Doug Dillon's Blog, page 158

Ghost Hunting in a Bookstore

Mary Jo Fister

A paranormal investigation in Central Florida.

Recently, it was my pleasure to be a co-presenter with Mary Jo Fister and Greg Bush from Offthetrails Paranormal Investigations (OPI) at the Orlando Public Library. That evening I then joined them for a ghost hunt at Paula Thompsons’  Here Be Dragons Bookshoppe in Winter Garden. What a great adventure with lots of activity.

Greg Bush

Below you will find the OPI posting about that event. And below that you see some of my comments about my own experiences:

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“When our friend Doug Dillon suggested Here Be Dragons as an investigation site, he told us the owner had been experiencing activity. Nobody was being hurt, but she would find books stacked on the floor when she opened in the morning, and they weren’t there when she closed in the evening! Books would sometimes fly off the shelves! We love books and reading, so the idea of spending time in the store really appealed to us!

“Paula, the owner, told us the activity had quieted some in recent months. Her daughter had refused to stay in the shop alone. The store had been a thrift shop and children’s clothing store before Paula took over the space. Originally, it was Western Union, and the sliding metal door and barred window in the back of the store are the reminders.

“Angel and I did our baseline sweeps. We found nothing unusual. There were spikes near the fuse box, but we expected that! Doug’s books are carried there, and we checked those for residual energy, but found nothing. We set up our static night vision cameras with the monitors. We left the Mel Meters set up to catch any activity: one in the front and one in the back.

“While Greg and Doug snapped photos, Angel and Rob monitored the monitors, and I set up EVP sessions. I employed the camera, ovilus, spirit box, and flashlight! That flashlight is one of our favorite tools! Its magic was with us tonight! I started in the back of the store. The flashlight did nothing. The words “fact, word, and verbs” came through the ovilus. They seemed relevant to the space.

“Next, I started a spirit box session. It was very fruitful! A girl’s voice said ‘Pamela’. In answer to my question about throwing the books, we heard ‘No’ and ‘No one’ in a male voice. ‘I did ‘em’ was the answer to my query about standing the books on the floor. Another voice said “hip hop” for no apparent reason. When I asked, ‘What color is my shirt?’ responses were white, grey, and purple. In reality, my shirt was black. Remember that ghosts may not see in our spectrum! When I was ending the session, I asked if there was anything else anyone wanted to say. ‘Don’t give up!’ and ‘F – – – you!’ were my answers.

“I moved to the tiny alcove. The ovilus relayed the words “Lynn, focus, cloister, and Japanese” which seemed relevant, especially cloister. Japanese, however, had us baffled.

The book stack on the floor that fell lover

“My final spot was near the front of the store. This is where we had our best results! The ovilus relayed a laugh for some reason. Then the spirit box said ‘Can you say f – – – it?’ The ovilus then gave us the word “laugh.” Clearly, there was a joker with us. Suddenly, a pile of books behind me fell over. I had not bumped them! Paul laughed and said the place where I was sitting is the spot she had the paranormal books until just the other day! The flashlight was one, and I asked, ‘If someone is here and wants to turn this off, go ahead.’ The flashlight went off, and the conversation began!

“The ghost told us he is a Cuban boy, between the ages of 10 and 15. His name is Eric. He lived before 1950, and came to the US with friends. He told us he is in the shop alone. However, he may have been mistaken, or misleading us. Other voices came to us on the spirit box! However, he did admit to us, after a little prodding that it was he who stacked and threw the books. He came to Here Be Dragons in a case of books as an attachment haunting! He said he wanted people to know he was there. He confessed that he was lonely, and never left the shop.

“Paula agreed to say ‘hello’ and ‘good bye’ each day. She also told Eric she would tell some of her customers about him, and ask them to talk to him, too. Eric spoke to us for a very long time, much longer than most other ghosts! He told us he liked classical music, and Paula said she’d play that more often. The group of us spoke about books, and when Lemony Snicket came up, the ovilus said ‘twist.’ During the flashlight session, the ovilus said very little.

“When I asked, in a spirit box session, if he could see Doug, a voice through the spirit box replied, ‘I see ‘im.’ In answer to the question about my hair color, (blonde) voices said ‘purple and aqua!’ When I asked, ‘How many of us are here?’  The response was, ’4 women and 3 men.’ Who weren’t they counting?

“We did several flashlight sessions with Eric. During one of those, there is unexplained music and a little girl said, ‘Mommy!’ Might it be his little sister?

“We still have questions about the store. Who might be the other voices? We wish Eric all the best, and hope he and Paula and the store’s customers continue to peacefully co-exist. We are glad Doug was able to be there! We will stop by the next time we are in the area!

———————————————————————-

At one point in the investigation, I walked over to where the monitors were located for keeping track of any activity captured on the two TV cameras that had been set up. As I watched the monitor on the left, a pinpoint of light spiraled from deep in the store right up to the camera that was just behind me. It then spiraled backward the way it came. That all happened within a couple of seconds or even less.

While Mary Jo talked to the spirit named Eric, I sat on the floor about six feet behind her. All of a sudden, another pinpoint of light popped on and then off in my peripheral vision–to my right. It appeared in a bookcase, below the shelf where OPI has stationed one of their pieces of energy sensing equipment.

Click here to see the Here Be Dragons website.

To see the Offthetrails Paranormal Investigations website, click here.

To see the original posting of the Offthetrails posting and their photos, click here.

Chapter 16 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

16
Spitting Coffee

Once on the other side of Cathedral Place, I pushed through tourists strolling along the sidewalk until I reached the bank building opposite the plaza. I whirled around to see if the bloody soldier still sat on the bench. No soldier. Instead, it was Lyle who stared back at me as if I had totally lost my mind.

Leaning against the wall behind me, I breathed a big sigh of relief. People going by on the sidewalk, though, looked at me with questioning glances. I ignored them. What they thought didn’t matter.

Still gulping air from my dash across the street, I closed my eyes to erase from my mind that bloody scene in the plaza. Didn’t work. The recollection of what I had witnessed combined with the memories of being lost in fog and in a wilderness filled with vultures. Behind my closed eyes, I fought a losing battle with memories and fear.

Right in the middle of all that mental pain though, I got whiff of something good. I smelled food. French fries to be exact. I had forgotten about my hunger and the fact that a lot of restaurants surround the plaza. Despite all that had happened to me, my mouth started watering and my negative thoughts gave way a bit to the possibility of eating. My mom says I like food so much I could probably wolf down a full meal on a sinking ship. Guess she was right.

Dinner with Carla and Lobo was definitely not going to happen, but now I had options.

One more look to make sure Lyle was still Lyle, which he was, and I walked the short distance on the sidewalk towards the Bridge of Lions to the Athena restaurant. It’s a nice little Greek place. My granddad and I ate there a couple of times before he died. I’m not really that much into Greek food, but they have all kinds of other things to eat. When I walked in the front door, nice warm air and even more good smells came my way. Packed with people, the low rumble of conversation buzzed in my ears.

A server, not much older than me, came up and asked if I was by myself. When I told her I was alone, she grabbed a menu and seated me in what looked like the last booth in the place—right in front. On each of the side walls, the murals I liked when I was little still showed those historic street scenes of St. Augustine. Taking the seat facing the windows made me feel more secure. I figured in that way I could see if whoever Lyle had turned into was coming back after me. What I would do then, I didn’t know, but I did feel a lot safer.

After looking at the menu and checking my wallet, I revised my hopes. “Crap,” I muttered and ordered a cup of soup, bread and coffee. Something hot to drink sounded really good after being out in that chilly air so long.

When the steaming coffee came, I put in three sugars, but no cream, like I always do. Oh, man, that tasted so good. Felt good on my throat too. Too much puking will definitely rub your throat raw. My enjoyment of the coffee didn’t last long though, when I remembered I had left my bike out in the plaza. Worried that someone might steal it, I almost ran out to get it. Almost. The thought of Lyle changing back into that gory soldier stopped me cold. Retrieving the bike would have to wait.

