Doug Dillon's Blog, page 155
May 6, 2013
“An Awesome Read for Any Age”
The St. Augustine Trilogy:
Book I
A review placed in Good reads by Dawn Dow.
“Loved it! This is an awesome read for any age from young teenager to adult!”
To see this review on Goodreads, click here.
May 5, 2013
“Very thought provoking!” Young Adult, Paranormal & Historical
The St. Augustine Trilogy:
Book I
A review placed on Amazon by Justine.
“I have had this book on my kindle for awhile now just waiting for when I had time to finally pick it up and read it.
“I did really enjoy this book. I haven’t ever read anything quite like it. I’m having a really hard time putting it into words right now.
“It’s like a paranormal, time- travel, ghost, historical fiction bundle of awesome. It’s a book that really makes you ponder what the author has said. Could what happens in the book actually happen? Doug Dillon did such a detailed job I’m really starting to wonder.
“By reading this novel I could really tell how much research the author must of had to do to get everything just perfect. Plus I really liked reading about all of the history.
“Jeff was a great main character to read about. I just wished that we had learned more about his past. Also I hope we can meet his dad in one of the books. And maybe his deadbeat mom will make an appearance.
“Carla was also fun to read about, but I want to meet her grandmother.
“Then there is Lobo. He was the most intriguing character by far. He was full of mystery but at the same time held all of the answers.
“I will be continuing on with this trilogy. It was well written and held my interest, I would recommend it to readers young and old. I feel like both would gain from reading this story.”
To read this review on Amazon, click here.
May 3, 2013
“Life Changing…Inspired…Benefited”
Paranormal Orlando, Florida
An Explosion of Being: An American Family’s Journey into the Psychic
A review on Amazon by Selene.
“Not many books can be considered life-changing. This is one of them.
“Reading this book caused me to rethink my views on almost everything I was brought up to believe. And I was actually brought up as an atheist by two scientist parents. After reading this account by Douglas & Barbara Dillon, I was inspired to make a trip to Cassadaga, the little town in Central Florida settled in 1894 and continuously occupied by mediums ever since.
“That started me on my own spiritual quest from which I have benefited in ways too numerous to count.
“I invite anyone interested in “The Other Side” to do their own seeking by way of this inspiring and enlightening book.
Click here to see Selene’s review on Amazon.
May 2, 2013
“Awesome Book.” Young Adult, Paranormal & Historical.
The St. Augustine Trilogy:
Book I
A review placed on Amazon by ReadConway.
“Sliding Beneath the Surface is embedded with Florida history, paranormal excitement, and life learning techniques that will benefit all readers.
“I taught fourth grade last year and tried to find a historical fiction that would be interesting for my students as well as support the curriculum, this book would have been awesome. The characters are a lot older than my fourth grade students are; however, this book would have opened great discussion about St. Augustine and the second Seminole war.
“My middle school students could benefit from the life lessons such as anger management.
“This is a very engaging book and I believe that all students could benefit from utilizing it as a read aloud or independent read.”
To read this review on Amazon, click here.
April 30, 2013
“Great YA historical fiction!”
Young adult, paranormal & historical
The St. Augustine Trilogy:
Book I
A review placed on Amazon by M. Hancock, a reading teacher.
“Dillon had me enthralled from the first chapter. As a native Floridian, I was enrapt in the history and past of St. Augustine. His writing involves many themes that teens can identify with as well as the supernatural that is so popular right now. He left me wanting to find out what happens in the rest of the trilogy. Dillon’s style is witty and fast paced. The characters are easily identifiable. I would highly recommend this to any reader 7th grade and higher.”
To see this review on Amazon, click here.
April 29, 2013
Chapter 27 – Sliding Beneath the Surface
The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I
Young adult, paranormal/historical
27
Spiritual Insanity
Lobo pulled my ancestor’s documents out of its raggedy old envelope and put them on the dining room table in front of him. “A number of men under Major Dade’s command,” he said to me, “including your ancestor and Captain Fraser, sympathized with the Seminoles, had Seminole friends, and also hated slavery.”
“At least he had the right idea,” I said, but not feeling very comfortable being so close to all those dangerous “pipelines” to another world lying on the table.
Carla nodded in agreement, to what I said about Walton.
“He did indeed,” Lobo replied. “Being a good soldier, however, like the others, he did his job as ordered and on December 28, paid the ultimate price for doing so.”
After searching through all those old looking papers, Lobo picked out one item and held it up for me to see. “Lieutenant Walton sent this letter to his mother in New York City before he left Fort Brooke with Major Dade. In it, he told her he intended to resign his commission in the army because he couldn’t stand being a part of what might happen to the Seminoles and free blacks.”
Now that surprised me. I really wanted to read the letter for myself, but just looking at it and knowing what could happen if I touched it made me wince.
“It must have been very hard for your ancestor to even consider quitting,” Carla said. “According to the documents we found, Lieutenant Walton was a graduate of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. The army was probably his whole life.”
“In addition to the army, however,” Lobo said, “he did have a wife and also a daughter. The daughter’s name was Elizabeth. At first they were at Fort Brooke with Walton, but when things started going sour with the Seminoles, he sent them by ship to safety in Key West.”
“A daughter?” I asked. “So this Elizabeth—”
“Elizabeth,” Lobo said, “was your great, great, great, great grandmother. She and her mother eventually moved to St. Augustine after the Second Seminole war ended in 1842. When Elizabeth came of age, she married a businessman here by the name of Golden.”
