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Category: Ghosts (Page 1 of 2)

Dead Giveaway (WIP-5)

Previously: Dead Giveaway (WIP-4)

…After a brief pause, Henry said, “Miles, can I ask you a personal question.”

“Most certainly Henry, ask away.” Miles said without hesitation.

“Do you remember when you died?”

 

Miles stared at Henry for a long minute. With a slight nod he began.

“Father was an educated man, but he wanted to set up his own homestead. After John Eliot built an Indian missionary church right near here by the river,” Miles said pointing west towards the Merrimack River, “father decided it was safe enough to bring us out to the frontier and build a farm.”

Miles sat in the chair near the window.

“We had a hundred acres that spanned from up here right down to the river. It was a fair bit up from the Namoskeag falls, but there was still plenty of fish. We moved here when I was 12, and we worked the land. We had good relations with the Penacook, and traded with them. Some of them would sup with us from time to time. Everything was good for a spell.”

Miles stared out the window. He had a far away look, like he was somewhere else.

“We started hearing stories from fur traders and some of the Penacook about attacks down in southern parts of Massachusetts. An Indian named Metacom started an insurrection. At first we were not worried as the attacks were far away. One day a trader told us the entire town of Deerfield had been burnt to the ground. Many were dead and others were taken prisoner. As the attacks increased and spread out, we received news less frequently. We did not know much of what was happening outside our settlement, but the feeling was that it was getting worse.”

Miles hands were clenched into fists, and he folded his arms across his body. His right leg bobbed up and down rapidly. When he looked up, Henry could see real fear in Miles’s eyes.

“It was early one morning during the harvest. The light was just coming up, and father, Joseph, Edward and I were getting ready to go to work in the fields. Father and Edward were already outside, when I heard a commotion and yelling. Then came shots. Father ran into the house shouting, ‘Indians, grab the guns.’ Mother was shouting. ‘Where’s Edward!’ but father didn’t answer. He grasped his musket and handed me another. We could hear whooping and hollering getting closer. It was all happening so fast.

I rushed outside ahead of father and Joseph. A figure was moving at speed in my direction. I just pointed and fired. I couldn’t see if I hit him through the smoke. There was yelling and gunfire all over. I began reloading in earnest when something pounded into my chest and caused me to fall flat on my back. I couldn’t catch my breath. I could hear my brother yell, then scream. Then I heard my sister Elizabeth screaming nearby. I tried getting up but could barely raise my head. Suddenly an Indian, an Abenaki I think, stood over me sneering. He carried a stone club. Looking into his cold, black eyes, I could see no mercy there, no compassion. He swung his arm and all went black.”

Henry stared as Miles looked back out the window, hugging himself and rocking back and forth.

“When I awoke, I at first did not recognize where I was. It was very overcast, the clouds were heavy with rain. I stood before a smoldering ruin. It was some minutes before I realized it was all that remained of our home. In front of the house lay my mother in the grass face down. She was bloodied and still. My father had been stripped of his clothes and his chest and belly had been split open. I could see the bodies of my brothers near the now empty animal pens and smoldering barn. My sisters Elizabeth and Grace were nowhere to be seen. I looked back at the woods from whence the Indians came. The forest was now silent and dark.”

Miles looked back at Henry again, his eyes large and dark. There would be tears if he could cry. His leg stopped moving, and he unfolded his arms and they lay limp at his sides.

“Another body lay at my feet. It was a stranger. He lay on his back, his arms and legs splayed out. I could not recognize who he had been as his face and head had been knockt bloody. His feet were bare. His shoes and stockings had been taken. His once white shirt was soaked in blood, and he wore brown trousers just like mine. He also had a scar on his lower right leg just like mine, which I received after a mishap with an axe when I was younger.” Miles whispered resting his chin on his chest, and lifting his hands to his face examining them.