In front of me, a short distance on the other side of the Athena’s front window, all kinds of people walked back and forth on the sidewalk—male and female of every age, size, shape, race, face type, and color of hair. We get ‘em all in St, Augustine, we really do.

Created out of small rectangular panes of glass with white painted wood between them, the Athena’s windows made me think of multiple TV screens. I imagined them providing me with an infinite televised version of what lay outside of the restaurant. OK, silly, but what can I say? It kept my mind busy, right?

By the time my soup and bread arrived, I did feel a little more relaxed. Lyle hadn’t transformed again into that bloody soldier and charged through the door. Feeling more comfortable than I had in quite a while, I dug into my lemon chicken soup. It was wonderful.

About halfway through my little meal, I decided I better figure out what I was going to do. I mean, I couldn’t stay in the restaurant all night, right? Going home to an empty house still wasn’t an option. As much as I wanted to see Carla, I knew that wouldn’t work. She and Lobo were a package deal. As lonely as I felt, I didn’t want to talk to Lobo again. Not that night, anyway.

I even started toying with the idea that maybe Lobo somehow staged everything I experienced that day. I even went so far as thinking maybe he slipped a hallucinogenic drug into my Coke or hypnotized me with those eyes of his. Pretty wild thinking, I suppose, but it shows you how whacked out I had really become.

No matter what, I still worried that maybe the December 28 date really did have some meaning for me. That’s when I started hatching a plan to get out of St. Augustine, away from everything and everybody, at least until after the next day. I had enough food money and cash left over from what mom gave me on my birthday at home so that I could get a bus ticket to Orlando. One of my friends there, I hoped, would give me a place to sleep for a day or two.

Happy I had a plan, I took another sip of coffee. As I did, I happened to look out the window again. What I saw, caused me to choke and spit coffee all over my soup, part of the table and the opposite booth seat. Some of it even squirted out through my nose. God, that hurt.

Still, staring at me with his blue eyes through Athena’s window was … well … me. That’s what I said … me. Outside on the sidewalk sitting on a little bench in front of the window, sat a kid who … well, looked exactly like yours truly—shaggy blond hair, crooked grin and all. I am not lying. Where he came from or when he sat down without me noticing, I had no idea.

Maybe you think because I saw myself riding my bike on the way to the cemetery I shouldn’t have been so startled, but I was. I mean, that experience with the bike happened so fast I really didn’t have time to react. At the Athena though, the whole scene played out slow enough for me to absorb it more completely. I’m telling you, that duplicate of me even had on the same type of orange and blue Florida Gator jacket I had taken off when I sat down in the restaurant. Mine was still sitting in a heap next to me.

Talk about being freaked out! Another me? As Lobo’s words about how human beings produce other versions of themselves shot through my mind, I stared at my double in disbelief, choking and dripping coffee from my nose.

Before I had time to stop gagging and do anything, this kid, this other me, got up and stood there for a few seconds as people walk around him. Next thing I know, he winked at me, of all things, slowly turned and joined the sidewalk crowd heading in the direction of Flagler College.

###

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.

Chapter 15 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

15
Lyle

I sat there on that cold concrete bench feeling sorry for myself trying not to think for quite a while. Tons of people walked by, most of them looking happy, some with Santa Claus hats on even though Christmas had come and gone.

Laughter and conversation floated all around me in the early evening air. Across the plaza on King Street, a tram full of tourists came to a stop in front of Potter’s Wax Museum. In a loud, electronic voice, the driver explained how in its long history, St. Augustine had been burned to the ground more than once by pirates and other invaders.

No matter how hard I tried not to think about my argument with Carla, as well as what drove me to the plaza in the first place, it all came gushing back into my mind. Regret at treating Carla so horribly mixed itself with the fear and panic that still bubbled deep inside me. Just as thoughts of bodies, vultures and fog threatened to take control of my brain again, church bells started ringing—first, the ones from the Catholic Cathedral nearby and then from the Episcopal Church across the plaza. Dueling church bells I call them, keeping time for the city. 6:00 p.m.

Seeing how focusing my attention on the bells helped divert my thoughts for at least a short time, I decided to watch the kids in the plaza. Yeah, the little guys with their families. They made me smile with their big eyes staring up at the huge lighted Christmas tree. Some wanted to open the fake presents there while others wanted to sit on the nearby cannons and have their picture taken.

Cannons. They’re everywhere in St. Augustine. As I thought about it though, Christmas and cannons didn’t go together—at all. I mean Christmas is supposed to be about peace and brotherly love, right? I wondered if any of those cannons had killed anybody. No doubt about it, finding those bodies out on that lonely, stinking road had really gotten to me.

As I alternated between watching the kids and staring at the cannons, a homeless guy I know named Lyle walked up to the bench opposite me where the old couple had been sitting. How come I know a homeless person? Why not? Yeah, sure homeless folks have all kinds of problems, but they’re people too. Lyle and I just happened to share a bench together in the plaza soon after I moved to St. Augustine. We started talking and I later met some of his friends.

When he took off his backpack, Lyle flipped it, along with a big old plastic yard bag full of what he calls, “stuff,” onto the bench. “Yo, Jeff. How’s it going, brother?” He was wearing a heavy orange colored jacket I had never seen on him before.

“I’m cool,” I lied. I really didn’t feel like talking to anybody, but I decided to force myself. “We match tonight.” I pointed at my at my mostly orange University of Florida jacket.

“Yeah man. Go Gators!” Lyle grinned and did the Gator Chomp, his arms outstretched in front of him, going up and down.

“You bet. Go Gators! How’s life treating you, Lyle?” I knew better than to ask, but the words were automatic. At times, Lyle can become a little too chatty.

“If it was any better, I couldn’t stand it.” He smiled, showing a big gap where his top two front teeth should have been. Dropping the smile, he scanned the plaza for police officers as he usually does. “You a cop, Jeff?”

“Naw, I’m no cop. Not quite old enough.” It’s the same answer I give every time he asks, but he likes to hear the answer just the same.

Lyle nodded, reached into his backpack and pulled out a paper sack with a can of beer inside. Keeping his drink in its sack, he popped it open. “Smart you are, not being a cop.” Once more, he scanned the area for his enemy, the police. Satisfied there were none nearby, he took a long swig and hid the can behind the bench where he sat.

Lyle’s a white guy, fifty-six years old, but he looks a lot older. He’s got this long, grey beard that he keeps squeezed together in the middle with a rubber band. I can always tell it’s Lyle from way off because he wears this bright red baseball cap. His good luck hat, he calls it. I always wondered exactly what type of good luck it had brought him, but never asked.

The first time I met Lyle, I got him talking and found out all kinds of things. Years ago, the guy used to be a business executive, but he had an accident of some kind that gave him brain damage. When he couldn’t work anymore, his wife left him. After the accident is when he became an alcoholic—bad combination, alcoholism and brain damage.

“Got a dollar I can have until tomorrow, Jeff?” Lyle asked as usual.

If I have some extra change, sometimes I’ll give it to him or one of the other homeless folks I talk to, but not that night. Of course, Lyle doesn’t pay it back, but I don’t expect him to. We’re not talking about much money here. I just don’t have it. I always hoped he used what I could give him for food and not for beer or drugs.

“Sorry, Lyle, not tonight.” For some reason, I thought I had better hold onto what little money I had on me.

“I can handle that.” Instead of pestering me, he reached around the bench for another swig of beer. After taking a long gulp, he held the can in his lap still camouflaged by the sack. The guy never sips. For him, it only takes about three long pulls to finish one of his secret beverages.

Now, how can I explain what happened next? You see, after Lyle took his gulp of beer, he, well, wasn’t Lyle anymore. I say that calmly at this minute, but believe me, I about jumped out of my skin. Instead of him sitting there, I was facing a man, probably in his mid to late twenties, dressed in a long, high-collared, dark coat with gold buttons running down the front. Around his waist I could see a white belt with a sword attached. He wore black boots and light colored pants.