It was very strange listening to someone I had only met hours before educate me about my own family history. I mean, especially when he got to the name Golden. Up until then, what he had said could have been about anybody’s family, you see? At that point, it all became very real to me.
Lobo again sorted through the papers until he found an old picture. “This,” he said holding it up, “is a photograph taken of Elizabeth with her two children during the Civil War. Look at it closely but do not touch it.”
I got as close as I dared until I could make out the black and white images. The picture was warped and very faded, but I clearly saw a woman and two little boys. The woman wore one of those big old floor length dresses they used to have in those days. She had a long face with her hair parted down the middle and pulled back behind her ears. The picture had faded so much I couldn’t really tell if she was pretty or not. The two little boys looked to be about maybe five and six years old, dressed in dark suits with white shirts and floppy bow ties.
“The boy on the right,” Lobo said, “is William Golden, your great, great, great grandfather.”
It felt so strange to see those three faces out of the past, specially the little boys who would grow up, have families of their own and … die. Pain and death swirled all around me no matter where I turned.
Lobo put the picture back on top of the document pile with the envelope on the bottom and shoved it all to the far side of the table towards the cracked window. “Those two pieces of information I gave you,” he said, “are all you need to know about your ancestor from his papers at this moment. Now, you have a couple of decisions to make.”
Oh oh, here it comes. “Decisions? What type of decisions,” I asked, wondering why we so quickly went from talking about Lieutenant Walton and his family to making choices.
“When I took the portrait of your ancestor away from you at your home,” Lobo replied, “I sensed some things about the man that might be of value to you. First, when Lieutenant Walton died, his spirit left the body, but stayed near it. After the battle was over he observed his physical head being split open by an ax as the Seminoles and their black allies made sure all of Dade’s men were dead.”
“Oh man,” I complained, my memory of Lyle turning into Walton popping back into my head. “I didn’t need to hear that.” As I looked over at Carla, I could see Lobo’s words had affected her as well. On her face was this pinched, painful expression.
“On the contrary,” Lobo growled, “you definitely did need to hear that. It will help you understand at least part of why your ancestor has latched onto you with such fierceness.”
“Wait, I don’t understand.”
“The horror of watching what was done to his body,” Lobo replied, “combined with Lieutenant Walton’s deep concerns regarding his participation in America’s policies toward Native Americans and slavery, was too much for him. His death began what you might call a spiritual insanity of sorts. His fear and guilt created a special after-the-battle dream world back in 1835 causing him to relive his memories of that battle every December 28 afterward. In his mind, he is still alive struggling to survive on that lonely road all by himself, but a part of him knows what is about to occur tomorrow. In ignoring the fact that he no longer lives, he is actually punishing himself.”
“So,” I said, “he kind of sent himself into his own hell without realizing it, right?”
“Exactly,” Lobo replied.
“OK, that’s really sad, and I feel bad for him, but what does he think I can do about it?”
“He has no idea.” Lobo replied as he got up and started pacing back in forth in front of his cracked window. Again, all he knows is his pain and the possibility you could be his savior. To him, you are like a dream of hope that could possibly save him from going through all that again tomorrow. You must understand that Lieutenant Walton is like a drowning person. He has grabbed onto the only thing he thinks might keep him afloat and that thing is you. The danger with helping drowning people of course is, if you aren’t careful, you may end up going under as well.
“Now, as I told you before, the Dade battle started around 8:00 a.m. For that reason, you can expect your ancestor to summon all his energy tomorrow exactly 8:00 a.m., or even earlier, in a last desperate effort to get you to help him. When dawn breaks is the point at which the danger to you will begin to escalate dramatically. The only way for me to fully protect you before then, however, is if you stay here with me.”
“Stay … with you?” I croaked, very surprised. A sleepover at Lobo’s place didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun, but waiting for my ancestor back at The Dump all by myself didn’t sound like a good alternative either. So, I agreed to stay with the old guy. Yeah, I know. It was an amazing shift from when I stormed out of Lobo’s house into that creepy fog, but a lot had happened since then.
“Good, that’s settled,” he replied. “Now, as to the next decision you need to make. Tomorrow, you can stay here with Carla and me until well after 8:00 a.m. and perhaps together, we can give you the protection you need. Or, we can all go to the cemetery and you can be in direct contact with one of the pyramids.”
“No way I’m going back there!” I squawked. “I’m not touching one of those things again.”
“Why would you want him to do that again, Lobo?” Carla asked. “You know what Jeff went through the first time.”
“It has its risks,” he agreed. To me he said, “But it would give you the best opportunity to make contact with Lieutenant Walton on your terms, convince him he’s dead, and that he is living in a memory. If you can do that, you have a much better chance of getting the man to permanently leave you alone than if we simply try to defend you here.”
“Come on Lobo,” I pleaded, “can’t you contact him for me?”
In a softer voice than usual, Lobo said, “I have tried on a number of occasions to contact your ancestor and convince him he is no longer living. Unfortunately, he looked right through me each time as if I didn’t exist. He is focused just on you, which means you are the key to your own survival.”
“I’m the key to my own survival? You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding. If that’s true, I’m outta luck.”
“I don’t kid people,” Lobo replied. “If you decide to return to the pyramids, Carla and I will go with you as added help and protection, but we must do it shortly after dawn, well before 8:00 a.m. We’ll have no time to waste. If, however, you want to take the safer route and stay here with us, we will do what we can. Either way, whatever you decide, you face the possibility of becoming lost in Walton’s dream world like I’ve told you before. As a result, both of you could be doomed to endure the annual recreation of that battle and live with its results over and over, year after year, perhaps forever.”
