The Raven Issue 3 by GhostScribes

The RaVen In this issue:

Poe, Post-Mortem Dark Night of the Soul The Afterlife of Adam Pennington by Sue Latham

Oh! My Soul! A Journal of the Macabre, the Bizarre, & the Unexplained

Issue 3

Happy Holidays!

The RaVen

A little early for that phrase? We, your giddy editors, think not! Even before the hot winds of summer disperse, we are already dreaming of that special time between October and January, the sweet period that begins with Edgar Allan Poe’s death in October and ends with his birth in January. Those 105 days represent the holiday season to us and rightly so. Just check out the lineup of remarkable occasions that happen during that time: EAP’s death – October 7 • Halloween – October 31 • Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) – November 2 • Thanksgiving (U.S.) – November 25 • Hanukkah – November 28 • St. Nicholas Day – December 5 • Christmas – December 25 • New Year’s Eve/Day – December 31/January 1 • EAP’s birth – January 19 Of course we start with EAP’s death! The story of his death (check out issue one for more on that subject!) is as sinister and mysterious as his fictional works. So imagine our shock and consternation when we learned the mystery did not stop at death. In “Poe, Post-Mortem”, we investigate the drama of multiple burial sites and multiple funerals of our dear Poe. Warning: prepare to be amazed! The celebration of holidays continues with one of the mainstay characters of Halloween. Read about one man’s disturbing encounter with a witch in the first part of the serialized short story, “Dark Night of the Soul”. A few days after Halloween is Dia de los Muertos. This traditional Mexican holiday, celebrated worldwide, honors dead loved ones. We bow to this holiday by showcasing the extreme talents of international makeup artist, Anel. Her artistry will make your mouth drop. Krampus! What can we say about this devilish character? A lot! In our opinion, he is more interesting than that jolly man who eats all the cookies. But we’d rather not come face to face with him so we’re paying him his due with a two-page spread. How’s that for avoiding Krampus’ bad list? And while we’re talking Christmas, check out the Holiday Gift Guide. We’re sure you’ll find the perfect gift for that odd and quirky loved one who is quite particular. The Raven would not be The Raven without a few ghost stories—some true and some not. Echo Bodine returns with a lively Q&A about all things ghost, and a new contributor, Dr. E. B. Jones delights us with a vacation-gone-wrong ghost story. Our very own Sue explores the afterlife in The Afterlife of Adam Pennington, plus the plot thickens with part two of Ghost in the Machine, a Margo Monroe Ghost Hunting Adventure series. Poetry by A. F. Stewart, a Jerry Weiss cartoon, books, and more round out this incredibly special issue. It was such fun pulling this season’s journal together! Oh, the things we learned! Oh, the joys, the chills, the head-scratching, the smiles. Please consider this issue our gift to you along with our sentiment: may your October through January be as good or as bad as you want it to be. Contact us! GhostScribesDallas@gmail.com

A Ghost Scribes Publication

Holiday Issue Editors

Issue # 3 October 2021 4

Ann Fields

Sue Latham

Poe, Post Mortem By the Ghost Scribes

Dark Night of the Soul

The Afterlife of Adam Pennington

Oh! My Soul!

Ghost in the Machine, Part 2

Plu32s: 36 50 51 54 57 58

By Ann Fields

By Sue Latham

By Dr. E. B. Jones

By Sue Latham

True Ghost Stories Spooky Happenings What We’re Consuming Holiday Gift Guide Ann & Sue’s TBR List Poetry Corner Speaking of Art

The story of Poe’s last days on this earth read like one of his stories. Much has been written about it, but unfortunately the mystery is unlikely to ever be solved. The End In June of 1849, Edgar Allan Poe left his home in what is now The Bronx for a lecture tour and to seek backers for his latest venture, a literary magazine to be called The Stylus. By mid-July he was in Richmond, where he reconnected with an old flame and got engaged. He lingered in Richmond until September, then made plans to return to New York to retrieve Mrs. Maria Clemm, his mother-in-law (who was also his aunt), and bring her back to Richmond for the midOctober wedding. As far as anyone knows, Poe boarded a steamer early in the morning of September 27. He intended to take care of business matters on his way north. This first leg of his journey took him to Baltimore, a city that had for a while been his home. This was the last verified sighting of the poet until

October 3, when he was found raving and delirious in a ditch outside Gunner’s Tavern in Baltimore. He was wearing somebody else’s clothes, and never became coherent long enough to tell anyone where he’d been for the previous week, or explain how he’d come to be in such a sorry state. Poe died a few days later. We discuss the story of Poe’s demise in more depth in “The Bizarre Death of Edgar Allan Poe”, in Issue 1. The First Funeral Perhaps it is only fitting that the odd, dark drama continued after his death. Poe was a widower, who—aside from his new fiancee— had only his sister Rosalie in Richmond and Aunt Maria in New York. It would have fallen to Poe’s Baltimore relatives to provide a proper burial. His cousin Nielson supplied the hearse and uncle Henry Herring provided a cheap coffin that reportedly lacked handles, a nameplate, cloth lining, or a cushion. The funeral was held the day after Poe’s death at 4 p.m. on Monday,