A full head of dark, messed up hair merged with long sideburns that stretched almost to his lips. His face was square looking, and he had wide set eyes that seemed to glitter just like Lobo’s. They were dark, but I couldn’t tell the color.

After what I had seen back on that nasty smelling road with all the vultures, I knew without a doubt that the guy in front of me was one of the soldiers I had found there. I wanted to run away, but for some wild reason I kept looking at the guy, my head throbbing and heart pounding like crazy. I could feel the sweat start pouring out of me. My hands shook, and I felt glued to my seat. I mean, I flat could not move. The closest I had ever felt like that before was in dreams when I can’t move, or I move much too slow, just as the worst thing in the world is about to attack.

As this soldier and I stared at each other, something began happening to the guy’s coat. A red stain slowly blossomed in the middle of his chest and then erupted in a spurt of blood that shot outward and drenched his pants. More blood then gushed from the man’s mouth right as a crack appeared in the top of his head threatening to split it in half.

The plaza, my safe oasis, had turned into a house of horrors. I couldn’t take it anymore. Shaking off the paralysis, I bolted from my seat on the bench and ran across Cathedral Place ignoring honking horns and the sound of brakes locking.

###

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.

Chapter 14 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

14
Brightness and People

 

I puked and puked until nothing came up but air. It seemed like my stomach was going to come right out of my mouth. Through closed eyes, I could feel hot tears drop away. All I could think of was those bodies on the road, vultures feasting, the stink, and being alone in a place I didn’t understand.

A voice just behind me said something I couldn’t quite hear. At the same time, I felt a hand touch my back and come to rest there. Part of me wanted to whirl around and see who it was, thankful somebody, anybody, had found me. The thing is, I wasn’t even able to turn my head because of the heaving. The hand on my back moved over to my shoulder and gently squeezed.

“Are you OK?” the person said, the voice louder and sharper this time. It sounded vaguely like Carla.

“Carla?” Her name came out all raspy sounding, but the possibility it might really be her calmed my stomach a bit. After retching one more time, and bringing nothing up, I found I could turn my head. When I opened my eyes, there she was, beautiful, wonderful Carla. Couldn’t believe it. I had never been so glad to see someone in my life, but part of me feared she might fade away in a flash of brilliant white. All the while, my stomach kept twisting, but I didn’t puke any more.

“You had me so scared.” In her voice, I could hear a mixture of deep worry, almost panic. For Carla, that’s saying something. She doesn’t do panic.

I dropped my head between my shoulders a bit and took in a deep breath. That’s when I smelled it. Sure enough, there was my puke all over the grass. I had been throwing up in front of the middle pyramid back in the cemetery.

“Oh man.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood up. Talk about embarrassing.

“Sorry Carla,” was all I could manage to say. The thought of me throwing up in front of her made me feel worse. In order for me to get both of us away from all that mess I’d made on the ground, I walked into the grass around the tall war monument and squatted with my back to the pyramids. I barely made it, my legs were so wobbly.

Carla came over and sat next to me, again putting her hand on my shoulder. That felt so good, but my mind kept going back to all I had seen on the lonely wilderness road.

“We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” she said gently, but with urgency in her voice.

“No… I’ll, ah, be OK, really.” I took another deep breath, realizing for the first time, there was no horrible stink in the air, and I don’t mean the puke behind me. I’ve never been so glad to inhale clean air in my whole life.

“Come on now,” Carla argued, “one minute we’re talking and the next minute you’re throwing up. There has to be something really wrong with you, food poisoning maybe.”

“It isn’t anything like that.” My mouth tasted terrible. I knew my breath must smell awful so I tried not talking to Carla directly. As my mind began functioning better, it dawned on me I had started throwing up on the road with the bodies and finished back in the cemetery with Carla. I was beginning to think I really was losing my mind. “Tell me what happened.”

“What do mean?” she asked.

“Please,” I begged her, “just … just tell me what you saw from the moment I touched the pyramid until I started puking.”

“OK, but there really isn’t much to tell. You, ah, touched the pyramid with your fingers at first, and then you put your whole hand on it. You backed up a little bit right after that, and quivered, like you were cold. The next thing I know, you bent over and started throwing up. That’s it.”

That’s it? My mind raced through the memory of all I experienced after I touched the pyramid the second time. All of that was not my imagination, a dream, or a hallucination, I kept telling myself. Lobo’s words about spirit bodies traveling to other places also thundered inside my head, as if he was standing next to me. Talk about confusion.

“Something else is going on with you you’re not telling me isn’t it?” Carla asked.

“Well … yeah, but this is going to sound even crazier than what I told you about all that fog on Lobo’s porch.” It only took a few minutes for me to spill my story about the road, and what I found there, but it felt like an hour. As I talked to Carla, the fear I felt during my time on that stinking road once again forced its way into my mind, and my hands shook. Seeing how agitated I was getting, she took both my hands in both of hers, immediately calming me down.

“Fascinating,” she said wide-eyed when I finished. “Unbelievably fascinating.

“That’s not exactly the word I would use, but at least you’re not ready to have me committed to a mental hospital, right?”

“Hardly. I think your experience here has really pointed you in the right direction.”

“To hell with direction, I want it to stop. If I get any more direction like that I may really go freakin’ crazy.”

Surprisingly, Carla didn’t even blink when I forgot and used the word hell. “I hear you, really I do,” she replied, “but Lobo sent us here to see if we could pick up any information that might put an end to all this for you.”

“Maybe so, but you haven’t gone where I have and neither has Lobo. Look at me,” I said holding up my hands that had started shaking again. “My head is killing me, and it’s really hard for me to sit here and talk about all this in a calm, logical way.”

“OK, OK, take it easy. You don’t have to do any more talking, but let me quick tell you something, and then we’ll go. Whether you know it or not, you just described to me the battlefield where Major Dade and his soldiers lost their lives in 1835. You nailed it right down to the road they used, their uniforms, the burned out wagon, the cows that were actually oxen, and even all those vultures. Jeff, it was as if you truly were there somehow.”

“Really?” As interesting as what she had to say was, it scared me even more.

“Really. You were right on the money. Like I said before, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s one of those soldiers from the battle who’s trying to grab your attention. I’m sure Lobo can now help you to find—”

I don’t know what happened while Carla talked. For whatever reason, I felt completely overwhelmed. Maybe I suffered a panic attack or something, I’m not sure. What I do know is that after she mentioned the possibility of one of Dade’s soldier’s being the source of all my trouble, I had this uncontrollable urge to get away from those pyramids as fast as I could. Carla or no Carla, I had to get out of there, and I did. When I say overwhelming, I am not kidding.

Without a word, I jumped up, hopped on my bike, and roared off down the sidewalk. Behind me, I could hear Carla calling my name, but I was blinded by so much pain, confusion, doubt, and fear that I flat didn’t care. After coasting through the small opening Carla left in the cemetery gate, I hit the street pumping the old pedals for all I was worth. My butt didn’t get anywhere near the bike seat until I pushed well past the National Guard building. Only when the lights from the marina, the Santa Maria restaurant, and the Bridge of Lions reflected in the Matanzas River did I slow down a little. Those lights gave me a target, a place to head for, as far away from that cemetery as possible. It felt so good to move, to use all my strength and energy and feel the cold, clean wind on my face.

In front of me, a horse drawn carriage with a couple of tourists in it plodded along, its red taillights and little side lanterns glowing. The driver looked up from talking to his passengers just in time to see me approaching at a high speed. I ignored him, whipped into the left lane and found myself facing the headlights from an oncoming car. I was going too fast to slow down in time, but luckily, the driver swerved to his right and partially into a vacant parking spot with breaks squealing. Barely threading my bike between the car’s rear bumper on my left and the horse on my right, I heard a horn blare behind me.

Not for a second did I consider slowing down, but that didn’t last long. When I swung back into the right-hand lane, a line of cars came to a gradual stop on my side of the road up at the King Street traffic light near the Bridge of Lions. Red taillights burned with fiery warnings of danger meant for me and nobody else—warnings about the past somehow coming alive and threatening to swallow me whole. Paranoid thinking? Sure, but can you really blame me?