Lobo’s words made me feel like somebody had kicked me in the stomach. The word “forever,” I guess is what really did it. OK, he had used the word “permanently” before but somehow it didn’t make quite the impression the word “forever” did. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t possibly tell you. I also thought about my poor old ancestor maybe having to roam that stinking road and reliving the massacre, possibly forever, unless I helped him.
My decision, I fully realized for the first time, could affect him as well as me.
“When I say dream world,” Lobo said, “make no mistake about it. If you somehow become involved in the battle, it will seem as real as anything you have experienced in your life. Remember how real your two short trips to that battlefield seemed at the time?” Here he paused, stared at me hard and said, “Rifle balls and axes will be able to do to you what they do to everyone else there. You will feel all of it exactly as you would have if you had been part of the original battle in 1835.
“There’s a whole world of continuous hurt and mental agony waiting for you if you make the wrong choice here. That’s why I’m suggesting you take the extra risk of going to the pyramids. It is truly your best bet for avoiding all of that, but only you can decide.”
It’s hard to explain what went through my head with both Lobo and Carla quietly staring at me. My thinking seemed to short-circuit and endlessly spin around and around, getting me nowhere. Talk about decision-making. I knew I couldn’t just sit there in Lobo’s house the next day, waiting for things to happen.
Not only that, I kept thinking about Lieutenant Walton. By that time, he had become very real to me. After all, I figured, the guy was my five times great grandfather, right? How could I not give him the best chance possible to get out of the hell he had built for himself? “OK OK, I’ll do it. I’ll go to the pyramids tomorrow,” I said, startling myself as well as Carla. She looked at me like I had lost my mind. Even as I said the words, “I’ll do it,” I wondered how they came out so easily.
“Jeff, are you sure?” Carla asked, shaking her head like she wanted me to change my mind.
“No,” I replied honestly, “but I really don’t see I have a better choice.”
“Good,” Lobo said and stood up. “That settles it. Carla, it’s time for you to go. We’ll take you home and then pick you up in front of your house at dawn.”
Carla stared at him without moving, and with both eyebrows raised, she said, “Mr. Lobo, sometimes you are a bit too abrupt.”
As serious as things were, I had to stifle a laugh. Carla’s words of “Mr. Lobo” had the same sarcastic tone the man used when he first called me, “Mr. Golden.” And, to hear her describe him as “a bit too abrupt,” was too much. I mean the guy was all about abrupt, you know?
“Since when do you need to take me next door to my house?” Carla asked, looking indignant, yet a little alarmed.
“Since that happened,” Lobo said, pointing at his cracked window.
“Walton’s a danger to Carla now as well as me?” I couldn’t stand the idea of my situation affecting her.
“We’re in uncharted territory here,” Lobo replied. “We simply don’t need to take any chances.”
I didn’t like hearing Lobo had limited experience with something like my ancestor’s increasing aggressive behavior. “Will she be OK at her house?”
“Yes. Besides attaching himself to you, your ancestor has also temporarily attached himself to my home and a large area all around it. In his crazed condition, it’s remotely possible he would try to connect with Carla in a similar manner if she walked out of here alone. With me going along for protection, and you to keep his focus elsewhere, we can safely deposit her outside the circumference of danger. When you return here with me, Lieutenant Walton will lose interest in her and follow you.”
As you might imagine, Carla didn’t offer any resistance to being escorted after Lobo’s explanation. With all of his outside floodlights turned on, including some on his dock, we quickly walked her to Lobo’s gate and came back to his house. As soon as we got inside, the old guy didn’t waste any time getting down to business.
“Go over to the coffee table,” he said. “Sit down on the floor right in front of it with your back to the fire.”
“Why?”
“The same reason I gave Carla,” he said, pointing towards his cracked window like he did with her.
“Oh,” I replied and did exactly as he told me to do. After I sat down, he brought more firewood into the house, stirred the coals in the fireplace, and threw on the fresh wood. Next, he turned off two of his stained glass lamps, leaving only the blue one with the dragonflies lighted. That one he turned down to a very low level using a dimmer switch.
Instead of turning off the outside floodlights, he left them on and then squeezed his big, old body between the couch and the coffee table, reminding me how Spock had done almost the same thing. There, he sat on the floor directly opposite me. With the fire starting to crackle again, he said, “We need to get begin.”
What the hell is all this? “Get started with what?”
“You’ll see,” he replied. Sitting with his back to the arched doorway and the couch, he moved the Ball of Realities, the smashed coke can, and Dade’s Last Command towards one end of the coffee table. After that, he put his big old muscular right arm on the coffee table as if he wanted to arm-wrestle me, his eyes glittering even in that minimal light.
No way. I knew he could break my arm in a second. What was the guy trying to do?
“No, we are not going to arm wrestle,” he replied to my unspoken thoughts, “but you need to put your right hand in mine and your elbow on the table as if we were.”
After what happened with the coin when Lobo grabbed me, the idea of holding his hand wasn’t very appealing, but I put my arm on the table and did it anyway. Man, that guy had a grip. My hand looked like a doll hand compared to his. He then put his other elbow on the table and covered my right hand with his left. After that, he told me to do what he had done with my left arm and put my left hand over his right hand.
It sounds complicated, I know, but when we were done, we each had both elbows on the table, all four hands clasped, and our faces were very close together, not a very comfortable situation.