“My thought was the stranger had come to help us, but had died in the process. I wandered about the area calling for help. None came. Another day passed, or two I think, when a group of Christian Penacook Indians arrived. I knew some of them. One was named Daniel. I tried speaking to him, but he ignored me as if I were not there. The Indians gathered up my parents, my brothers, and the stranger and buried them together not far from where the house had been. They laid rocks upon the grave to keep animals from digging them up. A crude wooden cross was fashioned, and a prayer was said. Then they left.”

“That stranger was you wasn’t it Miles?” Henry said.

Miles just nodded, still looking down. “My family now lies in the back corner of your yard, beneath the fence and your shed.” Miles finished, and lifted his head to look directly at Henry.

His mouth agape, Henry said, “You and your family are buried in our back yard?…”

Dead Giveaway (WIP-4)

Previously: Dead Giveaway (WIP-3)

Henry headed up the stairs to his room to think about doing homework, but intending to read or play a video game. On the landing he turned down the hall to his bedroom, but his way was blocked by a shadowy figure.

“Hey you little booger, were you in my room touching my stuff again?” His fourteen-year-old sister Tessa said. Better known as ‘Tessa the Terrible’.

“No, I haven’t.” Henry said.

“That’s bull, things in my room’s been moved, which means you were in there going through my stuff. You tried taking my game controller didn’t you? It wasn’t where I left it yesterday.” Tessa said.

“How could I? I just got home. Maybe Dad was looking for something, or maybe it was Mom, she was just home for a bit.” Henry said.

“Dad, never goes in my room, and Mom…”She trailed off, then her face went white. She stood over Henry. “If I find out you were in my room,” she said jabbing a finger in Henry’s chest with each word, “I’m gonna kick your ass.” and shoved him against the wall as she went back to her room at a run.

“Seems to be the theme today,” Henry mumbled to himself as he entered his room. He dropped his backpack on his bed and went to the desk facing the window. He turned on his Kindle Fire, and tapped the screen to open up the latest ebook in The Apocalypse Weird series.

In no time the story pulled his attention and imagination into to the latest adventure. The ‘Theater of the Mind’ began playing its mind movie…

“Why do you let your sister treat you in such a manner?” Came a voice from behind him in the quiet of his room.

Henry jumped, bobbling his Kindle before dropping it onto the desk. “Dammit Miles, do you always have to do that?” He said spinning around in his chair. “You scared the heck out of me.”

“You will have to excuse me, it’s not like I can knock on the door now can I?” Miles said with a smile.

“No I guess you can’t.” Henry said.

“But I can muster the energy to move some of Tessa’s things about.” Miles said, a wide grin across his pale face.

“It was you?” Henry said,  with a tone of astonishment. “How?…why?…you just need to stop doing that. I’m the one who get’s in trouble for it. She’s just going to blame me.”

“Very well, very well, I’ll not do it again.” Miles said giggling. “But it is amusing to see her bewilderment.”

“I’ll bet,” Henry said, himself now laughing, and then he stopped. “Wait, what other times are you in my sister’s room looking at her?”

Miles was still giggling, then it became a smile, and then the smile disappeared. His jaw dropped open and eyes widened when it dawned on him what Henry meant by the question. “Henry, I take exception, I would never look in on your sister when she is indecent. I am no scoundrel. What sort of man do you think I am?”

“Oh don’t sound so annoyed I was just asking; besides you’re not a man you’re a boy like me, a little older maybe but still a boy.” Henry said.

“I’m quite a bit older than you when you think about it.” Miles said. “That reminds me, have you spoken with your father yet, about the history of this house?”

“No, not yet. He’s busy doing research for his book. He doesn’t like to be distracted from what he’s working on. If I ask him it’ll just interrupt the work on his book. First he’ll look into the history of this house, then he’ll to look into the history of the neighborhood, and then the entire city.” Henry said.

“Good, then he will learn the truth about the earliest settlers up here, and find out what really happened to them.” Miles said.

After a brief pause, Henry said, “Miles, can I ask you a personal question.”