OK, I did slow down quite a bit when I approached all that traffic in my way, because I had no other choice. Instead of being completely reckless, I glided by the driver’s side of the cars in front of me as oncoming traffic, with their headlights glaring, rushed past on my left. It took until then for me to recognize I had no idea where I was going. Panic had shoved me this far, but I no longer felt that mindless need to move and distance myself from the cemetery. Safely behind me, the pyramids were no longer the problem.

So now what? Returning to Lobo’s place, waiting for Carla and talking to both of them about my experience over dinner was definitely not an option just then. No way I was going to talk about all those bodies any more. I thought about going home, but I sure didn’t want to sit there all alone. To tell the truth, part of me wanted to turn right across the Bridge of Lions out to Anastasia Island, head south on highway A1A along the Atlantic and get away from St. Augustine as fast as I could.

Ahead of me on my left, the plaza and all its little lights glowed brightly. All those thousands of tiny shining white bulbs everywhere, the huge Christmas tree, and all the people walking around looked kind of inviting. Yeah, even the tourists. Brightness and people, that’s what I needed—well, people I didn’t know anyway. Nobody there would know or care about any of my dumbass experiences. To me, the plaza looked like this brilliant oasis of warmth and sanity.

As I got to the first car in line ahead of me at the King Street intersection, the traffic light turned green. Immediately, I turned left and shot in front of the oncoming cars and up King Street. I went against the one-way traffic flow there, but at least those cars had a red light. For me it was the quickest way to get to my oasis where I could feel anonymous and safe.

At the plaza, I got off my bike and walked it past the old public market place across the grass. There were way too many people on the sidewalks for bike riding, and besides, the cops frown on it. The last thing I needed was a problem with St. Augustine’s finest. Exhausted and with my nerves shot to pieces, all I wanted to do was find a bench and sit down. People already occupied most of them, but finally I spied an empty one near the bandstand and the Christmas tree. Trotting next to my bike as fast as I could without bumping into people, I rushed to claim the seat before anyone else did. When I got there, I threw my bike up against the bushes behind the bench and then collapsed on it, sweating and panting like crazy. Slowly, my headache began to ease a little.

Across the sidewalk from me, two old people, a man and a woman, sat on another bench. Nice enough looking folks, but they just stared at me as if they were sure I had robbed a bank or something. So much for the plaza being as perfectly warm and cuddly as I had hoped, right? Even so, it still felt good to be sitting there, and for the first time in a long while I began to really relax. My breathing slowed, and soon I realized my thoughts weren’t as wild and threatening as they had been minutes before.

That’s when I saw her. Carla I mean. Walking her bike on the sidewalk towards me from the other side of the plaza. I have no idea how she found me. “Oh crap,” I whispered, realizing I had left her without a word in the cemetery while she attempted to help me in every way she could. In my blind need to escape, I had let her slip into the far background of my overloaded mind. Idiot!

When she got to my bench, she stood in front of me for a moment without expression or saying a word. Instead, she closed her eyes for a few seconds, took a deep, shuddering breath, and swallowed hard. I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. Only at that point did I begin to understand how truly worried she was about me. God I felt awful.

What she did do was to prop her bike on its kickstand, fold her arms across her chest, and arch a slender eyebrow. She wanted an explanation and she wanted it fast. Funny how much she can communicate with those eyebrows of hers. The two old people across from us stared in our direction, probably wondering what was going to happen. I could see the man thinking, son, whatever you did, you’re gonna get it now. I figured he had it about right. As compassionate and caring as Carla is, you don’t mess with her.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “I really I am.”

In response, her other eyebrow went up. That meant, “Umm, OK, go on, convince me.”

After stumbling around to find appropriate words for a minute or two, I did get her to sit down. Slowly and painfully, I worked hard to explain what had happened to me back in the cemetery. It was so difficult because I wasn’t really sure I understood it myself. When I finished what I had to say, Carla’s eyebrows came down, always a good sign if she’s angry or upset at all. Instead of saying anything right away though, she breathed deeply again and turned her head to gaze out over the plaza. The two oldsters were still staring at us. It looked like they were listening to our conversation, and that I did not like.

“So are you doing better now?” Carla asked once she turned her attention back to me.

“Better than I was back there in the cemetery.”

“OK, that’s good, but we really have to get to Lobo’s. He needs to know what happened at the pyramids. Remember, Jeff, what he said about being out after dark and the danger you face. You’ve had two serious … events, where you, or at least part of you, has gone somewhere else. Who knows what might—”

“Tell me something I don’t know!” My reply came out a little stronger than intended. Her talk about Lobo, pyramids and danger instantly made my entire body tighten. Just thinking about going back to Lobo’s place twisted my stomach into knots, and again my hands started to shake—not a lot, but enough to tell me what I could and could not do. “There’s no way I’m going back and see Lobo right now. I’m OK sitting here for a while.”

“How can you say that? You’re putting your life in even more jeopardy. Remember what Lobo told you about the danger you’re in and getting back by dark?”

“Damn him,” I exploded. “Who is this Lobo guy anyway? It’s Lobo this and Lobo that. I’m sick to death of Lobo. What do you really know about him, huh? Well, I’ll tell you who he is. He’s a weird old guy who likes to scare kids, that’s who. I’ve had enough of him.” Even before the words were completely out of my mouth, I knew I had gone too far in so many different ways. I really didn’t want to offend Carla, but I knew I had.

Before I could try repairing the damage, a hard look spread over her face, and she stood up like a giant spring had shot her into position. With hands on her hips, she started in on me.

“Now you listen here, Jeffrey Golden. Don’t you ever go damning one of my friends, especially Lobo. That man is probably the only thing standing between you and destruction. But if you want to ignore his expert advice and try dealing with all this on your own … ” Her eyes welled with tears, but her voice rose as she shook a finger in my direction. “If you want to do this your way, be my guest. I’m finished. I’ve done all I can.” She grabbed her bike, smacked the kickstand with her foot, and walked away through the crowds of tourists.

That was not what I wanted to happen.“Oh crap,” I moaned.

Across from me, I noticed the two oldsters whispering to each other and glancing over at me. After a few seconds, the man shrugged, pulled out his wallet and handed the lady some money. They hadn’t just been listening in, I figured, they had bet on the outcome of our conversation.

“You two have fun did you?” I shouted at them, standing up. “Huh?”

Well, tell you what. Those two looked like they had been terribly insulted. I don’t think anybody had ever nailed them while they played their little game. In a snooty huff, they both got up and walked down Cathedral Place.

###

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.

Chapter 13 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

13
A Cloud of Vultures

Oh man, at first when I took my hand away from the coquina, I thought I had somehow touched a live electric wire. After that brilliant white light and the pain going up my arm, I knew there had to be high voltage connected to the pyramid somehow. Thoughts of underground power lines leaking electricity and fallen electric wires resting on the pyramid wet from the rain earlier in the day flickered through my mind.

Not likely, I said to myself, since I was standing and conscious. No matter what though, I still couldn’t see. That’s what really scared me. My eyes moved, but my field of vision showed nothing but pure, eerie white.

“Carla?” No answer. Why wouldn’t she answer? “Uh, something just happened.” My voice sounded as shaky as I felt. “Carla? I … can’t see.” Even as I spoke, I noticed the white in front of my eyes slowly starting to fade—a hopeful sign. Again, no answer.

As I listened desperately for a response, I thought I smelled pine needles and something else—not very pleasant. Pine needles? “No way! Don’t start this again,” I whispered to myself.

Pine needles were not what I needed to be sniffing at that moment. “Carla, talk to me,” I yelled. “This isn’t funny. I really need your help.” I tell you what. When she didn’t answer that time, I really freaked. I knew if she could answer, she would. Either something had happened to her, or she just wasn’t there. Both choices scared the hell out me, and I stood there not knowing what to do.