“When Carla was here,” Lobo said as we stared at each other across our hands in the dim light, “I said I could protect you until morning. The only way for me to do so effectively, however, is for us to remain in this connected position all night.”
All night? Oh damn!
###
For a brief description of The St. Augustine Trilogy, click here.
For Sliding Beneath the Surface on Amazon.com, click here
For reviews of this book, author interviews and blog tours, click here.
For the Official St. Augustine Trilogy Facebook Page, click here.
© 2011 by Doug Dillon. All rights reserved.
April 26, 2013
Chapter 26 – Sliding Beneath the Surface
The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I
Young adult, paranormal/historical
26
Begging for Help
Lobo’s warning sent shivers up my spine. I still couldn’t see anything unusual, but that strange sensation in my stomach I first noticed at the pyramids returned. This time, it felt like a snake sliding through my insides and wrapping itself tightly around my stomach.
When the squeezing moved upward towards my heart, I saw them in the window—two wide-open eyes and nothing more—dark brown eyes, looking all around the room. They appeared to be very real and seemed to be imbedded somehow in the glass itself—no eyelids, no eyebrows, only those brown irises set dead center in a background of white. What the hell? I wanted to say something out loud, but after Lobo’s warning, I didn’t dare.
Very slowly, a shape formed around those eyes, extended itself downward to the bottom of the window, and snapped into focus. My ancestor, Lieutenant Robert Walton, in his dark military coat with gold buttons, looked out from all that glass directly at me—not at Lobo or Carla, just me. His legs in sky-blue pants only went down to about mid-thigh level where the window ended.
Carla said nothing, but a sharp intake of her breath made me forget Lobo’s order to stay perfectly still. I didn’t move much, nothing more than a little shift of the my head and eyes in her direction. That’s all it took though, for me to find myself in deep trouble. It happened very quickly when I think about it now, but at the time, it felt like it took forever.
As soon as I made those two little moves, a sound came from the window, a sound like something … being stretched—rubber or plastic maybe. When I moved my gaze back to the image of Lieutenant Walton, I saw he had partially emerged from the glass in three-dimensional form. He stared at me even more intently than before, and tilted his head slightly like he did at the cathedral. Slowly, he lifted his hands outward in my direction with an expression on his face that looked like … I don’t know … he might be begging for help or something.
It reminded me of when he extended his hand unbelievably far in the cathedral, and I got ready to shove away from the table as fast as I could if he did it again.
I tried to focus on my breath to reduce the instant fear bubbling up inside me. It didn’t work. Not enough time. That tight, slithery feeling in my stomach and heart quickly switched to the same kind of tugging sensation I experienced when I flew back into myself on the bike ride to the cemetery—only much stronger.
Before I knew what had happened, I uh, well … felt my body … slide forward a couple of feet. Of course, that was impossible since the dining room table sat directly in front of me. When I looked down though, I saw … ah, well … just half of me, the top half, and I seemed to be sitting on the dining room table like some sort of partial statue. I mean, I couldn’t see any part of my body below stomach or elbow level—no forearms, hands, hips, crotch, legs or feet. The only thing I saw nearby was that envelope from the portrait on the table inches from my stomach. Man, I sucked my gut in so quick you would believe.
Talk about freaked out? I wanted to scream, but couldn’t for some reason. The thing is, I also watched all that happen while still seated in my chair in front of the table. Besides the horror of seeing another me emerge from myself like that, I also knew beyond a doubt that my ancestor was trying to reel that other Jeff in like a fish.
In the next instant, though, instead of staring into the eyes of Lieutenant Walton, I saw … Lobo. Somehow, he had gotten to the other side of the table, putting himself between my body, uh, both my bodies, I guess you would say, and my ancestor.
When he did that, whatever connection Walton had established with me disintegrated, and I went back to being one incredibly scared kid, sitting in a dining room chair. At the same time, it sounded like something hit the window, hard, followed by a tremendous splitting sound. Only when Lobo stepped aside did I see Walton had vanished. In his place, were maybe a dozen large cracks that zigzagged outward in the picture window from a central point—looked like somebody had smacked it with a baseball bat.
“Dear God!” Carla stared at the damaged glass wide-eyed, as if my ancestor might suddenly reappear.
Believe me, I felt the same way. On top of that, I realized my body was a rigid as a board, and I was barely breathing. I’m telling you my heart thumped in my chest so loud, I thought for sure Carla and Lobo could hear it.
“Relax, both of you,” Lobo said. “He’s gone, for now, but what just occurred is an indication of how very intense and threatening this situation has become.”
Breathing deeply and then exhaling long and loud, I slumped in my chair feeling like a balloon somebody had let loose until it ran out of air. “I thought I was toast,” I said to Lobo. “If you hadn’t—”
“Toast?” Carla asked, tearing her eyes away from the window. “What … what are you—”
“She didn’t see the separation,” Lobo said to me instead of speaking to Carla.
“Really?” I replied, startled that only Lobo and I knew exactly what had happened to me.
“Will you two stop that?” Carla protested, getting even more upset. “Separation? Somebody talk to me!”
“Uh, sorry,” I replied, and went on to tell her, in a shaky voice, about my experience of once again splitting in two. While I spoke, I found it difficult to keep my eyes off the spot on the dining room table where another terrified me had looked down to see only half a body. Carla, on the other hand, kept glancing at Lobo’s battered window with fear and worry clearly written across her face.
