Doug Dillon's Blog, page 156
April 22, 2013
St. Augustine Ghost Stories: Guest Post # 5
Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida
Mary Hastings, Part 2
By ghost hunter and Florida author, Dave Lapham
She listened to the wind rustling the leaves of the oaks, the jays squawking, the far-off chugging of a tractor working in the groves. Then she whispered, “I just wanted you all to know I’m back, back for good. I’ve retired, and I’m moving into the house—just so you know. I’ll be visiting you more often.” She stood for a few more moments then drove back to the house. Sometimes she felt silly talking to her folks and Will like that, but it was a comfort, so she wasn’t going to stop.
As she drove into the yard and got out of her car she thought she heard the front door slam and footsteps slapping across the porch. Hmm, she thought, probably my imagination, and she dismissed it from her mind.
She had just finished unloading her car when her sister-in-law, Betsy, and her three daughters-in-law pulled up. They were soon followed by a passel of grandkids and a few great grandchildren. The silence Mary had experienced when she first arrived was now replaced with happy chaos.
“Aunt Mary, we’re so glad…” “Come see my new dog, Aunt Mary.” “I hope you had a wonderful trip…” “You must be tired, poor thing…” “Aunt Mary…” “Aunt Mary…”
Mary was tired, but she was engulfed in love. The younger women took charge of things and began preparing dinner. An hour later Travis arrived with his sons and grandsons, and the noise level swelled. The women eventually served dinner, a celebration of Mary’s homecoming and also perhaps the end of the sadness and mourning over their father’s recent death.
When the last dish was washed and the last person had left the house, Mary traipsed up to her bedroom at the end of the hall overlooking the lake, happy but exhausted. She didn’t unpack, just pawed through dresser drawers until she found a nightgown, changed, and collapsed into bed.
In the middle of the night she awoke and looked at the clock on the night stand. Three a.m. She closed her eyes and lay in the stillness for a long time, but couldn’t sleep. Then she heard noise. It sounded like footsteps on the stairs. Adrenalin rushed into her veins, and her heart began pounding.
Without turning on the light, she rose up on one elbow and reached for the top drawer of her night stand. She hoped that the pistol, a little .32 caliber revolver, which her father had insisted she learn to shoot from the time she was old enough to hold it, was still there. She fumbled through the papers, magazines, and assorted odds and ends until her fingers touched cold steel. She hadn’t had a gun in her hands in years, but she picked it up now and held it snugly. She sat up in bed and aimed the pistol at the door.
Quickly, Mary slid out of bed. Walking to the door, she opened it. No one was there. She tip-toed along the hallway and down the stairs. She knew someone could still be on the second floor in one of the empty rooms, but she had no desire to prowl in and out of those bedrooms. No, she’d stay downstairs where she could run if she had to. In the kitchen she called Travis.
“What’s up, Sis? You’re awake early.”
“Trav, could you come over here?’ She explained what had happened.
“I’m on the way.”
While she waited for her brother, she checked the outside doors in the kitchen, front hallway, and the office. All were locked with dead bolts. Travis soon arrived and checked every room in the house, finding nothing.
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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 21, 2013
Ghost Hunt – Old Hamilton County Jail
Paranormal Jasper, Florida
A guest post by Mary Jo Fister and Greg Bush from Offthetrails Paranormal investigations.
The old jail was built in 1893 and in use until 1986. It was the second longest running jail in the US. Electricity was installed around 1917, but not in the cells!
The town itself is full of history and folklore, and therefore, haunted places. The curator of the Old Jail Museum, Renee Daigle, escorted us to several places in and around town reported to be haunted. Renee gave us a tour of the jail and the “hot spots.”
Off the Trails Paranormal Investigations checked out to some degree 8 specific sites, but concentrated on the jail itself. We found varying activity at most places, but especially, the jail. The ovilus (ghost box recorder) was very active, still photos not so much.
On Friday when we arrived, Renee and her sister Marie, along with nephew Justin took us to Turner Boat Ramp, several miles outside of town. It was once the way people crossed the Suwannee River, before the highway was built.
Greg Bush
They told us that nobody in town will stay there at night. Boats lose their power, voices are heard, and people experience a “creepy” feeling. “Everything goes weird”, Marie said. A medium told them the place was evil.
They didn’t know what happened there but Renee heard a little boy had drowned. With the ovilus, we heard the following words: current, bar, drown, bottle, disaster, wave, demon. Our Mel Meter registered some spikes.
We visited the Clardy Family Cemetery, where some of Renee and Marie’s family are buried. The first white woman born in Hamilton County is buried there. Words heard on the ovilus include compound, young, bury, graveyard, aunt, grandpa, care, Adam, and Sarah.
A group of people at the cemetery was named Young. Although we did not find any markers for an Adam or Sarah, there were a few stones that didn’t have names, but instead were marked “infant.” The cemetery could be called a compound since it is an enclosed area. Another word I heard was Indian, and there were indeed Native Americans there in the past.
Another cemetery was a small area for whites who died in a cholera epidemic in the 1850s and many slave graves that had been unmarked, but now bore small white markers. It was in a field on the former tobacco and corn farm of the Mitchell family. Renee and Marie are Mitchells.
As I walked among the markers and headstones, I asked who was with me. The name Nick appeared on the ovilus DTD. Other words were mistress, quarantine, care and sunrise. As I walked in the shade of a large oak tree, the ovilus said “dark” and when I emerged into the sunlight, it said “bright” as though someone, possibly Nick, was watching and commenting on my whereabouts. Greg and Rob had some small spikes on the Mel Meter, but nothing significant.
Saturday morning, we stopped briefly at the ruins of a shelter for abused women. The ovilus, as usual, began to react. The names Harriet, Jess and Meline came up, along with dominate and abort. Unfortunately, we found nothing of interest on the photos.
An old, but still working feed mill, owned by the Mitchell family was another brief stop. While Greg and Rob walked ahead to explore, I was taking videos and listening to the ovilus, which said the word run.
A moment later, Rob and Greg told me that three pit bulls were on their way from behind the mill, and we all went very quickly to the car. The ovilus seemed to have sent us a warning!
Renee took us to the Presley Church Fellowship Hall, due to a report of some activity. We felt very peaceful and had no activity there.
Finally, we began to set up at the jail. We did our baseline readings and decided where to place the cameras. Headquarters would be in the office. The museum includes the cells and jailer’s living quarters, which are 6 rooms.