October 8, 1849. It lasted a grand total of three minutes. Poe had already been something of a celebrity since the publication of “The Raven” in 1845. Yet there appears to have been not more than 10 people in attendance at his funeral (accounts vary). The Reverend W. T. D. Clemm, cousin of Poe’s wife Virginia, presided. According to the sexton, one George W. Spence, ”It was a dark and gloomy day, not raining but just kind of raw and threatening.” Perhaps it was the weather that kept mourners away, or maybe it was the fact that Nielson Poe never issued a public announcement, but most accounts list the only attendees as Zaddeus Collins Lee, a former classmate at the University of Virginia; Poe’s cousin Elizabeth Herring and her husband; Poe’s old schoolmaster Joseph Clarke; and Dr. Joseph Snodgrass, who had been the first physician in attendance after Poe was found in the gutter outside Gunner’s Tavern. Notably absent was Dr. Joseph Moran, the attending physician, even though the very fact that he was present at Poe’s death would become his claim to fame in the following years.

The Raven It would be several days before Poe’s sister Rosalie or his doting mother-in-law/aunt Maria in New York, would have any inkling of what had happened. His fiancee, Elmira, would not learn of his death until the day after the funeral, when an article appeared in the Richmond Daily Whig. And so Poe was laid to rest in the Poe family plot in Baltimore’s Westminster Burial Grounds in plot #27, a few feet from his grandfather, David Poe, Sr. Originally, the grave, near the rear corner of the churchyard, didn’t even have a headstone. And although Poe’s fame and reputation continued to grow after his death, his grave became neglected and overgrown with weeds. Finally the aforementioned sexton, Mr. Spence, arranged to have installed a small block of sandstone. The marker was something of a mystery. It had no name or date, only the inscription “80”, the significance of which is lost to time. In 1860, or so the story goes, a recent visitor to Baltimore called on Maria Clemm to report that her “darling Eddie’s grave” was “in the basement of the church, covered with rubbish and coal”. Your humble editors speculate that perhaps the unsuspecting tourist had been shown the wrong grave. Nevertheless, some good eventually came of it, for it prompted Mrs. Clemm

to write to Nielson Poe. Cousin Nielson promised to rectify the situation and made good on his promise. That year, an impressive gravestone of white Italian marble, three feet high, was completed. But in a turn of events truly fitting of Poe’s stranger-than-fiction life, the newly finished headstone was destroyed in a freak accident. The monument yard where the headstone was built was next to train tracks. Although finished, the headstone had not yet been transported to the graveyard when a train derailed and crashed into it. The only indication we have of how it might have looked is a sketch. No doubt feeling like he had done his bit, Nielson did not order another one. The Westminster Burial Grounds At the time of Poe’s passing, the burial ground, first established in 1786, was in a secluded rural outpost of West Baltimore. As the years passed, it became engulfed by the city of Baltimore, then the second most populous city in the U.S. Now smack dab in the middle of downtown Baltimore, the Westminster Burial Grounds is bordered on the north by Fayette Street and on the west by Greene Street. Today this small cemetery shares a city block with the Thurgood Marshall Law Library and the University of Maryland School of Law. Even without its most famous resident, the cemetery is itself

an interesting part of Baltimore’s history. The Westminster Burial Grounds is the resting place of nearly 300 veterans of the American Revolution and the War of 1812. Prominent among these is General Sam Smith (lot 85), U. S. Congressman, senator, and hero of the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. Physician James McHenry (lot 103) served as General George Washington’s aide-de-camp during the Revolution and was a signer of the Constitution. Then there is David Poe (17431816), grandfather of our Edgar.

David Poe, Sr. (1743-1816) had been something of a hero in the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. In 1824, the Marquise de Lafayette visited the burial ground to pay tribute. Poe’s older brother William Henry Leonard Poe was already buried there as well. Although raised in different cities after being orphaned as children, Poe and his brother were quite close. Henry was also a published poet and author but was only 24 when he died of tuberculosis in 1831. Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven In 1849, the church that dominates this small plot of land had yet to be built. In 1852, the Westminster Presbyterian church, now Westminster Hall, was built—quite literally—over many of the existing graves. In order to not disturb the existing graves, the church was built on a series of arched piers which form a series of catacombs, designed to give easy access to the tombs underneath. But by the late 19th century, the cemetery had begun to fall into disrepair. And by the early 20th, things were so bad that a dog once fell through the roof of General Sam Smith’s vault and had to be rescued by firemen. Round 2 At least Poe was spared the indignity of a church being built over his grave. However, Poe acolytes and visitors to Baltimore began to complain that their view of the grave from the street was impeded by the new church. They had a point, as the grave was in the opposite corner from the main entrance. In 1865 a fan, one Miss Sara Sigourney Rice, spearheaded a popular movement to provide a more prominent memorial for the neglected poet. By 1871 donations from the public had raised approximately half the cost. In 1874, Mr. George W. Childs of Philadelphia donated the rest. So by 1875, 26 years after his