“Well, now at least, you’ve actually seen him,” I said to her, trying to lessen the tension in the room. Didn’t work.
“Oh, no doubt about it, I, ah, saw your Lieutenant Walton all right.” Carla kept nodding mechanically for a few seconds. I think she was in shock.
Pointing at his cracked window, Lobo said to both of us, “This attempted intrusion into the physical world is one of the most forceful I have ever seen. It tells us we don’t have a lot of time to dillydally.”
“You mean because Walton could return?” Carla asked.
“Precisely.”
“But I thought Jeff would be safe here.”
“He is to a degree, but I’ll need to take some further precautions relatively soon.”
“Like what?” I asked. That didn’t sound good. I thought I was safe too.
“You’ll see, later,” he replied. “To save time, however, we need to put a stop to the Dade battle history lesson and get to the contents of the envelope.”
“No,” I said, softly, but firmly. Don’t know where that came from, but it just popped out of my mouth. “It’s … important that I hear the basic facts. Not sure why. I can’t explain.”
“But Jeff—”
“Hmm,” Lobo said, ignoring Carla and looking all around me the way he does. “In that case, we’ll make the time.”
Surprised how easy it was to turn old Lobo around, I nodded and he picked up where he had left off. Carla didn’t look too pleased, but she kept quiet.
“As the advance party with Captain Fraser in command moved deep into the ambush site at approximately 8:00 a.m. on December 28, Major Dade trotted his horse up and down the two columns of his men strung out on the road, occasionally talking to them. Finally, he arrived at the head of both lines for the last time, his big, black beard blowing in the breeze, and shouted encouragement to his troops. He told the men that all the danger was behind them, and their long march would soon be over.
“To encourage them even more, he said that upon arrival at Fort King, he would give them three days off duty to relax and celebrate Christmas. As the soldiers cheered his remarks, he saluted them and rode off towards the advance party.
“Just as Dade got to Captain Fraser and Luis Pacheco, who were also approaching the advance party, Chief Micanopy stood up and shot Dade through the heart. As he fell from his horse, 180 Seminoles in their semicircle around Dade’s soldiers opened fire with their rifles. It was a turkey shoot. Especially with their muskets under their overcoats, Dade’s people never had a chance. Many soldiers fell in that first volley of fire, and as gun smoke filled the air, the remaining men either froze or tore wildly at their overcoats to uncover their muskets.
“In the middle of all that chaos, Captain Gardiner yelled and cursed to shock the men back to their senses. Eventually, he got them to take cover and start shooting back at the Seminoles. Soon after that, he called for Lt. Basinger to bring the cannon from the rear of the column and start firing into the pines and palmettos where the Seminole hid on the other side of the road.
“After close to an hour of battle, the Seminoles retreated for a small period of time.
“When Captain Gardiner counted his men, only forty out of Dade’s 100 plus soldiers survived that first attack in good enough condition to continue fighting. All of the advance party, except for Luis Pacheco, died in that initial exchange of gunfire.”
“Forty soldiers?” I asked, finding what Lobo had said hard to believe. “That’s over sixty men killed or wounded—in an hour?”
“It was a very good ambush,” Lobo replied in a cold tone of voice. “When the Seminoles withdrew, Captain Gardiner ordered his men to chop down pine trees and create a little triangular fort. It wasn’t much of a defensive position, but it provided the only protection they could muster at the time. You saw such a structure during your encounter with your ancestor’s living memories of the battle.”
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed, remembering.
“Soon after the completion of the fort, the Seminoles attacked again. One of the first shots when the battle resumed caught your ancestor in the chest, and he went down, mortally wounded. The fighting raged on again, until one by one, the remaining soldiers died, were badly wounded, or simply ran out of ammunition. When the cannon finally stopped firing, and there were no more musket shots from Dade’s men, the Seminoles and their black allies moved in and finished off those who still lived.
“Over one hundred soldiers died that day with the loss of only three Seminoles.”
While Lobo spoke, all I could think of was how Lyle turned into Lieutenant Walton in the plaza with blood soaking his chest, and his head splitting open. I didn’t want to know what caused Walton’s head to fracture like that, and even though I tried not to think about it, I imagined all kinds of possibilities.
“Out of all the soldiers participating in the battle, only two lived to tell about it. One was Ransom Clark. Shot five times, Clark played dead and painfully dragged himself the sixty miles or so back to Fort Brooke. The reason we have accurate accounts of what happened on that day, came from interviews later given by Clark and his fellow soldier, as well as the Seminole leader, Halpatter Tustenugge, known to the whites as Alligator, and, of course, Carla’s ancestor, Luis Pacheco.”
“After taking only the soldiers’ weapons, but no money or jewelry, the Seminoles went into the Wahoo Swamp, and had a big celebration. That battle began the Second Seminole War, which lasted for another seven years and took many lives. During those years, the army captured the great war leader Osceola, when he came to peace talks under a flag of truce—a disgraceful act of treachery by the Americans. He and other Seminoles were for a time held prisoner in our St. Augustine Castillo—Fort Marion, they called it in those days.
“At war’s end, most of the surviving Seminoles gave up and agreed to go out west. The few who still resisted fled to the Everglades.”
“What about their black allies?” I asked.
“Eventually,” Carla answered for Lobo with a more than a touch of anger in her voice, “most of them ended up back in slavery.”
“Oh … I see. And your relative … Luis Pacheco?”