Mary Jo Fister
The jail has 2 women’s cells, and segregated cells for white and colored men. Three people were hanged at the jail, the last one in the 1920s. He was the last person to be hanged east of the Mississippi. A woman prisoner committed suicide. While we were setting up, Greg and I, upstairs, heard a very loud bang, like a door slamming. Rob didn’t hear it downstairs!
We tried to slam a cell door, but they are so heavy, we couldn’t do it. That ruled out wind or another person. Also, Rob didn’t hear it. While our cable was on the floor ready to be hooked up to the camera, it somehow became all tangled! We had to untangle it.
Rob reported that while he was setting up cameras, he felt a hearty slap on the shoulder! Greg and Rob had some spikes on the Mel meters. Rob had a 10.6 in the office, where we had set up! Greg had a 4.8 in the front museum room, which contains many artifacts. In the women’s cell, I heard cloister, melody, reverend and holy on the ovilus.
A woman had been held prisoner there with her infant at one time, charged with poisoning her husband. That might account for the melody! Outside, near where we believe the gallows stood, the ovilus register the words redemption, holy, and bible. When I heard mistake, I asked, Did you make a mistake?” The answer I got was “government.”
In one of the cells, the ovilus clearly said chlorides. When I asked, “Did you say chlorides?” we all heard the answer “Yes!” When we asked what that meant, we got silence. Although Rob and Greg commented on the heat, I felt cold in that cell.
As I investigated the various cells and rooms, I often heard the word demon. Other interesting words were anomaly, paranormal, poltergeist, and levitation. In the family living quarters, I heard uncle, mommy, papa, and grandpa via the ovilus. It was the same words more than once.
I received no answers or elaboration to my questions, so it might have been residual energy. Once while I was sitting in a cell, there was an unexplained squeak. Another time, while I was alone, tapping is heard. I didn’t hear it at the time, but it is audible on the videotape. Finally, there are unexplained footsteps. None of us were walking at the time.
Late in the investigation, we decided to try the flashlight method of communication. If the spirit turns the flashlight on, we know there is someone with us. We can then ask a series of yes/no questions, asking him/her to turn it on for a yes answer and leave it off for no.
We did manage to connect with one prisoner in the colored men’s day room briefly. We spoke at length to a spirit calling himself Charlie. He told us he was a partner of Durham, who was the last person hanged there. Durham had shot the deputy.
Charlie was not a nice spirit! He did turn the light on to full intensity! He told us that he liked to scare people. When I asked him if he was the one who kept repeating the word demon, he replied in the affirmative! When I asked if that was meant to scare me, he again answered yes. One word that I had heard was brown.
When we asked Charlie if he knew Brown, he replied that he did. He told us that eleven others were with him. The number 12 had come up on the ovilus earlier when I asked who was here. Renee’s sons and a few family members were helping by watching the monitor with our various cameras.
As we chatted, they told a story about a medium who had visited. So I asked, “Are you the one who told the medium that you would rape her and then touched her?” The light immediately went on brightly, as though Charlie was proud of that! I asked him to complete the “shave and a haircut” rhythm and banged on the bunk. He completed it by using the flashlight. He turned it on and off quickly, in time!
He confirmed that he knew he was dead, but wanted to stay in the jail and scare people. He didn’t want to cross over. Rob asked him to make a noise: to knock, bang, or even touch one of us. He promised a cigarette to Charlie if he would do that. When it seemed Charlie didn’t comply, Rob took back the cigarette.
He then began to feel sick, and had to go downstairs and outside for some air. At one point, while outside, he even vomited. Greg and I remained for a moment to tell Charlie to back off from Rob and leave him alone.
When we related the story to the young people, they told us they had heard footsteps, and thought we were coming down, but then realized we were all still sitting in the cell. We went back up to return the cigarette to Charlie and apologize. We hadn’t heard a thing, but maybe Charlie did make some noise. Rob felt better almost immediately afterwards.
Was Charlie getting even? We saw some intelligent orb activity on the cameras. By that I mean that orbs were going in a different direction than would be expected, at a different speed than expected or even changing direction. We have a photo of one orb, a bright ball of light, moving along the floor outside a cell.
We had a great 8 hours at the jail, with lots of evidence to review! 14 static night vision cameras, FLIR images, video, and EMF recordings! Our thanks to Renee and her family for all their help and Southern hospitality! We hope to return at a future date to gather more evidence at the jail and at some of the other sites in town that we think might have paranormal activity!
Click here to visit Offthetrails Paranormal Investigations
http://www.offthetrailsparanormalinve...
April 20, 2013
Chapter 24 – Sliding Beneath the Surface
The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I
Young adult, paranormal/historical
24
Pipelines
I kept wondering why I had nothing better to do than look at a big chunk of wood. It took the smell of food cooking to shake me into a hazy understanding that I was lying on my back, staring at one of those big, hand-cut rafters in Lobo’s ceiling. Hamburgers?
“Hi,” Carla said from somewhere very close. “Just about to wake you up.”
Slowly, I turned my head towards her voice. I wanted very much to look at her instead of that stupid rafter. Turned out she was sitting in a little folding chair next to me where I lay on Lobo’s couch. “What the hell?” I mumbled. The last thing I remembered was holding the oil painting of my ancestor at my house.
“Take it easy,” she said gently, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve been asleep for well over an hour.” Behind her, I noticed a fire cracking away in Lobo’s fireplace. I could even feel the heat on my face. Carla had shed her coat and now wore a long sleeved green sweater. God, she looked good.
“Asleep?” I mumbled, my mind still not very clear. On the coffee table next to us, Lobo’s Ball of Realities and my crushed Coke can acted like an alarm clock. As soon as I saw them, I woke up all the way.
Carla tilted her head to the side a little and squeezed her lips together for a few seconds before saying anything. “You, ah, got zapped after you took that envelope off the back of the portrait. It was full of information about Walton, even old letters he wrote. Lobo said your ancestor more or less tried to pour his thoughts and memories into you through the picture and some of the items in the envelope that actually belonged to him.
“All of that overloaded you, like an electric current. It knocked you flat on the floor, but you didn’t fully lose consciousness. I’m so sorry I suggested you look there.”