“Most certainly Henry, ask away.” Miles said without hesitation.

“Do you remember when you died?”

 

 

Dead Giveaway (WIP-3)

Previously: Dead Giveaway WIP-2

Henry stood rooted to the ground in abject fear, not sure what to do, not sure he could move if he wanted to. Then the dark specter began to shimmer and shrink into itself. It didn’t sink into the ground, but imploded into the very fabric of space.

Henry stared at the spot where it had been. After a moment he could once again feel the heat of the sun, fear melted away, and the incident began to feel like a hallucination or a dream, but deep down he knew it wasn’t.

Even though the specter was gone, Henry crossed to the other side of the street giving the wooded lot a wide berth. He ran the rest of the way home.

 

Henry’s mom was in the kitchen making something to eat when he came through the front door.

“You’re late,” his mom said, “what was the hold up.”

“Geez mom, it was only a few minutes. It was nothing; I was just talking to an old lady.” Henry said.

“You remember what I said about talking to strangers.” His mother said her brow furrowed.

“It’s okay mom, she didn’t pose any danger. It was an old lady.” Henry said.

“Old, young, man, woman – it doesn’t matter. Anyone and I mean anyone can be dangerous. Who was this woman and where was she?” his mother, Olivia said.

“It was just a couple of blocks from here. Her name is Mrs. Parker, and I’m telling you she’s nice. She stayed at least ten feet away from me the whole time.” Henry said.

Mrs. Parker? Olivia thought. A common enough name, but still it raised a mental flag. Why she couldn’t say.

“What were you making there?” Henry said, changing the subject.

This interrupted her thoughts, “Oh, I was just making you a snack. I have to go back to work. Your father’s in his office working. He’ll be making dinner tonight, but you know when his door’s closed it’s anyone’s guess when it’ll be open again. So, I made you a tuna wrap to get you by.” Olivia said, as she placed the small plate on the dining table.

“You came home just for that?” Henry said.

“Not just that. It got so warm today; I came home to put on something lighter to finish out the rest of my shift. Okay kiddo, I gotta go. Make sure you do your homework and leave it for me to check when I get home. Are you planning on going anywhere?” Olivia said.

“No, but Zeke might come over. We’ll either shoot some hoops here, or play video games. Is that okay?” Henry said.

“Yes, but remember, don’t disturb your father. I’ll see you tonight honey. Love you.” Olivia said as she bent over to kiss her son’s head.

“Love you too Mom,” Henry said, as his mother headed for the front door. “Oh Mom?”

“Yes?”

“You forgot your badge…I mean your shield on the counter.”

Olivia turned, and saw it. With lips tight, she stepped purposefully to the counter where she laid her gold shield when she came home to change. She checked her back holster to be sure she didn’t forget her gun too.

“You’re pretty observant little man,” Olivia said. “Perhaps you’ll make detective one day too.”

“I’d rather be a scientist I think.” Henry said.

“You’d make a good one too,” Olivia said opening the front door, “love you kiddo.”

“Love you too mom, be careful.”

Dead Giveaway (WIP-2)

Previously: Dead Giveaway (WIP-1)

“I’m sorry you were hurt. What’s your name?” the boy asked.

The woman stopped crying, and looked at the boy. “My name is Ellen Parker.”

“Good to meet you Ms. Parker, my name is Henry…Henry McBride. I live just up the street from here.”

“It’s Mrs. Parker; my husband’s name is Thomas. He is so sad now. We live…lived in the next town over.”

“I have to go now Mrs. Parker, my mom’s expecting me, but is it okay if I come see you to talk with you again?”

“I’d like that Henry. You go now; you don’t want your mother worrying about you. I know I did when my kids were your age.”

“Okay, Mrs. Parker, I’ll see you around.” With that Henry turned and ran to the corner, made sure no cars where coming then ran across the street and started up the next block.