Slowly, vague images started appearing in the white I was seeing. When I lifted my hands in front of my face, I wiggled my fingers until I finally saw them—blurry, but there. “All right!” I shouted, and when I did, my vision suddenly snapped back to normal. My hands stood out perfectly in focus.

What I didn’t see though, is what made my insides do a flip-flop. Carla, the pyramids, the cemetery, and the rest of St. Augustine were … well, gone. Spread out in front of me was nothing but pine trees and palmetto bushes extending out as far as I could see. Across the cloudless sky above, a big bunch of vultures drifted around in soundless, lazy circles. Yeah, vultures. “Damn!” I whispered. “Damn, damn, damn.”

All those pine trees and palmettos cast long, deep shadows running away from me in the yellowish, orange color of either a sunrise or sunset. I swallowed hard as sweat trickled down my left side, and that stupid headache returned. “Lobo, where’s your protection?” I wailed loudly. My voice sounded strange, as if it didn’t belong to me.

Realizing I was barely breathing, I inhaled deeply and got an intense whiff of that bad smell again, in addition to the scent of pine needles—a really weird combination. Deciding to turn around, I found more pine trees, palmettos and shadows. On the horizon, half a sun glared in my direction. I still couldn’t tell if it was rising or setting. In the sky right above the sun floated a few high, wispy clouds the color of gold. I felt like I had been tossed into a vast sea of vegetation ruled by a one-eyed god.

“This can’t be happening,” I kept saying to myself. With each passing second, the reality of what my senses continued relaying to my brain told a different story.

As a light breeze rippled through the treetops, a red winged black bird stared at me from his perch on a dead branch lying on the ground about ten feet away. With a squawk, it flew off, heading off over that endless wilderness. Into the clutter of trees and bushes on either side of me, someone had long ago hacked out what appeared to be a wide path or a small road. Weathered tree stumps, rotting logs and dried-out palm fronds littered the opened up landscape in both directions as far as I could see.

Frantic to bring some sort of sanity into everything around me, I closed my eyes for a couple of minutes, hoping that when I opened them again I would somehow magically be back in the cemetery with Carla. Yeah, right. No such luck.

When I opened my eyes again, something had changed all right. The yellowish, orange light from the sun had disappeared and so had the shadows. “No,” I whispered hoarsely, but the sun had sunk out of sight. “No, no, no. Don’t do that,” I pleaded, but of course, the sun didn’t listen. The idea of me being there, wherever there was when it got dark, shook me up even more than before.

I got so desperate I even pulled out my cell phone, but the thing wouldn’t turn on even though I had charged it that morning. Did I really think it would work so far from everything? No, not really. But for it not to even turn on startled me.

The shrill hoot of an owl echoing through the pines didn’t help my jittery nerves one bit.

The sound reminded me of the dark fog on Lobo’s porch and I shivered with the memory. “Well, at least there isn’t any fog here,” I said, trying very hard to make the best of a really bad situation. Night was coming and I had to do something. Even so, nothing came to mind except Carla. What if somehow she actually came with me to this place, I wondered, but was somewhere else on the road. “Carla!” I shouted at the top of my lungs knowing that it probably wouldn’t be worth the effort. No matter what, it felt good to yell. I think it was just the idea of taking action, any kind of action.

When I shouted Carla’s name, a strange, tremendous whooshing noise like soft, distant thunder came from up the road to my right. As I stared in that direction through the treetops, I saw a huge cloud of vultures rising up into the air. There had to be hundreds of them. The whooshing noise was all those wings pounding the air.

Vultures usually mean only one thing. “Dead critters,” I said to myself, using Carla’s word. That’s when I started getting scared for her. Could she have come to that place with me but ended up somewhere else? Could she be in trouble? Did those vultures attack her?

My mind raced with all the possibilities.

“Carla!” I ran up the road towards where the vultures had risen from the ground. The closer I got, the more that strange, nasty smell filled my nostrils. It was so disgusting I finally realized it must be whatever the vultures had been eating. Reminded me of opening a package of rotting chicken once. Really gross. The air around me on that road though, had that old chicken smell beat by a thousand times. I covered my mouth and nose with both hands.

“Carla!” I yelled again, taking my hands away from my face just long enough to get the word out. No response, but even more vultures rose up into the air not very far away up the road. Frantic, I ran even faster. Problem was, I found it difficult to breathe through my hands.

As I stopped for a second to catch my breath, I spotted a shoe lying in the sand and pine needles ahead of me. A short distance away stood a large pine tree. On the ground scattered near its base, I saw little slivers of wood. Bypassing the shoe, I walked quickly up to the tree and stared at it. From the bottom of the trunk up to seven feet high or so, much of the bark had been ripped away. In the bare wood, exactly as I had felt on the tree in the dark at Lobo’s place, jagged holes oozed sap. “No way,” I whispered.

The woods by that time were darkening quickly. Vultures filled the dimming sky above me as they silently circled and circled. At first, I couldn’t help but stare at them until I forced myself to look away. When I did, I saw a man lying on his back up a little farther up the road. I hadn’t noticed him at first, I guess, because of my focus on the shoe and tree. On his chest, sat a huge vulture with flies buzzing all around. It didn’t register in my mind right away what the bird was doing until I saw the thing pecking and pulling at the guy’s face. I mean, I was so surprised to find anybody else around there except maybe for Carla, you know? And then to see that! God it was awful

“Get off !” I shouted once I got over the shock of that scene. The stupid bird turned its ugly head and looked directly at me, but with something in its beak. I won’t tell you what it looked like. Believe me, you don’t want to know. Even though I yelled at that damned bird, the thing didn’t move. Well, that made me mad and without even thinking, I ran right at him, yelling and waving my arms. When I got about half way there, the vulture made this weird squawk, and dropped what was in its beak. With wings flapping, it slowly hoisted itself into the air and flew off.

Once more I clamped both hands back over my nose and mouth. In my anger at the vulture, I had taken them away from my face. Looking at the poor guy’s mangled head, I knew he had to be the source of that really putrid smell.

When I heard noises coming from up ahead, I decided to bypass the dead guy and get away from the stink. As I walked by him, I avoided looking at his face, but noticed he wore what looked like a light blue or gray uniform. Gold buttons ran up the front of his jacket. White belts crisscrossed his chest and one went around his waist.

Uniform? Carla’s words about me possibly being haunted by one of Dade’s soldiers flashed into my mind. Oh man, what am I seeing here? Instantly, my stomach started to rebel. I had to get far away from that body, so I walked away quickly only to run into what I thought might be the back end of a large, partially burned, wooden wagon. Resting on their sides, just in front of the wagon, I saw three very large cows, rust colored, with big horns.

Beyond the wagon as far as I could see, lay more men dressed like the first. On top of the cows and men, vultures ripped flesh, buried their heads into bodies and flapped their ugly wings. In the distance, there was a barricade of some sort, made out of logs.

“Oh God.” I tried hard not think about all those dead people being the source of that horrible stink. It didn’t work. What little I had left in my stomach fired out through my mouth.

###

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.

Ghost Hunt- Huguenot Cemetery

Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida

A guest post by Mary Jo Fister and Greg Bush from Offthetrails Paranormal investigations.

The Huguenot Cemetery in St. Augustine is one of the most popular tourist sites.

Greg Bush

Many people take pictures there and find orbs, mists, or other unexplained anomalies later. The gate is locked, and tourists can only view the cemetery from outside the wall. It dates from 1821 when yellow fever killed many of the city’s inhabitants.

At the time, it was just outside of the north gate. Then non-Catholics were buried there; hence the name, Huguenot. Today, it is the center of town. The cemetery was closed to burial in 1884.

Mary Jo Fister

OPI visited and were able to capture on film a mist and bright orbs we believe are spirits. Our Mel meter showed spikes of activity that correlates with the orbs and mists.

Since the site is on a busy highway, EVPs were inconclusive. Cars and other vehicles as well as tourists create a cacophony of sound. Our ovilus, however, spoke some very relevant words, such as fever, bury, and die.