Electric current? Oh man, that made me think about what happened as I touched the pyramid, and images from another century trickled back into my awareness from when I handled the envelope. “Oh, oh yeah. I remember some of that. You couldn’t have known there would be a problem, but … but what about my house and the painting?”
“When he realized what was happening,” Carla replied, “Lobo jumped up and pulled both the portrait and the envelope away from you. He says you’re OK, but you had a major overload with that connection to your ancestor. If it had gone on for much longer, it could have been a real problem. You were so woozy from that experience, we walked you to the truck and then into the house here. When we laid you on the couch, you went right to sleep. Oh, we locked up your house and left the portrait there.”
I had no recollection of walking out of my house at all. “Thanks for, ah, taking care of everything,” I replied, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. Feeling hot, I flipped the blanket covering me onto the back of the couch. As I did that, I saw I had no shoes on, and my jacket was missing. I hoped Carla hadn’t been the one to take off those smelly old sneakers of mine.
“Oh,” Carla said, “I looked up Lieutenant Walton in a book and confirmed what Lobo said about him dying on December 28 along with Dade and most of his men. By the way, his first name was Robert. Lieutenant Robert Walton.”
“I don’t know if that is good news or bad,” I replied. “I mean everything keeps speeding up and I can’t seem to absorb it enough to make sense of it all. Talk about overload. I mean look at me lying here after collapsing at my house. This is the third freakin’ time you have had to take care of me when I’ve been either sick or just plain out of it in some way.”
“And wouldn’t you have done the same for me?”
“Well, of course but—”
“This has got to be hard on you, but Lobo told me after all you’ve been through, you’ve shown how strong your mind really is. He said if most people in the world had experienced what you have been through in such a short amount of time, they could have gone crazy. You might want to think about that.”
“Really?” I asked, feeling a little encouraged.
“Uh huh, and you know by now Lobo doesn’t say something unless he really means it.”
“I hear that,” I replied, accompanied by a rumbling in my stomach. The delicious scent of hamburgers had gotten to me, and I remembered how I hadn’t finished my little meal at the Athena restaurant. Of course, when I thought about the Athena, an image of looking at myself through panes of glass popped into my mind.
With a worried look on her face, Carla said, “But also according to Lobo, your ancestor is trying even harder to make a connection because you’ve finally recognized him. When you touched the portrait and that envelope, he was ready and waiting to make a serious link. It’s easier for him to contact you through things that belonged to him, see?”
“Oh,” I said, still overwhelmed with the day’s incredible chain of events.
“Dinner!” Lobo called from the dining room table after putting some things on it.
I couldn’t see any coins on the table or scattered on the floor. Either Carla or Lobo, or even the both of them, had picked up the mess I made. That fact made me feel a little guilty. By the time Carla and I stood up, Lobo had gone back into the kitchen. Under the red and blue, hanging Tiffany lamp, somebody had set the dining room table for three people. A plate of hamburgers in buns, a big bowl of potato salad, and smaller plates of lettuce, tomatoes and pickles all sat there making me really hungry. Bottled water stood next to each plate.
“Come on,” Carla said, tugging on my arm gently until she made me sit in the chair facing Lobo’s picture window, even pulling it out for me. I guess she wanted to make sure I didn’t collapse or something. Who could blame her? How many times had she helped me as I bumped into Lobo’s worlds-within-worlds knocking myself silly?
As she sat in the chair to my right, I looked out into the darkness through Lobo’s window. There in the distance, the lights from the bridge to Vilano Beach, the Bridge of Lions, and Anastasia Island glittered brightly. Several seconds after that, the beam from the St. Augustine Lighthouse out on the island swept across Matanzas Bay and out to sea.
“Here’s your salad,” Lobo said to Carla, coming back into the dining room with a bowl full of lettuce and vegetables in one hand and in the other, ketchup and mustard. Since Carla is a vegetarian, I figured he had created a special meal just for her. She definitely doesn’t do hamburgers.
Seeing Lobo with those things in his hands looked really odd. To me, after running into more than one of the guy at the same time, and hearing all of his scary explanations, it looked weird seeing him doing such ordinary things. You understand? What I mean is, the man was so completely out of the ordinary in so many wild ways I had trouble seeing him involved in the everyday task of cooking and serving food.
Anyway, after he finally sat down, it didn’t take long for the thought of eating to grab my full attention. I dove into my meal like I hadn’t eaten in a week. Gotta admit, I stuffed myself with everything I could find while Carla and Lobo had this long discussion about Tiffany stained glass. Borrrring.
When I had gotten half way through my second burger, Lobo started talking directly to me. He and Carla had already finished their dinner.
“As Carla already told you, contact with that portrait of your ancestor and his papers knocked you partly unconscious.”
“That’s not all of it,” I said and went on to explain to both him and Carla what I experienced at the time.
Lobo nodded and said, “That was a very dangerous situation indeed, one you don’t want to repeat. We almost lost you.”
As he said that, the bite of food going down my throat sort of stuck there. I had to gulp some water to help the stuff go down. When it did, I said, “So, ah, I could have, what? died or something?”
“Yes, or as I told you before, your consciousness could have been pulled into your ancestor’s reality without any escape. One possibility is that your physical body in our world would then appear as if you had fallen into a deep coma. For right now, you can’t afford to touch anything from your ancestor’s time, especially personal items of his like letters and so forth. Such things are quickly becoming direct pipelines that allow him dangerous access to your mind in addition to the blood connection that already exists.”
Direct pipelines? Great! Just freakin’ great!
###
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 19, 2013
St. Augustine Ghost Stories: Guest Post # 4
Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida
Mary Hastings, Part 1
By ghost hunter and Florida author, Dave Lapham
Mary Hastings pulled off the highway and stopped to check her dad’s mailbox before heading up the drive to the house. He’d been dead two weeks, but he was still getting mail. Even her mother, who’d died two years before, received an occasional piece of junk mail. Sure enough the mailbox was full, and none of it was for Mary. Laying the stack of mostly advertisements on the passenger’s seat, she closed her door and drove on.
As she continued up the orange tree-lined road to the house, now hers, she felt a warmth which made her smile, even after thirty years. She had grown up among these groves, swum in the lake, learned to drive dodging around citrus trees, received her first kiss by the water tower, enjoyed birthdays and holidays with her friends and a loving family.
But she also felt a sadness. Her parents, her grandparents, her brother, Will, killed in Vietnam, were all gone, all now buried along with her great grandparents in the little family cemetery on the north side of the lake. Only she and her younger brother, Travis, remained.