 

He was a block away from his street when he saw a skinny, young man with short blond hair, and piercing blue eyes sitting on a stoop, smoking a cigarette. Henry tried not to look at the young, man but something urged him to look at the man. He wore a sleeveless red t-shirt, and faded blue jeans with tears in the knees and dirty yellow work boots.

“Hey kid, what the fuck you looking at?” the young man challenged.

Henry looked into the young man’s darkening eyes and sensed danger. The spit dried in his mouth and tried to mouth words, but nothing came out.

As he stared into the young man’s eyes, he saw the eyes lighten and his eyebrows go up as if in surprise. The young man stood suddenly, flicking the unfinished cigarette onto the lawn. “Get the fuck outta here you fucking retard, before I kick your ass,” the young man said before turning and going through the front door. The young man glanced over his shoulder at Henry before slamming the door shut.

Henry turned and ran up the sidewalk, but he didn’t go far.  At the edge of another wooded lot, stood a shadow. A shadow darker than the shade of the trees, darker than the night, darker than a windowless basement in the countryside at midnight. No light penetrated it. It was solid and black. Henry stopped and stared at the specter, roughly the shape of a man. Even in the heat of the sun, Henry felt icy cold terror in the presence of this shadow. It felt worse than danger, it felt evil, it felt like death.

Henry had seen it before.

Dead Giveaway (WIP-1)

To the casual observer, the eleven-year-old looked like he might have a mental disorder. He stood on the side of the road in the sun, facing a shady wooded lot. His hands were clasped behind his back, and it looked like he was talking to himself.

He wasn’t.

“What happened to you?” the boy asked the sad looking, dark-haired, older-woman standing in the shady area of grass on the side of the road.

“He shot me.” The petite woman said, turning her gaze to the boy. “You…you can see me?”

“Yes, I can. Who shot you?” the boy asked.

“The young man in the rust colored truck. He was speeding up the street, this nice, quiet street and he was racing along like it was a highway. What if there had been kids about? It was dark. He’d never have seen them in time. I shouted at him to slow down,” the woman said.

“That made the man angry didn’t it?” the boy said.

“He slammed on the brakes, and then put the truck in reverse as I kept walking. His window was down and he was frowning at me. He yelled at me asking what I said to him. I admonished him for speeding on a residential street, and the danger he posed to the children. He shouted and cursed at me to mind my own business. He called me a word that I absolutely hate.” She said.

“I’ll bet that made you angry,” the boy said.

“I told him I had a description of him and his truck and was going to call the police. The way he looked at me…it was the scariest look  I’ve ever seen,” the words coming out in a hurried jumble. “As I took my phone out to dial the authorities, his arm whipped out through the window and he pointed his fist at me. There was something black in that fist. Then there was a bright flash and a loud sound,” her tone softened. “Next thing I know, I’m lying here in the grass looking up at the leaves of a branch above me, and the starry sky beyond that. It was so quiet, ” “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t make a sound.” She said

“That’s when you got hurt, isn’t it?” asked the boy.

Eyes downcast, nodding her head she said, “Eventually…I realized what happened. He shot me.” She wore an expression of confusion as she looked at the boy. “He shot me because I told him to slow down. He hurt me…because I cared about the welfare of the people in this neighborhood. Why? Why would he do that to me?” She looked down again, clasped a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes tight. Her shoulders began twitching and shrugging.

The boy knew the woman was crying, but there were no tears. He knows ghosts can’t produce tears.

Ghost Hunters Halloween Party!

Okay, had to take a break from NaNoWriMo prep to go to an awesome Halloween Party at the Spalding Inn, in Whitefield, NH. The Inn is owned by Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson of Ghost Hunters fame (on the SyFy channel). 

Read More

A Haunted Book Store

This is another story from the Paranormal Articles Archives, from June 10th, 2010.


