I can't seem to stay away from ghosts. They keep popping up in my stories, difficult to justify to my historical editor who considers them paranormal. Fortunately, I also have a paranormal editor who's all about visitations from the departed. But you see, ghosts are not that unusual in Virginia. We have more ghost stories than any other state in the union. I could share half a dozen paranormal accounts without venturing beyond my neighborhood and family. Those of you who don't believe in this sort of thing, move to the Shenandoah Valley and get back with me. Yes, it's gorgeous here. Maybe that's why some ghosts don't want to leave. Just last week, my son and I saw unexplained greenish-yellow lights up on the hill behind our farm, in the dark, moving around the Old Order Mennonite Church/schoolhouse, then--nothing. Some kind of flashlight, we wondered? Where did it go? If someone needed the light to find their way in, why not back out? It's rural countryside and pitch dark.

Did I go investigate? No. I only like to write about ghosts. And I suspect the lower end of the farm behind us is haunted. There's just a creepy old barn and a burned out, nothing left of it, home, and falling into ruins outbuildings. I once found a scrap of newspaper while poking around that site and all it said was 'The devil.'

(Image of old barn at dusk by Elise)

I'm not comfortable with the idea of something skulking about, springing at me, shouting, 'Boo!' If I get the notion anything might, I'll be loudly singing hymns and reciting the Anglican Exorcism prayer sent to mom and me by a lovely English lady named Dorothy Evans. We requested it after she shared an account of their parish manse being haunted by a violent poltergeist and the new priest calling the faithful together to recite the prayer and banish it. She told of paintings flung down from the upstairs hallway and furniture shoved against doors. But the detail I remember best is the saucepan lid she says flew across the kitchen and landed at her feet--thrown by an unseen hand. Fortunately, the faithful were successful in dispelling the offender. Years ago, my son and I held hands and recited this same prayer in the old farm house he and his soon to be wife were renovating, to out the poltergeist banging about, opening doors, and alarming the cat, people, etc. It worked, btw.

There are several camps of ghosts. The most common are those who have unfinished business. In my stories, once they complete their mission, they move on. They may need help to accomplish their task from the hero or heroine. Some ghosts are seemingly lost--didn't get the memo the war is over, (the Civil War)--or some such confusion, and need encouragement to move on. Some phenomenal occurrences are an echo from the past--a chink in time opening to reveal a brief glimpse of the people and era in which they lived. They're not ghosts. Poltergeists, unseen except for their volatile effects, are more common than visible ghosts. The real bad asses are the ones I worry about encountering--ever. Steer clear of them, unless you bring a group of faithful with you to pray them out.

In my recent release, historical romance novel, Traitor's Legacy, set during the American Revolution, I made it through the novel with mystery, intrigue, and adventure, no ghosts. However, in writing the sequel, Traitor's Curse, I'm already onto my second ghost, and the story has a delicious Gothic flavor. This one will likely wind up with my paranormal editor. I tried to keep the series straight historical, and the period details are, but there's no keeping the ghosts out. So the series will be, in the words of a local country woman describing her two-year-old, 'right mixy.' Say that with a Southern accent for the full affect.

I'm back working with the Wild Rose Press. I like my editors, and what the company can do with the books that I can't, including more with audio and now they're getting stories translated into other languages. Fortunately, they tell me to write the story that wants to be told and they'll find the spot for it within the company in one of their lines. This isn't to say I won't do any more indie titles, but I like working with the Wild Rose.

For those of you chomping at the bit for the Anglican Exorcism prayer, here it is: Do not try this alone if the presence you sense is evil, only with a strong group of Christians, the more, the better. And join hands. Even if you think I’m nuts.

“In the name of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, may this distressed soul be relieved of his obsession with this world and sent to where he belongs.”

I added, ‘go to the light,’ although a truly evil presence won’t, but a troubled, restless one may. Seems only right to offer that as an option.

Stories I've written with ghosts thus far include Somewhere My Love and Somewhere the Bells Ring (Christmas). These two are the most overtly ghostly. However, Enemy of the King is historical, but the H&H are haunted by his late wife (Traitor's Legacy is the sequel to Enemy of the King). Through the Fire is historical, but the heroine sees her late uncle. Kira, Daughter of the Moon, sequel to Through the Fire, has a poltergeist, but overall, it's historical. Red Bird's Song is strongly historical, but the heroine glimpses her departed brother. The Bearwalker's Daughter is carefully researched historical, but has a strong paranormal element, including the departed returning. And a Shawnee warrior who can 'bear walk'. But that's another phenomena entirely.

 

A final sharing from June of this year. As my dear Aunt Moggie lay dying in the old family homeplace in the valley where she'd lived her whole life, including her married life, the hospice nurse roused from where she'd nodded off in a chair, to see a man seated on the bedside. He was holding Moggie's hand and she was speaking quietly with him. The nurse assumed he was my aunt's younger son, Henry. When the man she took to be Henry stood up, nodded at her politely, and left the room, she followed to see for certain who he was. She discovered Henry asleep in a chair. It wasn't him. My aunt spoke matter-of-factly about her late husband, RW, being with her. And Henry looks a lot like his father did as a younger man. When I heard the man sitting with my aunt had nodded politely to the nurse before leaving the room, I knew it had to be my uncle. That was exactly like him. I believe he returned to be with his beloved wife as she was passing from this world to the next. The veil may be thinner than we think.

Chapel Hill, pictured above, is the old family homeplace in the Shenandoah Valley and the setting for my ghostly Christmas romance, Somewhere the Bells Ring.

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Behind our farm is a large field that lies fallow in the winter and is planted with corn and hay in the growing season.  The edges of it are grown up in weeds and wild flowers.  The land slants uphill and meets tree- covered hills at the top of this wide swathe of land.  Nearer to the base of the field, just on the other side of our property, is a derelict 19th century barn where stray cats, possums, raccoons, birds, foxes, and sometimes coyotes hangout.  A red-tailed hawk patrols overhead and it’s a good place to see birds.  Tall, seemingly random trees enclose the site where the house once stood. This first picture was taken in the spring when it’s a fairly benign place to be.  Not so much on an eerie fall evening.

The farmhouse burned down in the 70′s and nearly consumed the old drunk who lived there with it, but he was rescued and stayed with my husband’s family for a time.  The foundation of the house, an old cellar, and outbuilding remain.  Everything’s overgrown and covered in vines.  The place has an abandoned look and a decidedly creepy feeling about it.  To the point where last fall my art major daughter Elise, my teen age niece Elizabeth, and I (at my suggestion) decided to venture across our side of the land to the old barn and take some pictures at dusk.  Why not, we thought, feeling adventurous.

We brought a flashlight, our intent being to stay until dark and have Elise take more pics with her camera of–we weren’t sure what–orbs maybe, before venturing home.  Some people believe sites with strong paranormal activity produce orbs that show up in photographs while not necessarily visible to the naked eye.  There was just one problem with this plan.  We’re chicken hearts.

Apparently the old man who lived at that farm until his death  (several decades ago) stored newspapers in the barn.  We chanced upon a small fragment of newspaper lying in the grass with the words The Devil printed on it.  That rather took us aback.  We looked more closely and discovered this snippet came from an ancient review of the horror movie, The Exorcist.   But why did only that eerie snippet remain?  Is that all it was, just a coincidence, or a warning?  Who knows, we didn’t hang around to discover.  Later, the coyotes came out and we were doubly glad to have headed on home.

Do I think there’s something strange about that place?  Yes, but I’m not bold enough to do any ghost hunting.  I don’t know how those who do have the nerve.


*Pics by daughter Elise