She was thankful that the place had remained in the Hastings family. Mary had chosen to go off to college up north. At the time she wanted to get away from this place, this backward way of life, this boring little town of Lake Wales where nothing ever happened.
The big excitement was a Friday night high school football game or a Saturday night movie. So she had elected to attend the University of Virginia, one of the biggest party schools in the country, and the home, more or less, of Edgar Allen Poe. She wasn’t a big party girl, but UVA did sound exciting, and academic standards there were high.
But that was a long time ago. She had majored in English Literature and had gone on to get her PhD. A series of teaching jobs at several universities followed, and suddenly it was thirty years later. Mary retired when her dad died, and now she was coming home for good.
In the meantime Travis had remained in Lake Wales and had taken over managing the groves just as his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather had done. And he had harbored no ill feelings toward his sister because she’d chosen to do other things. As far as Travis was concerned, he’d always said, “No problem, Sis. When you get ready to retire, come on back. There’ll always be a place for you.”
In fact, there was. Travis and their father made sure that Mary was taken care of. At Travis’s request, their dad had willed her the family house and the adjacent five acres on the lake. The property was beautiful, covered with old live oaks, a well-maintained beach, and a large pavilion for family gatherings and parties. And the house. The two-story house was too large for Mary, five bedrooms, an expansive kitchen and adjoining dining room, and a wide, screened porch surrounding all four sides, but she loved it.
Approaching the house and seeing no cars there, she drove on to the family cemetery above the lake. It was a pristine spot. Her dad and grandfather had wisely kept the trees around the shoreline, so that anywhere a person might sit, he would feel the tranquility that only a forest and a lake can provide.
The cemetery sat back several yards off the water on high ground. Enclosed by a filigreed wrought-iron fence, it was spacious, large enough to hold many more graves. Mary walked to her parents’ resting places and bent down to pat the fresh mound of earth covering her father.
Will was buried on the other side of her mother. Mary smiled down at Will’s grave and sighed. Even after forty-five years, she pictured him in minute detail, his brown eyes, strong jaw, his big grin, even the cow lick on the crown of his head. She had idolized her big brother. He’d taught her how to drive, how to smoke, how to drink, how to fend off unwanted attentions from the boys.
When she was a girl he was always there to protect her. She loved her little brother, Travis, but Will was her hero. He’d been such a terrific young man. What a waste.
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 18, 2013
St. Augustine Ghost Stories: Guest Post # 2
Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida
PLAYMATES (Part Two of two – See previous post for Part I)
Guest post by ghost hunter and Florida author, Dave Lapham
For Alice Sue’s part she enjoyed every minute with Rose Marie. In addition to coming and going through the closet, she asked some funny questions, like “What is that thing on the table next to your bed?”
“You mean the lamp?”
“Lamp?”
“Yes. Here, I’ll turn it on.” Alice Sue pulled the lamp chain and the light came on.
“Oh,” Rose Marie exclaimed and jumped back.
And there were the shoes. Rose Marie wore what seemed to Alice Sue old-fashioned handmade slippers. And Rose Marie was astounded by Alice Sue’s Skecher Twinkle Toes with pink laces and leopard spots and which lit up with every step. Alice Sue let her try them on, and the girl was so enthralled with them, Alice Sue gave them to Rose Marie.
But the admiration wasn’t one-sided. Alice Sue loved Rose Marie’s clothes, which were so well-made and so different. One day she came out of the closet wearing what to Alice Sue was a beautiful pink dress, with ruffles all the way down to the hem, a wide pink ribbon at the waist, and little pink bows all around the scoop neck. She had to have a dress just like it.
Weeks later as Alice Sue’s birthday neared, Betsy asked her daughter what she wanted. Immediately, she said, “A dress, a pink, full-length dress.” And she described Rose Marie’s dress in minute detail. Betsy thought it odd, but she told her that’s what she’d get, and she wrote down the description Alice Sue had given her.
Finally, the day came. Alice Sue and her mother knew no one in St. Augustine, so the “birthday party” consisted of just the two of them. First, Alice Sue opened her gifts at home—and immediately put on her new dress. Then they walked up the street for lunch at the Casa Monica Hotel. At the end of the meal, a waitress came out with a piece of cake, a candle burning on it, and all the wait staff sang “Happy Birthday” to Alice Sue. She laughed as she blew out the candle and ate the cake but soon was anxious to rush home.
She ran down the street ahead of her mother and was waiting at the door when Betsy arrived. Then she bounded up to her room and closed the door. Shortly after, Betsy heard squeals and giggles coming from upstairs.
When Alice Sue turned toward the closet she saw Rose Marie standing there—in her pink dress. Rose Marie’s jaw dropped and she broke into a big smile. The two little girls stood looking at each other, eyes glistening. Rose Marie reached out her hand and took Alice Sue’s. She led her to the closet, and the two walked in, closing the door.
Alice Sue was never seen again, but to this day one can hear two little girls giggling and laughing in the bedroom upstairs at the end of the hall in the old coquina house on Marine Street.
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 17, 2013
A Wonderful Story of Duty, Faith, Friendship and Love
A book review
Author: Mark Daniels
Publisher: Paperclip Publishing
# of pages: 248
A Call to Arms is one of those very authentic books that pulls you directly into a particular period of history. In this case, it is 1757 and the onset of the French and Indian War. The setting is a rural village in the English colony of Massachusetts. Benjamin Hewes and his family are the focal point of this story as they bravely face the challenges brought to their very doorstep by conflict between England and France.
Using documents from his own family history in that same region and time, Mark Daniels beautifully brings his characters to life. His book not only sheds great light on the living conditions and customs of the day but it also allows the reader to enter the mind of a farmer caught between the competing needs of his family, his small town and his colony. This is a wonderful story of duty, faith, friendship and love.
A Call to Arms, in its entirety, is an excellent foreshadowing of the larger war yet to come, the American Revolution. Mr. Daniels next book, A Call to Liberty, will no doubt plunge readers into that conflict as well and do it with the same authenticity as A Call to Arms.
I note that the author is a reenactor who brings his character, Ben Hewes, to life in a variety of settings. If, at those times, he infuses himself with the depth of character he describes in his book, his audiences are definitely in for a treat.
I recommend this book for young adult and adult readers.
To see this review on Amazon, click here.