On Sunday, I drove down to New Haven with a friend, to visit my brother in Yale-New Haven Hospital. On the way back one of our favorite places to stop is the Travelers Restaurant & Book Store. It’s right off exit 74, on I-84 in Connecticut on the CT-MA border. I’ve been going there for years.

The interior is dimly lit and the decor still largely stuck in the 70′s. There are shelves lined with good quality donated books and wood paneled walls lined with autographed pictures of famous authors who have visited the restaurant. The food is good, and with a meal you’re allowed to take up to 3 used books from the main dining area for free. Downstairs is a small library of inexpensively (mostly) priced used books.

On this day the restaurant only had a couple of patrons. After we finished our meal, my friend and I went downstairs to look around. The room is small and well lit with a low ceiling and is crowded with rough-hewn bookshelves, crammed with books.

When we found books we wanted to buy we put them on a holding table at the back of the room and continued browsing. Ten minutes later, I came back to the holding table and noticed my friend sitting on a chair looking miserable. He said, “I’m not feeling too well. I feel sick to my stomach. I’m gonna go to the men’s room.” I said, “Sure thing, I’ll watch your stuff.”

He went upstairs as I looked through my selections on the holding table. Alone in the room, I started getting a nervous feeling at my core; like there was an energy in the air. I looked around for any major electrical conduits, but none were readily evident. I moved away from that area and went down an aisle that was at the front of the room. The nervous feeling went away.

I was looking at books by Peter Benchley and Ramsey Campbell, when I heard something clunking on one of the shelves and then the sound of a book hitting the concrete floor with a slap. I stepped into the main corridor by the exit and with a few strides ascertained that there was no one else in the room with me.

I called out, “Hello? Is there anyone down here?” I received no answer. I noticed a book lying on the floor in the center aisle toward the back of the room by the holding table. I walked down the aisle and picked up the brown leatherback book off the floor. I looked it over and set the book securely back on a shelf. This is not an aisle my friend or I had been down before. This aisle shelves Women Studies, Crafts and Parenting.

As I stood there, I got a nervous energy feeling in my chest. The air seemed somehow thicker. I called out, “If there’s someone down here with me that wanted to get my attention, you got it. If you’re still here, I dare you to do the same thing again.”

I stood my ground for a minute, still feeling the energy, but nothing happened.

I cased the place again to be sure no one else was physically there with me. I then moved forward toward the only exit and continued browsing for books to buy. Not a minute later, I heard a sliding sound, and then a clunking of something tumbling followed by a thud as another book hit the floor.

This time it was at an aisle near the very back of the room in the ‘Classic Literature’ section. This book was also at the end of the aisle near where the holding table is. I picked up the book and shelved it saying, “Okay, I hear you, thanks for letting me know you’re here.”

I heard someone creaking on the stairs and went to check it out. It was my friend coming back down. I asked if he saw anyone go up and said he hadn’t. I asked how he was feeling and he said, “It’s funny, I felt a lot better as soon as I got upstairs. When I went to the bathroom I didn’t have to do anything. When I was down here, I felt like I was going to either puke or crap myself. But I’m fine now.”

My friend is not a believer in the paranormal, but he perked up when I told him about my experiences while he was upstairs. He wanted to keep looking around now that he felt better. A few minutes later I saw him retrieving his books off the holding table and pacing around nervously asking if we could go.

We went back upstairs to pay for our purchases. He paid first and went outside to wait for me. When I was paying I asked the lady behind the counter if anybody ever reports “strange” things when they’re downstairs. She opened her mouth to say something then clamped it shut. A blank look came across her face. She would no longer look me in the eyes and said in a low monotone voice, “No, not that I’m aware of.” That was the end of it. She took my money and wished me a good day.

Back in the car, my friend said, “I had to get out of there. I got that sick-nervous feeling again when I was down there. As soon as I got upstairs I felt absolutely fine again. Do you think what we experienced could be caused by something paranormal?”

I had a huge grin on my face. For the rest of the trip home we had a very intense and interesting conversation.