Judge Stickney is sometimes seen sitting in a tree, possibly looking for the people who stole his valuables, including his gold teeth. We do believe there is paranormal activity there.

Click here to visit Offthetrails Paranormal Investigations

Click here to see information on one of my upcoming events where Mary Jo and Greg will be co-presenters with me at the Orlando Public Library.

 

 

Chapter 12 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

12
Pyramids

 

The place wasn’t very large, as cemeteries go. Maybe a couple of hundred feet long and a hundred wide with some really large oak trees inside. In the increasing darkness, small white tombstones seemed to march off through the surrounding grass in perfect order.

“So, the pyramids are actually in there?” I asked as we got closer. Guess I still couldn’t accept the idea our destination was a cemetery. Up until then, I thought ghost stories in movies about such places were just silly inventions by screen writers.

“Look carefully.” Carla pointed at an angle across the cemetery.

“No way,” I whispered when I finally spied them. Near some of the taller monuments at the far end of the enclosure sat three grey, triangular shapes side-by-side. To me, they looked like they had thrust themselves up out of the ground somehow. God, it was startling to see those things truly existed, but they were a little disappointing. “They’re kind of tiny.”

“Not when you get near them,” Carla replied. “Besides, what were you expecting? Huge buildings the size of the Giza pyramids in Egypt?”

“I’m not sure what I expected, except the ones I saw right after my accident were a lot larger.

“What does it matter? Your vision or whatever you want to call it, led you right here. That’s what’s important.”

I couldn’t argue with her. She had it right.

“St. Augustine National Cemetery,” a sign said to our right on a closed metal gate. Instead of stopping, Carla led me a little farther until we stood in front of a large historical marker pointing out towards the sidewalk alongside the street.

“Lobo told me to have you check this out before we go inside.”

Now normally I don’t read historical markers. This time was different though. I really wanted to see what the one in front of me had to say. Turned out, it had a short, but interesting story to tell. Here is the exact wording:

 

Major Dade and his
Command Monuments

On December 28, 1835, during the Second Seminole War,

a column of 108 U.S. Army soldiers dispatched from

Fort Brooke (Tampa) to relieve the detachment at

Fort King (Ocala) was surprised by a strong force

of Seminole Indians near Bushnell in Sumter County.

Except for three soldiers and an interpreter, the entire column

of 108 men, led by Major Francis Langhorne Dade,

perished in Battle that day.

On August 15, 1842, Dade and his command,

as well as other casualties of the war,

were re-interred here under three coquina stone pyramids

in a ceremony marking the end of the conflict.

Among those buried with Dade are

Captain George W. Gardiner, U.S. Military Academy

(U.S.M.A.) 1814, first Commandant of Cadets at

West Point, and Major David Moniac, U.S.M.A., 1822,

a Creek Indian and first Native-American graduate

of the Military Academy.

 

“Wow!”I said when I finished reading. “So the pyramids are tombstones for a mass grave.”

“Yup,” Carla agreed. “And the date of the battle, as you read, was December 28—one more twenty-eight for your list.”

“I noticed.” I noticed all right, but I had tried to ignore it without much success.

“That number does tend to follow you around. Lobo sure thinks it has some significance. Wonder what it is?”

“Yeah, you and me both.”

“Uh, you do realize tomorrow is the 28th of December don’t you?” she asked.

“It is?” I had to think for a few seconds, and as I did, the oddest feeling slithered through my gut. “Oh crap… you’re right. You don’t think—?”

“That something is going to happen tomorrow?”

I swear, just then the girl sounded like Lobo—as if she had read my exact thought. No matter what, she had to be at least thinking the same thing. Instead of replying to her, I shrugged. Unfortunately, Lobo’s warning about the next day being too late fit what we were saying much too nicely.

“Maybe,” she said, answering her own question, “but don’t get too wrapped up in possibilities yet. We simply don’t know enough.”

“OK,” I replied, “but it could be, right? I mean you brought up tomorrow yourself and so did Lobo.” Again, that odd sensation shot through my gut.

“True, but don’t drive yourself crazy thinking that’s the only possibility. Besides, I have another little wrinkle in all this to tell you.”

“Wrinkle?” I asked, not sure I could stand any more wrinkles in my day than I had already experienced.

“Take it easy. It’s nothing upsetting. Remember that line on the marker about an interpreter escaping the battle?”

“Yeah. What about it?” My words came out with a little more intensity than I had intended. “Sorry, guess I’m a little stressed.”

“Don’t worry about it. Understandable. I’ll quick finish my story and we’ll go see the pyramids.

“That interpreter, the one mentioned on the marker? His name was Luis Pacheco, a slave rented out to Major Dade for $25 a month by a Spanish lady who owned him. Luis was very intelligent and spoke three languages other than English—Spanish, French, and Seminole. Dade used the man as an interpreter and even a scout against the Seminoles. Luis didn’t necessarily want to do those things for Dade, but he had no choice.”

“OK, but why do I need to know this right now?” I really didn’t see the point of listening to another one of her history lectures when we needed to get back to Lobo’s before dark.

“I’m telling you this because I’m related to him, Luis Pacheco, not Major Dade.” She said those words about her long gone relative so casually. OK, the girl is brainy and loves history. That’s one thing. But for her to have someone from her family who had lived through an important historical event was really startling—especially one involved with the same pyramids we were visiting.

“You, uh, never told me that before.”

“Um, with your lack of interest in history, I thought what happened to a member of my family in the past would be boring for you.”

“No, I am interested, really. Go ahead and finish what you were going to tell me about this Pacheco guy.”

“OK, short and simple. Luis was captured by the Seminoles during the battle you read about, one of the few people to actually survive it. They didn’t kill him because he spoke their language, and they understood that as a slave, he had to carry out whatever orders the white soldiers gave him.”

By the time Carla finished talking, it fully registered on my brain that somebody had owned this Luis Pacheco guy. And rented him out like you would a piece of equipment! To the United States army! An actual relative of Carla’s? Good God! Of course, I had read about slavery and heard about it in history classes, but that was the first time it had any real meaning for me. “I can’t get over your ancestor being owned and rented out.” That’s all I could think of to say. I knew there had to be a way of saying that, but that’s all I came up with.

“Tell me about it.” The look on her face showed an intense mixture of sadness, disgust, and even anger.

Listening to Carla brought to mind a talk I once had with her grandmother. We were munching cookies in Carla’s kitchen while I waited for her to come home from school. When the conversation shifted to race relations in St. Augustine’s past, Grandma pointed out the window across Matanzas Bay. “Right out there on Vilano Beach one night back in 1964,” she said, “the Ku Klux Klan burned a huge cross as a warning to the African American community. I remember that night so clearly. You could see those flames over much of St. Augustine and nearby areas. Scared black folks around here silly. It scared a lot of whites as well, if you want to know the truth. That was back in the days of Jim Crow and the civil rights movement—dangerous times when you never knew who the Klan might come after.”

When Grandma said what she did, I looked where she had pointed and imagined I could see a giant fiery cross lighting up the city and Matanzas Bay across from the Castillo with its hatred.

“Earth to Jeff,” Carla said, snapping me away from my memory about her grandmother.

Picking up the conversation again, I said, “That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I mean how I saw pyramids during my accident, and the fact that your ancestor is related to their history.”

“No kidding, but don’t ever say that to Lobo. He constantly lectures me about there being no such thing as a coincidence.” Not giving me a chance to ask her what Lobo meant by that, Carla put her bike down in front of the closed cemetery gate. In no time, she had reached down through the bars, unlatched one side of the gate somehow, and shoved it partway open. Once we both pushed our bikes inside, she said, “We’ll leave it this way since we won’t be here long.”

“You do have a talent for getting things done,” I replied, admiring her knowledge of St. Augustine and her ability to make things happen.

“Watch and learn, Golden Boy.” She said this not with a smile, but a tight little grimace instead. Carla sometimes tends to try and cover up worry with efficiency, and a not very convincing expression of cool detachment. This was one of those times.