Chapter 23 – Sliding Beneath the Surface
The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I
Young adult, paranormal/historical
23
A Blood Connection
“What’s going on?” Carla called from behind me.
I stood in front of my ancestor’s portrait, looking up at it wide-eyed. The square face, and long sideburns matched perfectly. “This painting is of one of my relatives going way back. His name was Walton … and ah … he’s the man I saw in the plaza and in the cathedral with Lobo.”
“You’re being haunted by your own ancestor?” Carla quickly joined me so she could study the picture.
“Looks that way. He seemed familiar, but why I didn’t see the resemblance before this …”
“It’s a very old painting,” Carla said, “badly cracked and very dark. From where I was standing, I could barely see his features. Just his eyes seem to stand out. Besides, here he isn’t wearing a uniform.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen that portrait ever since I was a little kid.” Only then did I notice for the first time The Ancestor’s eyes were dark brown.
“No one in your family ever told you about Walton’s background?” she asked.
“Not really. My parents never cared about things like family history. Years ago my grandfather told me Walton served in the military and died in some war, but I didn’t really pay attention. I was pretty young.”
“Now,” Lobo said, “we see the primary reason why so much happened to you today. Your blood connection with this man means you and he have a direct channel to each other. After your bike accident and your abilities to link with other worlds instantly blossomed, your ancestor increasingly attached himself to you using this channel.
“As December 28 approaches, and all that it means to him, his agitation threatens to engulf you. As I have told you before, I don’t believe that this is his intention. He simply clings to you like a leech in hopes you will help him.”
I didn’t like how Lobo used the words, “blood” and “leech,” together in his statements. At first, I thought about how The Ancestor gushed blood in the plaza. That made me think about vampires, and I hoped to God there wasn’t actually anything like that in Lobo’s worlds-within-worlds. Crazy thought, I know. By then, I guess, I might have believed about anything.
Lobo paused and studied me intently before going on with his explanation. “Most of today’s strange events have simply been your ancestor’s way of making you sit up and take notice. He even led you back here to this house tonight so you could rediscover his picture.”
“Jeff just wanted a shower,” Carla protested, echoing my own thought.
“Wrong!” Lobo shot back, his voice filing the room. “The very fact that we are here looking at this picture proves the point. Walton’s influence manifests itself in your friend here through subconscious mechanisms.”
“You mean he’s influencing my mind without me knowing? Come on, Lobo, that was a coincidence,” I said.
Tell you what, the guy bounced out of his chair and got right into my face. “Hammer this into your head once and for all. Everything in this world connects with everything else in all the infinity of worlds that exist. You discount what you call coincidental events at this point in your life to your peril.”
“Oh man, Lobo,” I said, looking away and rubbing my temples, “you make my head ache with all that stuff.”
“Your blood connection to Walton is the cause of your headaches, not my words. Make no mistake about it. Your entire body feels the pressure from your ancestor as he attempts to contact you in order to stop his pain. Along with that pressure, you are definitely sensing whatever agony he endures.”
“Oh,” I replied. Such a thing never occurred to me. “But what kind of agony could cause him to be so, well, blindly dangerous?”
“We don’t know exactly. There is one thing I can tell you. A Lieutenant Walton died during Major Dade’s battle with the Seminoles in 1835. His agony no doubt relates to that event which occurred on December 28.”
“Of course, that Walton,” Carla said, her eyes bright with recognition and surprise.
With her love of history and the involvement of her own ancestor in the battle, I had no doubt she knew every detail about what happened back in those days. My thoughts though, flowed in a slightly different direction than hers and it dawned on me that Walton was buried under one of those pyramids in the National Cemetery.
The memory of what seemed like an electrical charge running up my arm when I put my hand on the central pyramid fired through my mind.
“Another thing,” Lobo said, this time to Carla. “There is a high probability that through you, your ancestor, Luis Pacheco, adds to the intensity of this situation. Pacheco’s spirit might somehow be supporting the contact between your friend here and Lieutenant Walton.”
“Pacheco? Through me?” Startled, Carla looked at me like she had done something wrong.
“Relax,” Lobo scolded her. “It isn’t a fact, just a probability. Even if it is true, you couldn’t have controlled it.”
“But I can make certain it doesn’t impact Jeff anymore by staying away from him until after tomorrow.”
“Forget about that!” I blurted. “No way!” Unlike how I felt in the plaza, I couldn’t stand the thought of not having both Lobo and Carla around to help me figure out what to do.
“Not necessary and even detrimental at this point,” Lobo said to her. “If that linkage exists, it has already been solidified. Your absence would not change it in the least. Besides, your young man here can greatly benefit from your presence and your insights.”
“There you go!” I told her. “You gotta stick around. Please?” I gave her one of my sad-eyed puppy looks.
“Oh stop it with the eyes and the long face,” she replied. “If you’re sure, Lobo.”
“I’m sure.”
“OK, all right, but I do have an idea if you want to hear it.”
“Go for it,” I told her.
“I was thinking that sometimes people write or attach information on the backs of old pictures and portraits. Maybe your grandfather or somebody along the way in your family recorded some information that could tell us a little more.”
“Smart lady!” I rushed to take the picture down. In no time, I had the portrait sitting on the floor. Kneeling in front of it, I looked on the back as Carla suggested. There, covered with dust I found a large, ratty old envelope taped to the canvas.
“Carla, you are so right!” I yelled. The envelope came loose easily when I pulled on it—old tape holding the thing in place just fell apart. While still balancing the portrait upright with one hand, I held up the dusty envelope triumphantly in the other. That’s when it happened. Everything in the room started … flickering … as if someone was quickly turning the lights off and on.
No, that’s not completely right. All sound also stopped for a split second at the same time everything would go dark. Carla said something, but her words got chopped up so much they didn’t make any sense
Into those spaces between seeing and hearing what went on in my living room, came other vague, unfamiliar images and sounds. This flip-flopping back and forth between the known and unknown sped up until nothing remained but those unfamiliar sights and sounds. They also flickered on and off but at a slower rate than before. It was like watching and listening to a whole bunch of extremely short film clips strung together. Think of turning your TV from channel to channel every second or two and you’ll get an even better idea of what I experienced.
I’m telling you, what I saw was a wild mixture of places I had never been, things I had never seen before, and people I didn’t know. Images maybe? No, even that word doesn’t explain it properly. No, what I saw seemed more like … memories … random memories… someone’s memories … thin slices of a life I had never known.