My brother passed away not long after and I didn’t go back to the Traveler’s Food and Books for a long period. That is until April of this year, when my fiancée and I visited New York City. There were, however, no odd feeling or incidents this time.

Did you ever have a similar experience in a public place or business?

Werner


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October Means Halloween and Ghost Stories

 

Boo!

For many, me included, October always conjures up thoughts of Halloween and ghost stories. I loved ghost stories when I was a kid – I stll do.

Beginning when I was young, I had a few “strange” experiences that left me looking for answers. Over time I began conducting my own investigations and experiments to find some answers to all of my questions.

Then I was given an opportunity to work with a paranormal investigation group called Sights Unseen Paranormal. We all worked really well together and they asked me to become a member – and I gladly accepted.

Since then we have been on some interesting investigations together. As some of us live far apart, I continued to do my own freelance work on the side and have had some interesting experiences of my own.

With all the work I’ve been doing, I’ve been formulating different ideas of what ghosts really are. To me they are no longer anything to be feared, like when I was a kid. However, when I do make contact with a ghost or entity, it still excites the hell out of me.

I began writing a series of aerticles and journal entries about some of my experiences and the ever evolving summation of what they are, or might be.

This entry is from June 1, 2010:



For centuries, ghosts have been portrayed as scary and evil. From the time I was a kid, ghost stories and movies were among my all time favorites.

Why? Because ghosts are eerie and mysterious and most of all they scared the hell out of me.

Ghosts are almost always portrayed as being the bad guy, as being evil. We’re led to believe ghosts are pissed off because they’re dead and attack the living out of jealousy or to claim their souls. Ah–no.

People need to remember ghosts were once living breathing people – just like us. They had families and celebrations; dreams and experiences. They had mortgages, paid their bills and worked jobs they didn’t like. They had pets and friends and full lives.

Are there what could be called evil sprits? Heck yeah. If a person was warm and caring or a good natured prankster when they were alive, that energy is pretty much the same after they transition. If a person was an ornery bastard in life, or worse, a nasty violent person, then that energy will transfer over after they die. Thankfully there are far fewer of them than the more “normal” energies of people.

You can no more change the energy of an entity any more than you can change the personality of a living person. They are who they are. If you come across a dark or evil feeling entity, it’s best not to bother with them at all. Most of us are not able or equipped to deal with such a being.

How do you know when you find a nasty one? Listen to your gut. You will feel a sense of fear and foreboding, even more than normally. You’ll have a real urge to get the hell out of where you are – listen to it.

Despite what mainstream news shoves in our faces every day, there are thankfully comparatively few truly evil people in society and even fewer wandering around as entities.
For the majority of entities you’ll find some of the following:

  • Residual: Most investigators aren’t even sure if this is haunting by an entity at all, but more of a wrinkle in the fabric of time where a particular event plays itself out over and over again with no awareness or intelligence about it at all. The most famous place that plays this out – among many other types of haunts – is at the Gettysburg battlefield in Pennsylvania.
  • Don’t know they are dead: These type of entities often died very suddenly and don’t know or can’t believe they are dead any more than you or I can. Go ahead, try and convince a friend or family member they’re not really alive, that they’re dead. See how far you get.
  • Died suddenly, but have an idea they are dead: Some of them will remain in denial, some you will be able to reason with.
  • Know they’re dead, but can’t let go: They have a need to look after their family or their home, or didn’t do something before they died or was waiting for someone to return and are afraid they’ll miss them – even decades later.
  • Know they’re dead, but don’t want or know how to move on:These entities, these folks, know they’re dead – will even acknowledge it but either don’t know how to move on or don’t want to as they are afraid of what will happen if they do. Just like living people.

When you go on an investigation and do come across an entity, just remember these were people just like your brother, sister, mother, father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends and other family members. There’s little reason to fear them. Don’t treat them like they’re monsters or they’re evil.