“Yes ma’am. You’re the boss. Well, on this trip anyway.”

In reply, she just snorted.

Without talking for a little while, we walked our bikes up the wide driveway and turned left down a central sidewalk leading to the pyramids. A row of low bushes to the left and right of the walkway separated us from the rows of tombstones. On the ground between two of those bushes, a huge floodlight pointed up at large American flag barely fluttering on its pole behind us, high up in the gloom of decreasing daylight. The light breeze making the flag move brought the strong scent of freshly cut grass to us. Houses surrounded the cemetery on three sides, and I wondered what it must be like to come out of your door everyday and see gravestones.

Ahead of us about 100 feet, the sidewalk ended at a very tall monument, and behind it stood the pyramids—my pyramids, the ones I saw come out of a storm as I floated above St. Augustine. All three faced us, close together and mainly showing one flat side.

For whatever reason, seeing those things right in front of me caused my thoughts to flash back to that dark, cold fog at Lobo’s place once more. For an instant, I again held onto a ripped up tree like it was a life raft or something. I mean I could feel the moisture of my face and those weird, sticky, pine sap covered holes rubbing across my fingertips. What I could feel most of all though, was the terror of being stuck there in such a weird, unknown place without anybody else around. Not what I needed to have happen right about then.

“Sorry, what was that?” Carla had said something I didn’t catch because of my wandering mind. “My brain keeps shifting out of gear.”

“Are you OK?” she asked with an intense stare through crinkled eyes as if she might be able to see how I felt no matter how I responded. Behind Carla, on the other side of the cemetery wall, a silver colored pickup truck roared past us heading towards downtown, country music blaring from an open window.

“A lot of stuff keeps running through my head, that’s all,” I replied as honestly as I could. “It’s hard to not let it drive me crazy.”

That seemed to satisfy her, to some degree anyway, but the worried look on her face didn’t go away. “Hang in there,” she said, reaching over and squeezing my arm. Seconds later, we arrived at the tall monument in front of the pyramids where Carla proceeded to tell me how it honored all the soldiers who died in the Second Seminole War.

Interesting as that was, to her, I only had eyes for what sat behind the monument. Maybe eight feet across and five feet high, the pyramids definitely looked a lot larger than when I first saw them. In the diminishing light, it took me a few seconds to realize that the construction of each of those objects consisted of shaped pieces of coquina, held together with mortar.

Part of me couldn’t wait to get closer, but another, smaller part wanted to hold back. After my recent experiences with Lobo’s hot bayonet and coin, all from the same general period of history as the pyramids, I didn’t know if something else weird might happen. On top of that, the memory of flying above myself on the way to the cemetery still had me spooked. In the end though, curiosity won over. Carla and I left our bikes at the war monument and walked across the grass to the central pyramid. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred when we got there, so I relaxed a little and read the first few lines of the small historical maker in front of us:

 

These three pyramids cover vaults
containing individually unidentified remains
of 1468 soldiers of the Florida Indian Wars,
1835-1842.

 

1,468 soldiers, I said to myself with a shiver. So much death.

“As the marker says,” Carla explained, “these pyramids weren’t made only for Dade’s men. After the Second Seminole War ended, the military collected the bones of soldiers who died during that entire seven-year conflict from all over the state and brought them here. Back in 1842 they had a huge ceremony with muskets firing and bugles blowing. I think it lasted an entire day.”

“Wait a minute.” With her eyes wide, she pointed at the pyramid. “The spirit Lobo says is hanging around you. I’m wondering if it could be from one of these soldiers.”

Again, I felt that odd slithering sensation in my gut, but this time it even crept up into my chest. I didn’t comment on what Carla had said one way or the other. I didn’t need to reply because she kept on talking. Besides, I didn’t want to think about what she said.

“It all fits together somehow—the pyramids, tomorrow’s date as the Dade battle’s anniversary, the bayonet, the coin, and even the connection to Luis Pacheco.”

“Now look who’s getting locked into possibilities,” I replied. Instead of trying to figure it all out, I reached down and touched the rough surface of a coquina block with my fingertips. A slight tingling prickled up through that hand and I quickly pulled it away.

“What?” Carla asked, as I straightened, rubbing my fingers and staring at the pyramid.

It’s cold out here, I told myself, ignoring Carla’s question at first. The coquina was just cold, dummy. That’s all you felt. God, you are really letting your fears take over. Wimp! “It’s nothing,” I said to her, finally deciding to overcome what had to be my imagination. To prove to myself there was nothing to be afraid of, I bent over again, and put my whole hand flat against a different piece of coquina.

As soon as I did that, a painful rippling, like a strong electric current, surged up through my arm and throughout my body. At the same time, my vision erupted in a blinding flash of white.

###

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.

Ghost Hunt- Tolomato Cemetery

Paranormal St. Augustine, Florida

A guest post by Mary Jo Fister and Greg Bush from Offthetrails Paranormal investigations.

Tolomato Cemetery is probably the oldest in St. Augustine. Records exist from the 18th and 19th centuries, but most likely it was used before that. St. Augustine was founded in 1565.

Mary Jo Fister

Greeks, Irish, Spanish, Native Americans, and Africans are some of the cultural groups who are resting in the cemetery. Civil War veterans are there.

The site was a village of Native Americans. Our meters showed a high level of activity. We have pictures showing what we believe are spirit orbs.

The cemetery is a popular tourist site. Check their website for times when people may enter. Some of the apparitions seen include a woman in a white dress, a child, and a tall man.

Greg Bush

Click here to see the Tolomato Cemetery video.

Click here to visit the Tolomato Cemetery Website

Click here to visit Offthetrails Paranormal Investigations

Click here to see information on one of my upcoming events where Mary Jo and Greg will be co-presenters with me at the Orlando Public Library.

Chapter 11 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

11
Flying

 

As Carla and I rushed up San Marco Avenue, peddling hard in and out of heavy traffic, Lobo’s words about tomorrow being too late still bounced around in my mind. At the time, no amount of prodding on my part, or on Carla’s, got him to explain his meaning in more detail. The man’s previous warnings about the danger surrounding me though, made the urgency of our little trip to the pyramids seem even more important.

We didn’t waste any time dropping Spock off at Carla’s house and picking up our bikes. By the time we got there, Lobo had already called Carla’s grandmother. He explained to her how he wanted us to run an errand for him and then go to his house for dinner. Worked like a charm. All technically true, what he told her, but the three of us agreed not to mention the pyramids to Grandma. Doing so, we figured, might make her wonder about the conjuring of spirits and all that kind of stuff. Not the most honest of situations, but we didn’t have time for detours. I know it wasn’t easy for Carla to do that, but she pulled it off beautifully. No such problems for me at home. Mom planned to go straight from work and spend the night at her boyfriend’s apartment.

Actually, I hated not telling Carla’s grandma the full truth almost as much as Carla did. I mean, that lady had, well, adopted me in a way, I guess you might say. When she found out I eat most of my meals by myself, and out of cans, or at cheap restaurants, she swore she wasn’t going to let it continue. After that, Carla’s house became like a second home. I mean, I even went over there on Christmas Eve, but not inside or anything. Nope, I sat there on my bike looking at the little red, green and blue twinkle lights strung across the top of her front porch and the Christmas tree in the living room window facing the street. She and her grandma were having people over and I saw little glimpses of movement. Once I even spied Carla, but she didn’t see me.

Every window in that house, even on the third floor, was glowing with light and I just wished I could be in there with Carla. It … well, looked comfortable and inviting, is all I can say—even more so than usual. A helluva lot better than being at home with my mom and her drunk-ass lover boy. That’s where I was supposed to be, but they never knew the difference.

“So, why didn’t you tell me about Lobo and all this spooky stuff of his before I met the guy?” I looked over at Carla sitting on her bike next to me. We were waiting for the traffic light to change down the street a little way from the grounds of the old Spanish fort. Oh, the Castillo de San Marcos to be more precise. Carla keeps trying to get me to call the place by its official name, or at least The Castillo.