Weird? No kidding. I mean, within each of those life slices, there were also emotions, touch, smells and sounds coming at me so rapid-fire, I couldn’t make sense out of them. Through it all though, one thing became crystal clear. Those flashing, living images were not from the twenty-first century. No way. In that world, horses transported people and many streets went unpaved. The clothes people wore, the hairstyles, absolutely everything screamed, distant past.
On and on it went until the whole mess blended into a massive painful blur.
###
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 15, 2013
Ghost Hunt – Old Gilchrist County Jail
Paranormal Trenton, Florida
A guest post by Mary Jo Fister and Greg Bush from Offthetrails Paranormal investigations.
Off the Trails Paranormal Investigations Team – Greg, Will, Angel, Rob, and myself – found the old jail extremely active the night we investigated! Janelle showed us around and was there with her team, Old Gilchrist County Jail Ghost Hunters, inlcuding owner, Arlene Hale.
The jail and house are located in Trenton, Florida. It’s between Chiefland and Gainesville.
After we had the tour and were shown the hotspots, we started our set up. We took our baseline K2 readings, Mel Meter readings, shot some photos, and set up our headquarters in the living space of the house. Windows are broken, there is no electricity or water, plumbing pipes have been pulled out, there are lots of spiders, and ceilings are fallen in. It is creepy!
Mary Jo Fister
The jail was built in 1928, and the house in 1966. The house was only used for two years before the jail was abandoned for the new jail. Up until that time, the inmates were alone during the night.
A deputy and his family occupied the three room house to provide security. During the time the jail was used, two sheriffs and one deputy that we are aware of were killed in the line of duty! A young drug dealer was also killed and his body was hidden in the abandoned jailer’s home until the killers could dispose of his body.
From the beginning, we had verbal activity, the motion detector went off, and there were orbs that seemed intelligently mobile.
While Angel supervised the DVR system, Greg, Will, and Rob took photos and EVPS. I started with videos, but when Greg had success with the ovilus (ghost box recorder), I began to work with him in the living room.
We asked who we were communicated with, and were given the name “Slaughter” one of the sheriffs who was killed. He died in 1934, shot by 3 unidentified men during a robbery. While much of what we heard that night is subject to interpretation, much of it was clearly heard by all of the team.
This was the first time we used this instrument, and we will, I hope, improve our listening with practice. Slaughter mentioned “Sunday, church, Jesus.” He also said, “Lent” which leads us to think he was religious. He told us that he was shot, and said the words “pain”, “assaulted,” “table”, and “died”.
We asked him about the afterlife and his answer was “Boring.” I took the ovilus then and went to various other rooms – the cells, kitchen, halls, and bedrooms. The spirits who talked to me were intelligent. I asked “What do you want to talk about?” and the answer was “You.” So I said I was a teacher in middle school an taught history and geography. The response was “Teacher.”
A car drove by with loud music playing. I asked, “How do you like that music?” The answer was, “Alright.”
We think it was Slaughter who told us there were 15 men in a cell! In one of the cells, a spirit told me to “Run! They hate!” Twice! He said his name was Thomas Padgett. I asked who hated and why should I run, but got no response.
Greg Bush
Another told me her name was Sally. There were women there, too. Robert, another prisoner, spoke with me. He was in an upper cell, along with prisoner Frank. But he wouldn’t speak with Rob.
When Will came in and sat with me, the conversation stopped, but when he left, the spirit resumed talking. I told him that wasn’t very polite, and the answer was “Sorry!”
The word “send” came up several times, along with “letter”, “wife” and “sundries.” Someone told me that “Irvin” was a traitor. “He left me,” said the voice. Someone also told me to use a Thighmaster, and said it was hard. We all laughed at that! Sense of humor!
I was able to converse briefly with “Black” the young drug dealer whose body was hidden in the empty house. His sister had visited recently and he indicated that he was glad she was there and glad that we were there, too.
Greg used the flashlight technique and was able to have a short conversation with a male prisoner of the 1920s and 30s. He was under the age of 20. He was there between 5 and 10 years. Either a first or last name begins with “A.” He lived in Trenton.
Our batteries were constantly being drained! I changed my video camera batteries four times! Finally, we just ran out of batteries and had to call it a night! As we left, I told the spirits I had been speaking with that we had a wonderful time and thanked them for talking with me. A voice said, “You’re welcome!” The responses were always intelligent in answer to my questions.
The Old Gilchrist County Jail Ghost Hunters sat across the walk from the jail the entire time we were there and even checked on us. Afterwards, they showed us how to use the dowsing rods, a tool we are definitely interested in trying out more.
Our team would visit again if we have the opportunity. It’s rare we can all get together, and there was so much communication with the spirits!
Click here for the Old Gilchrist Jail video # 1
Click here for the Old Gilchrist Jail video # 2
Click here for the Old Gilchrist Jail video # 3
Click here for the Old Gilchrist County Jail website
Click here for Old Gilchrist County Jail Ghost Hunters
Click here to visit Offthetrails Paranormal Investigations
April 14, 2013
Chapter 22 – Sliding Beneath the Surface
The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I
Young adult, paranormal/historical
22
Little Switches
Not knowing what to do, I just watched the cars and trucks heading directly towards me on Cathedral Place. The glare from all those headlights didn’t help any because they reminded me how so many absolutely crazy things had come charging my way since I first arrived at Lobo’s house. It was like all of that happened had somehow filled me up and pushed my old world right out the window.
OK, my old world wasn’t so perfect, but at that point I would have taken it back in a second.
“Up here is where your answer lies,” the Flagler College Lobo had said, tapping me between the eyes a short time before.
“Yeah, right!” I said standing there. With my brain so overloaded, I didn’t see how any answers or direction could come from it. Anyway, according to Lobo’s duplicate at Flagler College, I only had until the next day to figure it all out while he, well, both Lobos really, then upped and disappeared on me. “If I’m in so damn much danger here,” I grumbled to myself, “why didn’t at least one of you guys stick around?”
When I said those words though, I shook my head at how completely I seemed to have accepted the fact that Lobo could be in two or even in three places at one time. Then I thought about how I had seen myself outside of the Athena and gave up trying to figure it all out. While lost in my thoughts, some teenagers in an old green Chevy Lumina turned way too fast onto Cordova Street in front of me. The car’s tires screeched and its horn blared. Some guy in the back seat on my side of the road leaned out of his window and yelled, “Get a life zombie.”