Treat them as you would a friend and treat them with respect. Often they are just trying to reach out to you…

 

Have you ever had an encounter with a ghost?

 


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A Haunted Book Store?

On Sunday, I drove down to New Haven with a friend, to visit my brother in Yale-New Haven Hospital. On the way back one of our favorite places to stop is the Travelers Restaurant & Book Store. It’s right off exit 74, on I-84 in Connecticut on the CT-MA border. I’ve been going there for 30 of the 40 years it’s been opened.

The interior is dimly lit. The decor still largely stuck in the 70’s. There are shelves lined with good quality donated books and wood-paneled walls lined with autographed pictures of famous authors who have visited the restaurant. The food is good, and with a meal you’re allowed to take up to 3 used books from the main dining area for free. Downstairs is a small library of inexpensively (mostly) priced used books.

On this day the restaurant only had a couple of patrons. After we finished our meal, my friend and I went downstairs to look around. The room is small and well-lit with a low ceiling and crowded with rough-hewn bookshelves, crammed with books.

When we found books we wanted to buy we put them on a holding table at the back of the room and continued browsing. Ten minutes later, I came back to the holding table and noticed my friend sitting on a chair looking miserable. He said, “I’m not feeling too well. I feel sick to my stomach. I’m gonna go to the men’s room.” I said, “Sure thing, I’ll watch your stuff.”

He went upstairs as I looked through my selections on the holding table. Alone in the room, I started getting a nervous feeling at my core; like there was an energy in the air. I looked around for any major electrical conduits, but none were readily evident. I moved away from that area and went down an aisle that was closer to the front of the room. The nervous feeling went away.

I was looking at books by Peter Benchley and Ramsey Campbell, when I heard something clunking on one of the shelves and then the sound of a book hitting the concrete floor with a slap. I stepped into the main corridor by the exit and with a few strides ascertained that there was no one else in the room with me.

I called out, “Hello? Is there anyone down here?” I received no answer. I noticed a book lying on the floor in the center aisle toward the back of the room by the holding table. I walked down the aisle and picked up the brown leatherback book off the floor. I looked it over and set the book securely back on a shelf. This is not an aisle my friend or I had been down before. This aisle shelves Women Studies, Crafts and Parenting.

As I stood there, I could feel that nervous energy feeling in my chest. The air seemed somehow thicker. I called out, “If there’s someone down here with me that wanted to get my attention, you got it. If you’re still here, I dare you to do the same thing again.”
I stood my ground for a minute, still feeling the energy, but nothing happened.

I cased the place again to be sure no one else was physically there with me. I then moved back toward the only exit and continued browsing for books to buy. Not a minute later, I heard a sliding sound, and then a clunking of something tumbling followed by a thud as another book hit the floor. This time it was at an aisle near the very back of the room in the ‘Classic Literature’ section. This book was also at the end of the aisle near where the holding table is. I picked up the book and shelved it saying, “Okay, I hear you, thanks for letting me know you’re here.”

I heard someone creaking on the stairs and went to check it out. It was my friend coming back down. I asked if he saw anyone go up and said he hadn’t. I asked how he was feeling and he said, “It’s funny, I felt a lot better as soon as I got upstairs. When I went to the bathroom I didn’t have to do anything. When I was down here, I felt like I was going to either puke or crap myself. But I’m fine now.”

My friend is not a believer in the paranormal, but he perked up when I told him about my experiences while he was upstairs. He wanted to keep looking around now that he felt better. A few minutes later I saw him retrieving his books off the holding table and pacing around nervously asking if we could go.

We went back upstairs to pay for our purchases. He paid first and went outside to wait for me. When I was paying I asked the lady behind the counter if anybody ever reports “strange” things when they’re downstairs. She opened her mouth to say something then clamped it shut. A blank look came across her face. She would no longer look me in the face and said in a low monotone voice, “No, not that I’m aware of.” That was the end of it. She took my money and wished me a good day.