“Luis? Well, that’s quite a story,” she replied, looking once more at Lobo’s badly cracked window with a shiver. “We don’t have time for it now. The main thing is that he lived a full life and died a free man in the Jacksonville area right around 1895.”
“Which brings us back to your ancestor,” Lobo said, putting a hand on the envelope in front of him and sliding those fiery eyes of his in my direction.
###
For a brief description of The St. Augustine Trilogy, click here.
For Sliding Beneath the Surface on Amazon.com, click here
For reviews of this book, author interviews and blog tours, click here.
For the Official St. Augustine Trilogy Facebook Page, click here.
© 2011 by Doug Dillon. All rights reserved.
April 25, 2013
St. Augustine Ghost Stories: Guest Post # 6
Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida
Mary Hastings, Part 3
By ghost hunter and Florida author, Dave Lapham
“Probably a case of nerves, Sis. Don’t worry. Besides, I can get over here in a couple of minutes.” He smiled.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Living out here in the country isn’t like the city. I guess I’ll have to get used to it all again. Want to stay for breakfast?”
“Naw, I’ve got to get busy. Betsy said she’d be over after a while, though.” Waving his hand he stepped out the door and walked to his truck.
The following days were filled with putting the house in order, spending time with family, and renewing old friendships. Mary had no more disturbances and slept like a stone for several nights running.
One night, however, a slamming door awakened her. She didn’t know whether the sound came from downstairs or the second floor. She only knew it wasn’t a dream—she had definitely heard it. She turned on her light, grabbed her pistol, and headed out the door. Turning lights on as she went, she walked through the whole house and found nothing. All the doors and windows were closed and locked. She could not explain the slamming door. Finally, she went back upstairs to bed, leaving all the lights on.
The noises continued on later nights and increased, doors opening and closing, footsteps on the stairs, and in the hall a man’s laughter. Mary began to think she was having mental problems—or was the house haunted? The first few times noises occurred, she’d phoned Travis, but he never found anyone or any evidence that someone had been there. So she stopped calling him.
One night as she slept soundly, something grabbed her big toe. Mary bolted upright. There at the foot of her bed stood Will, big grin, cow lick, and all. She couldn’t believe it. Will, her big brother. Of course, she knew it wasn’t actually him but his ghost. She wasn’t afraid. She was filled with peace. Will. Will. His image faded, and she flopped back to sleep, smiling.
Periodically over the next few weeks, she heard the usual noises, but they didn’t disturb her anymore. She knew Will was there, and most nights she slept straight through. Once she tried to tell Travis about Will, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to explain that their older brother’s ghost resided in the house. Travis seemed to be happy that she wasn’t bothered by inexplicable noises anymore.
Then one evening she awoke to the sound of breaking glass. She flicked on the light just as the bedroom door opened. There stood two men, one with a scraggly beard. They sneered and reeked of alcohol. Mary gasped and fumbled for her pistol in the night stand. Rushing forward, the bearded man yanked her out of bed and slammed her to the floor while the other grabbed the pistol out of the drawer. He knelt beside her and jammed the muzzle against her temple. She froze, her pulse pounding. Both men laughed.
At that moment a glowing apparition with a big grin and a cow lick appeared out of the wall and came toward the intruders. Screaming, the bearded intruder jumped up and raced out the door. The other man followed close behind, dropping the gun as he ran. The first man tripped and crashed through the banister. He landed on the floor below, his neck broken. Then the second slipped, his leg snapping as he tumbled down the stairwell. He lay whimpering at the foot of the steps as the smiling ghost stood over him.
Seconds later Mary ran into the hall, gun and phone in hand. The ghost evaporated. Travis arrived within minutes and took charge. The injured intruder kept babbling about being attacked by a ghost. No one took him seriously.
Nothing ever disturbed Mary’s sleep again. She lived for many years in the house and died of old age in her own bed overlooking the lake. She was buried next to her brother, Will, in the family cemetery.
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Click on the following to find Dave’s excellent books.
Click here to find information about my upcoming event at the Orlando Public Library with Dave Lapham as co-presenter.
April 24, 2013
St. Augustine Ghost Stories: Guest Post # 3
Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida
PORTALS & DIMENSIONS
By ghost hunter and Florida author, Dave Lapham
A friend the other day read “Gateway to Hell” in my book Ghosts of St. Augustine and asked me about portals, if they really existed. I have witnessed a portal. My wife,Sue, and I visited Ireland a few years ago and went to Clonmacnoise, a religious center established around 545 A.D. at the crossroads of the River Shannon and the glacial ridge running across Ireland.
We were standing in a cold rain amid the ruins of an old chapel, praying for a friend suffering from a brain tumor. As we stood there something opened in front of us and enveloped us. It was hard to describe. It wasn’t so much that we walked through a doorway, but rather that the doorway surrounded us as we stood. We were not frightened but overwhelmed with a peaceful, joyful sensation.
This cocoon-like feeling lasted for several minutes, then dissipated, leaving both of us exhilarated, overjoyed, and energized. The experience was the most astounding thing that’s ever happened to me. I know many others who have also experienced portals, among them my friend, Melba Goodwyn. She devotes an entire chapter to the subject in her book, Ghost Worlds. “The Spanish Washer Woman” in my Ancient City Hauntings is another dramatic story about a portal.
We know that many dimensions exist other than the one we live in. Some believe there are in infinite number floating around the universe. We also know that not all of these dimensions are parallel, and where they intersect you will find a portal. The Irish call them “thin places.” Melba defines them as …inter-dimensional doorways opening into other realms of existence. As dimensions are not always fixed, so portals aren’t either, although some can last a very long time.