“Screw you!” I shouted back and I shot him a bird.
“Zombie,” I snorted.
Breathe deeply. At first, I thought someone had spoken those two words, but I wasn’t really sure. Little pinpricks of sensation inside my head made me wonder if one of Lobo’s doubles had come back. A quick look around showed me that hadn’t happened. Even so, I found myself taking five full breaths and concentrating on them as much as I could. When I got done, I had to chuckle. While focusing on my breathing, I realized how truly stupid I must have looked standing there staring vacantly into the headlights of oncoming traffic. At that point, the zombie tag didn’t look far off the mark.
“Now hold on a minute,” I said to myself. I had also noticed how quickly my emotions changed during that encounter with the kids in the Lumina. From being lost and full of fear at the time, I had quickly became angry, very angry. It filled my mind. No room for anything else—an instant and complete shift in attitude. It was almost as if someone had flipped a little switch inside my head. Who was this someone? I asked myself. I wanted to pin it on the kid in the Lumina. Even so, down deep, I knew if I did blame that guy, I had actually let him do it.
For the first time in my life, I recognized how choice played a huge part in my reactions. As clear as could be, I sensed a whole bunch of those little switches in my head I had never noticed before. I could let people or situations into my brain to run wild with those switches, or I could … learn to decide … how best to flip them myself.
“So that’s what Lobo’s been trying to tell me,” I whispered. Why I whispered, I have no idea. With all that traffic noise, I could have shouted and no one would have heard me. “OK zombie,” I told myself, “it’s time for you to get your act together.” Taking it a couple of steps at a time, I decided to retrieve my bike and get to Lobo’s place as quickly as possible. Carla and the original Lobo were there and I needed to be with them. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure what to do, but Lobo would no doubt have some suggestions.
At the plaza, I found both Lyle and my bike gone. “Crap!” I startled two middle-aged women sitting on the bench where Lyle had been. Too bad. “Crap! Crap! Crap!” I didn’t want to believe Lyle had taken my bike, but it didn’t matter who the thief was, right then. I could sort that out later—if a later existed for me beyond December 28.
Not feeling like walking all the way back to Lobo’s place, a little fire of anger welled up in my stomach at whoever swiped my bike. The bastard! Yes, I remembered the switches in my head, and I even tried focusing on my breath, but it sure wasn’t easy. My switches felt then more like rusty, hard to turn dials. “This is going to take a hell of a lot of practice,” I muttered. After inhaling deeply a bunch of times and focusing on each breath, I calmed down a little, and found I really could think a little more clearly.
The walk through the rest of downtown on my way back to Lobo’s place was kind of a blur. My mind kept firing off in so many directions that I couldn’t concentrate. Of course, still being a somewhat pissed off didn’t help either, no matter how hard I worked on turning it around. For some idiotic reason I decided to take St. George Street. Dumb! You might think with traffic not allowed on St. George there would be plenty of room. Ha! It seemed like all the tourists in the world were in my way.
During that whole time, I kept looking all around, afraid the Dade officer might put in another appearance. Never happened, luckily.
It took me about ten minutes until I neared the city gate at the end of St. George Street. The number of people in my way there thinned out, and I was able to move much faster. Once through the two old coquina columns that make up the gate, a break in traffic on both sides of South Castillo Drive allowed me to cross. On the other side of the road to my right, the Castillo itself, with its high coquina walls, stood out in the glare of floodlights. As I looked at it, my mind flashed back to the pyramid and touching its rough coquina surface. Not what I wanted to think about at all!
When I got to the sidewalk on the other side of the street, I started running. It’s what I do sometimes when my brain gets filled to overflowing—like what I did on my bike with Carla after being at the cemetery. It felt so good to concentrate on nothing but moving at full speed even though I had to slow up when a few tourists got in my way from time to time. Ahead in the near distance on my side of the street, the lights from Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum were getting closer.
You can’t miss those big old white globes. They’re about the size of bowling balls set on top of a white picket fence. They made perfect targets for me to keep my eyes on as I ran. When I got almost to the Ripley’s entrance, I stopped dead in my tracks. Behind the white fence stood Carla and Lobo.
I guess by then I should have known to expect anything from Lobo, but seeing both him and Carla there still startled me. After all, I had experienced that day, I didn’t think I could be surprised by anything else, but I was definitely wrong. Sucking in a few deep breaths, I walked over to the fence. When I got there, Carla wore an expression of worry mixed with irritation.
“Hi,” she said. “Lobo told me you had an even rougher time after I left. Sorry about your bike.”
I realized then that Lobo must have told her about everything that had gone on with me since Lyle transformed into a soldier including the doppelgangers. In the calm way she said what she did, I felt sure things like three Lobos weren’t unusual experiences for her. How she knew about me losing my bike though, I couldn’t figure out. OK, of course Lobo told her, but how did he know? Neither of the Lobo doubles was around when I found my bike gone.
“Uh … hi,” I replied, breathing hard from my run. “Yeah … it’s been … well … interesting since you left, that’s for sure. What are you all doing here?” I noticed this time Lobo wore a jacket, a grey one that looked pretty heavy. This time? Ha! For whatever reason, it had been his doubles who hadn’t worn jackets. Didn’t they feel the cold? I wondered. When I first met Lobo in his chilly workshop and at his house, he didn’t have a jacket. Did that mean I had been talking to one or more of his doubles from the beginning?
“You’re going to blow a mental fuse if you keep trying to figure out every little thing.” Lobo’s unblinking eyes flashed as usual when he spoke. “We thought you might need a ride.”
For some reason, his reference to my unspoken thoughts didn’t rattle me. It just didn’t seem to matter. “Sure,” I replied to his offer, giving up on trying to understand him and his doppelgangers. “Why not? Thanks.” It wasn’t a long way back to his place, but I figured riding, especially with Carla, wasn’t such a bad deal, you know?
“Come on,” he replied, waving me to the other side of the fence where he had parked his rusty old truck. “Let’s head back to my place like we planned and cook up some dinner.” When we got to the truck, I saw he had cleaned all of the crap out of the cab making room enough for the three of us. It was still a tight fit with big old Lobo taking up a huge amount of space. OK, I took up a good-sized piece of that seat as well. Poor Carla got scrunched in the middle. When Lobo started the engine, it ran very smoothly, pretty quiet, really. I had expected it to rumble as much as he did.