She tried to reply to my question, but I couldn’t hear her. A big old Harley kept revving up behind us, and a police siren nearby drowned out her words. You would think we lived in New York City. Too many tourists will definitely clog up the roads in a small town.

I shook my head and pointed to an ear to show her I couldn’t hear.

“I said,” Carla gave it another try, louder this time, “that I thought Lobo would give you a few ideas how to deal with your dream and we would be out of there. Telling you any more about him ahead of time, and you probably would never have gone to see him. Am I right?” Carla had the collar of her coat pulled up around her neck, and she blew into her cupped hands. Bike riding in that increasingly cold air chilled me, but I knew she had to be half frozen. That’s why I didn’t protest as she stopped at the red light when I would have plowed on through it. I realized she might need to warm up her hands a bit. She still wore a very worried look on her face, one I’d seen ever since I came back out of that God-awful fog.

“Yeah probably,” I had to admit. In fact, I knew for sure I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near old Lobo if she had told me even a fraction of what I found out about him after we met. Traffic started moving again at that point, heading into downtown St. Augustine and cutting off any more conversation. As we rode single file, I caught the scent of Mexican food, burritos, I think. It smelled good and reminded me dinner awaited us back at Lobo’s place. In the oncoming lanes, more and more headlights popped on as evening approached. Ahead of me, Carla’s long hair flew and whipped behind her.

Luckily, no more traffic stops slowed down our progress. All along our route, little white lights covered buildings and trees as people choked the sidewalks on both sides of the road—Nights of Lights they call it in St. Augustine. Tourists flock here like migrating birds from November through January every year to ogle those bright little bulbs, absorb all the history of America’s Oldest City during our extended Christmas season, eat in quaint little restaurants, and shop in the stores that stay open late.

Once we got past the Bridge of Lions, and the downtown plaza, the street we were on, Avenida Menendez, went from four lanes down to two, and traffic thinned out. We had finally entered the part of town I knew nothing about. Up until that point, I was able to keep my thoughts mostly on not getting run over and peddling my bike. Even so, memories of cold fog, a hot bayonet, and Lobo’s warnings rushed back into my head, making me wonder if I was truly ready to visit the pyramids. As a chill ran up my spine, something happened so quickly I almost blew it off until I thought about my nearly instantaneous journey into Lobo’s Ball of Realities. I’ll do my best to explain it.

You see, I found myself … well, floating maybe five feet in the air looking down at the, uh, the me who was riding the bike. Yeah, the same floating-type-thing I experienced after my accident. This time though, I lay flat, parallel to the street, with my arms outstretched—when I looked, I could see them. Also unlike the time with my accident, I was the me riding the bike so that I saw my surroundings at the same time from two different viewpoints. Sounds crazy, I know.

Actually, that floating was more like flying since I kept pace with the me on my bike. The flying me felt no cold at all and my forward movement didn’t ruffle my hair one bit. From the flying position, I lifted my head so I could see Carla, and there she was a couple of bike lengths away. Of course, I also watched her from where I sat on my bike. For whatever reason, looking at that girl from those two very different perspectives felt normal. It really didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t have any answers.

That’s when everything changed again, and I mean very fast. The flying me felt this tug, a hard pulling sensation in my stomach. I knew it came from the me below, and I tried to resist, but couldn’t. Like a stretched out rubber band being released, the flying me snapped back into that other Jeff riding down the street. When I say “into,” I mean just that. It was like the flying me got instantly, and naturally, absorbed into a thirsty sponge. Even so, my whole body jerked—the body of the single, unified me. Without meaning to, I also jerked the handlebars of my bike, nearly smashing into a parked car on my right. For a split second, it felt very strange once again being a whole person instead of two.

Did I tell Carla about my little double-bodied, flying adventure. Hell no! I kept peddling and tried to ignore it myself. She had enough to worry about already without having to help me sort out another of my crazy situations. Besides, we didn’t have the time.

On our left, the Matanzas River ran past the city marina and a place called the Santa Maria restaurant sitting out in the water on pilings. After the Santa Maria? Nothing there but sea wall, river, anchored boats, mudflats, and oysters. Beyond the river over on Anastasia Island, the beam from the St. Augustine Lighthouse flashed briefly from time to time, reflecting off the darkening water. A slight breeze coming over the sea wall brought with it the crappy smell of low tide. To our right, just the usual mix of houses, motels and inns—and little white lights. Believe me, those lights are everywhere at that time of year.

Up the street, directly in front of us, an American flag, and one other I couldn’t identify, barely moved on top of a tall flagpole. The road appeared to end there, but didn’t. Instead, it turned sharply to the right. When we turned with it, we rode by a couple of large pillars and a low wall on our left. As the road took another sharp turn, this time to the left, a large, cream-colored building loomed into view in front of us. Large black letters across the front of that place identified it as the “St. Francis Barracks.” A sign on the parking lot wall directly across the street from the building said, “Headquarters, Florida National Guard.” Right in front of that wall, two old-fashioned cannons aimed outward towards the road. The flagpole, I discovered, was inside the National Guard parking lot containing a few cars and two modern looking cannons pointing out towards the river.

When Carla and I got to the St. Francis Barracks, a young soldier ran out of it into the street all dressed in his multi shades of green outfit and hat. Because he was talking on his cell phone and not paying attention, he almost ran into us. Luckily, he stopped in time. As we swung around him, he grinned and waved but still stayed glued to his phone. I figured he had to be talking to a girl. U.S. Army it said in black letters printed on the upper left side of his jacket, coat, or whatever you call it. On the opposite side was the word, “Basinger.” I knew that had to be the guy’s name, but for some reason, reading it made me stop and look back at him when he sprinted towards his car.

“Jeff, come on,” Carla called, looking back at me, but still peddling. In seconds, I caught up with her.

On our right, we passed four tidy looking, two-story houses painted white, each of them with a small American flag on its front porch, and more little white lights. A large historic marker identified the houses as Officers’ Quarters. Beyond those houses a short distance sat a large two-story coquina building surrounded by a metal fence made of skinny bars painted black. Down the road a little way, the fence ended, but immediately, another one started— a thick one, about waist high. Looked like it might be made of plastered coquina, brick or maybe even concrete block. I really couldn’t tell from that distance. That’s where Carla pulled to a stop, got off her bike and pushed it up onto the sidewalk. I did the same.

“How are your headaches?” she asked, leaning her bike against her hip and blowing on her fingers some more.

“No problem so far. Looks like whatever Lobo did is still working.” I wanted to ask her how the old guy seemed to be able to read my thoughts, but decided to wait until after I got to see the pyramids.

“Good,” she said, but her face still had that tense and worried look. “Let’s keep moving, have you see the pyramids, and get back to Lobo’s as soon as we can. They’re right up here.” She was definitely in a no-nonsense mood.

As I followed her, I looked between the metal bars of the fence on the other side of the large coquina house and saw tombstones. “We’re going to a cemetery?” I croaked. Now I’m not afraid of cemeteries or anything, but they aren’t the most positive places in the world, right? Besides, with Lobo talking about death and all, it, uh, startled me, you know?

“Um, yes.” Carla looked over at me uncertainly as we walked. “It’s a cemetery all right. I didn’t think you needed to know that ahead of time.”

###

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.

“Great Paranormal Story!”

Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal & historical.

A review placed on Goodreads & Amazon by Mark Asher.

“I really liked it! It wasn’t what I expected but definitely enjoyed it. To be honest iIdidn’t know exactly what sort of paranormal experiences I would encounter in this book but Doug Dillon did a great job of picking out some cool ones.

“I also really enjoyed the historical facts that Doug used to move the story along. If you are in the mood for a YA ‘ghost’ story and don’t mind a hot-headed, somewhat confrontational lead character then I say pick this book up and give it a shot.

“I look forward to the next two books in the series and what will happen to Jeff and his friends!”

To see the full review on Amazon, click here.