Portals can appear almost anywhere, inside structures or outside. They are often found in cemeteries, I guess, because consciously or subconsciously, we choose burial grounds for their otherworldly characteristics, spiritual vibrations, or auras. Cemeteries often innately exhibit sacredness and peace and where portals are often found. But portals may also appear under more negative circumstances and can be anything but peaceful.
In her book, Melba explains that we can discern energy patterns which might indicate the presence of a portal. These energy patterns, especially noticeable to sensitives, can be either harmonious or discordant. One can experience peace, euphoria, increased energy, elation, calmness. Or the energies cause weakness, nausea, headaches, cold chills, confusion.
There are other common signs. You may hear barely audible humming or buzzing, may feel static electricity, may see orb-like forms streaking around. The light around a portal may also seem either unnaturally bright or shaded, inconsistent with its surroundings. And there may be mist or fog concentrated in the area.
In any case, if you ever experience or think you are experiencing a portal, be careful. It may be a calming, peaceful place, or it may be something evil—as in my “Gateway to Hell” story. Either way, experiencing a portal is going to change your thinking about time and space.
Click on the following to find Dave’s excellent books.
Click here to find information about my upcoming event at the Orlando Public Library with Dave Lapham as co-presenter.
Click here to visit Dave’s website.
April 23, 2013
Chapter 25 – Sliding Beneath the Surface
The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I
Young adult, paranormal/historical
25
Muskets and Rifles
Lobo dropped the big old envelope I took from the back of my ancestor’s portrait right in the middle of the dining room table, startling me. Carla and I had been sitting there chatting and waiting for him after clearing off the dinner dishes when he came up behind me like he did. For whatever reason, I thought he and Carla had left the envelope at my house with the portrait.
My enthusiasm for looking at the envelope’s contents evaporated the moment I touched that thing when I first found it. “What’s that doing here?” I asked.
“As long as you don’t touch it, or anything in it, you’ll be all right,” he replied after sitting back down with us.
“OK, fine, but you didn’t answer my question.” With all I had been through, I found it hard to fully trust the guy’s judgment.
“A bit edgy are we now?”
“Not edgy, just wary. Can you blame me?”
“Nobody’s blaming you,” Carla said, sliding into the conversation, and glaring at Lobo. “We brought the envelope back because the idea of you finding out more about your ancestor is still a good one.”
“Like it or not,” Lobo said, “you are in a battle of survival! Not me, not Cara, just you. Without a doubt, you will be encountering your ancestor again, and the more you know about his personal life, the better prepared you will be to deal with the situation in a positive manner. Your very existence could well depend on what you might learn here.”
Lobo’s never-ending words about my survival were like a constant drumbeat bouncing around inside my head. “I got it, OK? So go ahead and show me what’s in the freakin’ envelope.” At that point, I didn’t care how irritated I sounded.
“Hold on a minute.” Carla jumped up, scooted over to one of Lobo’s bookcases and quickly came back with a book. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “Take a look at the cover.”
When I took the book from her hand, my eyes locked onto a full color, artistic recreation of a raging battle scene. It began on the front cover, continued across the book’s spine and ended on the back cover. Desperate looking men in sky-blue uniforms with white belts crisscrossing their chests fought for their lives. Sprinkled among them were other men in dark blue coats with gold buttons. Dade’s Last Command, it said on the front with a guy named Frank Laumer as the author.
Yeah, those uniforms looked very familiar to me. What really hit me even more than that though, were the expressions on those soldiers’ faces. My God! I mean, those men looked exactly how I felt—scared and trapped with no way out. Don’t know how long I stared at that picture in a daze of recognition.
Finally, I pointed at the tall, leather looking hat on one man’s head and said to Carla, “I saw some of those. I remember them now. They, those hats, were scattered on the ground with all kinds of other stuff.”
“See how valid your experience at the cemetery was?” Carla smiled, obviously trying to encourage me to be more positive without actually saying so. “That’s why I wanted to show you the book cover. Somehow, you were able to gather incredible, firsthand insights into the Dade battlefield soon after the fighting ended. Now you can merge that information with whatever you might find useful in some of your ancestor’s documents in the envelope. It’s a great combination. That’s all Lobo is trying to tell you.”
“Mm, yeah. Makes sense, I guess.” And it did, really. What also made sense was how Carla had a key or two to some of the little switches in my head I hadn’t yet learned to flip on my own. Good and bad keys in other people’s possession, I said to myself, and I wondered when, or if, I would ever be the one turning the switches on my own. When I handed the book back to Carla, she put it on the coffee table. Glancing at the book once more as she came back to her seat, I thought about the large historical marker at the cemetery and its simplified version of the Dade battle. “I still can’t get over both our ancestors being part of all … that.” I jerked a thumb back in the book’s direction.
“I hear you,” she replied, shaking her head.
“What started the battle anyway? And how did such a large group from the U.S. Army get wiped out so easily?” For some reason, my curiosity had gotten all fired up. Yeah, me asking a couple of questions about history. I even surprised myself. Guess it was seeing that book cover combined with my ancestor and Carla’s both having been part of what happened so long ago.
“Uh, well,” Carla said, clearly surprised by my interest, “there’s no doubt about it. The defeat of Dade and his men was the worst loss by the U.S. Army to Native Americans until Custer and his people died at the Little Big Horn about forty years later.