Back in the car, my friend said, “I had to get out of there. I got that sick-nervous feeling again when I was down there. As soon as I got upstairs I felt absolutely fine again. Do you think what we experienced could be caused by something paranormal?”

I had a huge grin on my face. For the rest of the trip home we had a very intense and interesting conversation.


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Odder and Odder

Yesterday, I went to see my friend and author Richard “Rick” Holmes at the historical society museum. The visit was two-fold. First, I haven’t seen him in a while and secondly, I wanted to ask him if he had any information or historical reports I could read related to the old Bliss Farm, where I had the odd incident a couple of weeks ago.

Unfortunately, Rick was on vacation. I browsed about the museum to see what was new, then I began asking a few questions of Karen, who was volunteering at the museum in Rick’s absence.

We talked at length about historical town events and about things found and lost. I asked her if she knew anything about the old Bliss Farm and she replied, “Oh you mean the one reported to be haunted.” Bingo! It was like she was reading my mind, except what she said wasn’t what I expected.

She told me the original farm house is reported to be haunted by a little girl. She seems to appear to other children from time to time and is occasionally glimpsed by the adults in the house. This prompted a new line of discussion. I told her of my experience out on the road by the farm and she was intrigued. She said Rick might be able to point me to records or stories that may be related an accident at the farm.

Karen then told me that several teachers at a new elementary school in town had come to the museum to find out what used to be on the site on which the school now sits. The reason is that many teachers and students have seen a little girl in their classroom, sitting on chairs, and standing around wanting to get involved in activities. She’s also been seen in the hallways.

It turns out there had been a family farm there a long time ago. It had been abandoned and went back to earth so long ago that no one knows who the family was. One thing we both know is that when people died on early rural farms, the family members were often buried in small family plots on the property instead of being brought to a central cemetery.

We speculated that with time, the house disappeared and the family plot headstones were lost to the elements and undergrowth. We further speculated that it is entirely possible that the school was built not only on the site of the old farmhouse, but also over the graves of the people who once lived there.

That little girl from long ago must have become very ill and died in a short period of time, as so often happened back then. She was far from done with life. It’s most likely she’s not aware what happened to her. She just wants to play and go to school.

All I could think is, “Man, I gotta start my own investigating group to research these places properly.”

Before I left, Karen invited me to join the town’s heritage committee and I said I would attend the September meeting and seriously consider it.

When I left the museum, I had a ‘Twilight Zone’ moment. I had not been to the museum in over a year. The last time I went, I had been there close to closing time. It was the same yesterday. Just like last year, I walked up the stairs onto the central plaza and was about to make a quick right to go to my truck, when I recognized a guy walking up the stairs from the street onto the plaza.

It was a man named Mike Bissonette. I met Mike for the first time last year as I was leaving the museum. We stopped and talked about a find he made with a metal detector and then we went on talking for almost an hour. Just like last year, I met Mike on the plaza and we discussed a recent find he made with his metal detector. We talked about that and many other sites and things. He described the place at which he found the small cast iron pot top he held in his hand.

Several years ago I spoke with a Manchester historian and relic hunter and he told me that one day he’d like to get out to the Londonderry area near the power line break. He knew there were cellar holes somewhere in the area that date back to the town’s earliest days. From his research he was able to find that these early settlers had been attacked by Indians and their settlements burned to the ground.

Often, in such raids, the inhabitants were killed or taken as slaves to be sold to the French. During such Indian raids it was common for the settlers to bury their goods so they Indians wouldn’t get them. I think Mike may have found one of these old settlement sites and I told him so.

We both agree that the site must be virgin to metal detectors as a piece such as he found would have given of a really strong signal – impossible to miss. He’s going to investigate it further and we’re both hoping he can find the rest of the pot and even better, pewter forks or spoons the settlers may have buried during the raid.

Just like last year, we stood out on that plaza talking for almost an hour before going our separate ways. We were even parked in the same relative spots we had last year – just weird…

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