“Uh, could we make a stop at my place?” I asked right as Lobo started backing his truck out of the parking space. “I could really use a quick shower and a change of clothes.” I felt bad enough sitting next to Carla so sweaty and all, but I sure didn’t want to go through dinner that way as well. Lobo grunted in reply and off we went.
When we got to The Dump, as I call where I live, Lobo parked in front of the house and shut off the engine. The place was dark since mom wasn’t coming back until the next night. I was about to get out of the truck when I thought about Carla and Lobo having to sit there and wait for me. That didn’t seem too cool, but I had never invited anybody inside my house before.
I call it The Dump for a reason. The place is really small, old and everything we have is sort of ratty. I live in the same neighborhood as Carla and Lobo, but where I live, well, isn’t anywhere near as nice as Carla’s place on Water Street. That’s where the more expensive houses are located.
“You want to come in?” I asked them both, knowing I would regret it, but figuring I had no other choice. I suddenly remembered I hadn’t done the dishes, or picked stuff up in the living room and kitchen. Too late.
“Sure,” Carla said, and my heart sank. I really didn’t want her to see how I lived, but I couldn’t take the invitation back.
“Cool,” I lied, and popped open the passenger side door. If this has to happen, I thought as Lobo also opened his door, let’s get it over with. Lobo, if you’re reading my mind, have fun. He didn’t say anything back.
My front yard is tiny, only about six feet deep, so in no time we were on the little porch as I fumbled in the dark for my keys. Once I unlocked the door, it stuck as it does sometimes. With a good shove from my shoulder, the stupid thing opened all the way.
When I flipped the wall switch to the left of the door, the living room came to life in all its cruddy glory. A pile of laundry I hadn’t yet sorted lay in a heap on the couch, and a TV tray with my half-eaten breakfast stared me in the face. A slight odor of cooked bacon still hung in the air from that morning along with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. An ashtray overloaded with my mom’s partially used cancer sticks sat on the coffee table along with a couple of her empty beer cans.
All that mess and smell didn’t usually bother me much, but walking in there with Carla and Lobo made my house seem really nasty. I’m telling you, I wanted to bail out of there so bad. Of course, I couldn’t. I just had to suck it up, and try not to appear too embarrassed. On our left, The Ancestor, as I call him, stared at me as always. The eyes from my long lost relative in the old dark oil painting on that far wall seem to follow me everywhere.
I threw my keys into the brass bowl on the little table near the front door, quickly got rid of the laundry, and took my dishes into the kitchen. With room to sit down made available, I told Carla and Lobo to make themselves comfortable—while trying to hide my embarrassment. As Lobo sank into the old recliner and Carla sat on the overstuffed couch, I said, “I won’t be a minute,” and ran for the bathroom.
Once I got into the shower, I stood there for a little while, with my eyes closed letting the water splash me in the face and flow down my body. As memories from that day I wanted to forget edged their way back into my mind, I focused on my breath and tried imagining the rushing water washing them away. It helped, a little. Still, I hated thinking about Carla and Lobo sitting in the living room without me there, so I quickly finished showering, toweled off and put on some fresh clothes. I could hear conversation when I arrived back in the living room, but it stopped as I entered the room.
“I’m doing better now,” I announced, “thanks for waiting.” As usual, the Ancestor’s eyes seemed to look at me as I spoke. That time though, something seemed oddly familiar about him. As Carla started saying something to me, I really didn’t hear her because I was staring so intently at the old portrait, something I never do. That’s when I recognized the person in the old painting. “Lobo!” I shouted, pointing at The Ancestor. “He’s the, the …” I was so startled, I couldn’t get the words out.
“It’s about time you noticed,” Lobo said, shaking his head.
###
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 12, 2013
St. Augustine Ghost Stories: Guest Post # 1
Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida
PLAYMATES (Part One of two – see next post for conclusion)
By ghost hunter and Florida author, Dave Lapham
Betsy Slavin knew the house was haunted when she bought it. The previous owners were candid about it. They’d told her about the little girl, Rose Marie Slater, who had died in the back bedroom upstairs in 1837, during a typhoid epidemic. They’d told her she was still there, not menacing, but present. Betsy didn’t care. She didn’t believe in ghosts anyway. She wanted to live in St. Augustine.
As a single mom Betsy had struggled for several years, until a long-lost uncle left her with millions. Tired of living out in the sticks in Hastings, she turned her eye toward St. Augustine and quickly found this fine, old coquina house on Marine Street. The asking price was $950,000, a little steep perhaps, but Betsy had the money. Why not? She could afford it. The house had been built in 1794 by Don Hector Vitorio Montalvo de Sevilla, during Spain’s last possession of Florida. It was one of the oldest structures in the city. The history of St. Augustine fascinated Betsy, and she snapped up the house as soon as she saw it.
Seven-year old Alice Sue loved the house, too. She ran through all the rooms, laughing, inquisitive, and instantly was drawn to the back bedroom. “This is my room, Mommy,” she shouted to her mother out in the hall. Betsy, knowing the room had once supposedly belonged to Rose Marie Slater, smiled and said, “Of course, sweetie. You can have the room.”
The property was narrow but ran from Marine Street all the way over to Avenida Menendez with a wall surrounding it. The previous owners had done a wonderful job of landscaping the back garden with little nooks and crannies, vine-covered pergolas, and hideaways. Betsy thought her daughter would be enthralled by it all, but from the very first Alice Sue preferred her own room overlooking the beautiful garden.
Alice Sue loved her room, because she had found a playmate there, another little girl about her age who arrived and left through the closet. Alice Sue thought that a bit odd, but the little girl was otherwise a wonderful friend. Her name was Rose Marie. She said her father was an American and her mother Spanish. Her black hair and dark complexion contrasted nicely with Alice Sue’s light skin and blond hair. And she didn’t come just to play. Sometimes she came at night and slept with Alice Sue, because she missed her parents.
Betsy often passed by her daughter’s door to hear giggling and laughing. She might have been concerned at least enough to look in on Alice Sue, but the child had always had imaginary playmates. Betsy thought this was the case again, just an imaginary playmate. She did think about Rose Marie Slater but quickly dismissed the thought. Besides, if Rose Marie was the “imaginary” playmate, what harm was there.
###
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.