“You see, um, back in the early 1830’s, the U.S. was in the process of moving Native People out of the eastern part of the country and sending them west of the Mississippi whether they wanted to go or not. Horrible stuff. A lot of those folks died on the way. By 1835, the only land the Seminoles had left in Florida was a reservation 60 miles wide by 120 long. It only stretched from just north of Tampa to Ocala, but even that the government wanted to take that away from them.
“At the time, the U.S. had a fort where Tampa is located today called Fort Brooke. There was another one named Fort King where present-day Ocala is located.”
I remembered seeing those names on the cemetery’s historical marker.
“Eventually, the Seminoles, and their black allies had had enough and decided to resist.”
“Black allies?”
“Free blacks, escaped slaves, and their families.”
“Oh.” I’m telling you, sometimes all that Carla knows about history just astounds me.
“When December of 1835 rolled around, the Seminoles were getting restless and causing the whites problems. When a message arrived at Fort Brooke from Fort King asking for reinforcements, Major Dade and his soldiers were quickly sent up the military road on the 23rd of December.”
“Military road? That’s the one where the battle took place, the same location where I saw all those bodies?”
“Yes, Mr. Golden,” Lobo rumbled, “the locations are identical, but we don’t have time for the pampering of your newly awakened fascination with history.”
“OK, but wait a minute,” I protested. “You said the more I know about my ancestor’s private life the better prepared I’ll be. What’s more private than the circumstances of the man’s death?”
“He’s got you there.” Carla snickered and looked at Lobo with both eyebrows raised. “Your move,” she said to him without using words.
Letting out a sigh of exasperation, and frowning deeply, Lobo said, “Here’s the quick version of what happened, so pay attention.”
“Absolutely.” I had to flash Carla a tiny victory smile when I said that one word. She winked at me as Lobo took over the storytelling.
“The Seminole chiefs, Micanopy, Alligator and Jumper laid an ambush for Dade and his men about half way between Fort Brooke and Fort King. The great war leader, Osceola, wasn’t able to participate. Armed with rifles they got from the Spanish in Cuba, 180 Indians formed a semicircle going across the military road with a pond and high grass on one side. No escape for the soldiers once they entered the jaws of that trap.
“Major Dade allowed his troops to keep their muskets under their heavy overcoats on that morning of December 28 to keep them dry. In the chilly air, the pine trees and palmettos still dripped water from an early morning rain. Dade also thought the Seminoles wouldn’t attack in such a wide-open area. He couldn’t have been more wrong, obviously, putting his men at a great disadvantage in case of an attack.”
“Muskets?” I asked. “That was the soldiers’ main weapon, but the Seminoles had rifles, which were more modern, right?”
“Rifles didn’t become the weapon of choice in the U.S military,” Carla answered, “until much later in that century. In 1835, rifles and muskets both had their advantages and disadvantages.”
Just as Carla finished her sentence, the fire in the fireplace popped loudly and showered sparks into the living room about half way to the coffee table. I wondered why Lobo didn’t use one of those screens to protect the room and furniture from damage. Both Carla and I jumped, but old Lobo never flinched or even blinked, as usual. He did gripe at us though.
“Enough digression and talk of weapons,” he grumbled. “We need to finish this discussion quickly, and get to the envelope.”
I apologized for getting us off track and Lobo launched back into his explanation—at a much faster pace.
“Commanded by Captain Gardiner, a short barrel of a man, most of Dade’s men walked up the road in two columns. Lieutenant Walton’s post was there as well, but he had no horse, unlike Gardiner and Dade. An advance party pushed ahead of the column consisting of Lieutenant Mudge, Carla’s ancestor, Luis Pacheco and several soldiers, all led by Captain Fraser. A rear guard followed the main force with a cannon and supply wagon, Lieutenant Basinger commanding.”
“Wait! Lieutenant … Basinger?” I knew I couldn’t have heard the man correctly.
“Yes, why,” Lobo asked, but he had this look on his face that made me think he already knew the answer.
“The soldier at the National Guard Headquarters, the one we almost ran into,” I said to Carla, “his name was Basinger.”
“Really?”
“I’m not kidding! I saw the name on his uniform when we rode by.”
“How …” She seemed at a real loss for words. Unusual, but true.
“Carla,” Lobo said, “in that instance, you directly shared with your friend here, one of his many odd experiences of the day. That particular coincidental event, as some people would describe it, was part of a unique unfolding of patterns set in motion that have great importance—even if none of us ever discovers its ultimate meaning.”
To me, he said, “Perhaps the soldier was a descendant of the Dade battle Basinger, unconsciously channeling a warning from his ancestor to beware of your contact with the pyramids by almost running into you. Or, your own inner self might have put you at that exact place, and at that precise time, as a subconscious warning of what was yet to come. The possibilities are infinite.”
“Uh, Jeff, Lobo …” Carla didn’t finish her sentence. She had her head turned to the side, staring intently at Lobo’s picture window.
“What?” I asked, looking straight ahead of me across the dining room table. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary—nothing but darkness outside of Lobo’s house and the usual lights on the other side of Matanzas Bay.
“Don’t either of you say another word, and above all, don’t move,” Lobo ordered, his eyes locked onto the window just as Carla’s were.
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For a brief description of The St. Augustine Trilogy, click here.
For Sliding Beneath the Surface on Amazon.com, click here
For reviews of this book, author interviews and blog tours, click here.
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© 2011 by Doug Dillon. All rights reserved.
