn silk hair, an ample bosom and luminous blue eyes.
Rather than spend my life sulking over my short stature and general lack of beauty, I chose to enjoy the obscurity my height offered me. People tended to overlook me, to speak of things that they should not, all because I was small, rather childlike. For reasons beyond me, adults tended to talk about the most atrocious things in the presence of children. Or childlike people. That was me, an eternal child.
“Some men,” Mary Fairbanks would whisper in the darkness, “would give a gold mine to spend the night with someone like you, Vienna.” Meaning, childlike, I assumed. Inexperienced. Helpless. She always appeared green with envy while telling me this information. The thought of laying with any man repulsed me.
Only out of necessity. Only if I married. This man, this John Lamar Alexander, he would expect such intimacies but for marriage, to a good man, it seemed a fair trade. I have never been a slave to my emotions or physical impulses, and I would not start now. However, the real Mary Fairbanks cared nothing about her self-respect or dignity. She was for all intents and purposes a whore and not a particularly good one. She got ripped off often, beaten on occasion or drank so much she was easily robbed after her work.
I met her almost a year before I coldly robbed her myself, taking her ticket to her new life with me. I betrayed her too. It was freeing to leave that life behind.
“Vienna, dear. Be a lamb and roll me a cigarette or two. Your little fingers roll the tightest cigarettes.” I did that every day between washing her clothes and cooking her meals. “Think about how rich we would be if you helped out.” Her helping out meant to give my life to prostitution. When she was sober, I politely refused. Later, when she was completely sotted, she would smack me with her hand or hit me with her hairbrush, but nothing would convince me to take up her profession. Not even the threat of poverty or homelessness. No matter how hard she beat me I would never do that. My poor dead mother would roll over in grave.
Besides, it all seemed so foolish. And from what I had witnessed, coupling with a man looked uncomfortable and unpleasant. I had no desire to end up disease-ridden or pregnant or worse--dead. Despite my distain for her occupation, it was because of it that I survived that first winter here in Summit, West Virginia. I had been promised work, I came to Summit by way of a newspaper advertisement. A store needed “willing hands” but by the time I arrived there was none to be had for me. The store burned to the ground a week before I arrived. I applied for other positions, but it was always the same.
“Go home. You are too small for this kind of work. How can you possibly sew with those tiny fingers? You are absolutely grimy. I can see the grime from here.” The woman had been rude beyond words. I was cleaner than most, my nails and hands impeccable but there was no persuading her. I left heartbroken, disappointed and hungry. So very hungry.
And then I met Mary.
She had been patient at first but now Mary’s expectations were becoming more aggressive. I would not be able to say no to her forever hence my need for a hasty departure. And then it all came together. The idea, then a plan and then the opportunity.
Yes, it did seem as if fate once again smiled upon me! I had to take the bull by the horns. Make fortune work for me. Yes. Fortune would continue to lead me to the happy life that I dreamed of so long ago in Ireland. It was the luck of the Irish that I trusted in, and my ability to persevere.
Snow began to fall as I stood clutching my black bag. The others were gone. I was all alone. I tucked my hat down over my ears and waited. Surely whomever expected me would arrive soon.
Where are you, John Alexander? Where are you? You cannot leave me here. Please, let this be real. Let this all be real. I have risked everything. Everything! What else is there for me?
But no one stepped out of the darkness to claim me. A flickering lamp above the sidewalk did not offer me much light but it was enough to see I was by myself.
“John Alexander? Mr. Alexander?” I whispered into the crisp air. The only answer was a heavy falling of snow.
All the world grew silent.
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