Grüss vom Krampus

death, preparations were made to exhume Poe’s remains and rebury them in their present location near the churchyard entrance. And yet there is always drama where Poe is concerned. Who’s Buried in Poe’s Grave? Controversy arises from time to time around whose remains are actually in the grand plot near the corner of Fayette and Greene Streets. Recall that our noble poet’s original resting place was in an unmarked plot. Had Nielson’s magnificent white marble monument not been run over by a train, there would never have been any question. But by now 26 years had passed. A reporter named William Meaney visited the cemetery the morning after the reburial and inquired as to whether anything remained of Poe’s original coffin. The sexton (the same Mr. Spence, whom we have already met) offered the journalist a piece of mahogany, assuring him that it was part of the coffin. (The piece of mahogany was later made into a pen holder.) Meaney ascertained that mahogany was not consistent with the stories of the meager circumstances of Poe’s burial, thereby starting the rumor that the wrong body had been exhumed. He based this assumption on the writings of Dr. J. E. Snodgrass , who had publicly proclaimed Poe had been buried in the simplest of wooden boxes. Nielson Poe and the undertaker put the matter to

According to the Baltimore Sun, Halloween tours of the catacombs started in the 1970’s and have been popular with Baltimore tourists. Most notoriously, visitors could see “not only the occasional skeleton within the catacombs under the church, but decaying coffins, askew tombstones and disturbed graves.” The church remained an active church until 1977. It was added to the National Register of Historic Sites in 1974 and is now used for weddings, receptions, lectures, conferences, and other events.

The Raven rest, stating that Poe’s coffin had been of “the finest mahogany” and that Dr. Snodgrass wasn’t even at the funeral. Various writers in the past have attributed the contradiction to the fact that Dr. Snodgrass was an active member of the Temperance Movement, and may have been using the circumstances surrounding Poe’s death as marketing fodder for his campaign against the consumption of alcohol. But we digress. And yet, questions remain. Burial records at the Westminster Cemetery contain no specific information about the location of Poe’s grave. Contradictory accounts have surfaced over the years. Poe was buried in a simple coffin, or maybe it was of the finest oak with brass handles. Or maybe it was mahogany. It depends on who you asked.

Poor Virginia. Poe’s cherished wife died in 1847, age just 24, after a five-year battle with tuberculosis. In 1875, the cemetery where she was buried was destroyed. With her mother now dead, there was no one to claim Virginia’s earthly remains. An early Poe fan and biographer, William Gill, claimed her bones and kept them in a box under his bed. Virginia’s remains were finally buried with her husband’s on January 19, 1885, nearly ten years after his present monument was erected.

But the real issue seems to be that in 1864 all the gravestones were turned to face west. (Seriously... why?) The bottom line is that rumors persist that the remains under the fabulous 1875 monument are those of a War of 1812 militiaman named Philip Mosher, Jr., who died in 1814. Your humble editors suggest that, should you find yourself in Baltimore wishing to pay homage to Poe, you might want to visit both gravesites, just in case. The new monument, which stands today in the front corner

This sketch, made more than 23 years after Poe’s death and almost a decade after the gravestones were reoriented, shows the presumed location of Poe’s original burial in relation to his paternal grandparents. Presumably, the “Adult Male” at the far left is Poe’s brother.

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven of the churchyard, was finally dedicated on November 17, 1875. Mrs. Clemm, having shuffled off this mortal coil in 1871, was originally buried in the Poe family plot. In 1875, her remains were exhumed and placed with Poe’s in the new plot. Supervising the whole affair was our friend George W. Spence, the same sexton who had buried Poe in 1849. Ten years later, the earthly remains of Poe’s beloved wife Virginia were finally buried there as well. Attending the second ceremony were Poe’s cousin Neilson, by now a judge; as well as John H. B. Latrobe, one of the judges who awarded Poe the Baltimore Saturday Visiter prize in 1833; Sara S. Rice, who had started the whole campaign in the first place; and none other than Walt Whitman. The ceremony included the reading of letters from Alfred, Lord Tennyson and H. W. Longfellow. In 1913, an admirer named Orin C. Painter erected a marker to commemorate Poe’s original burial place. Oddly, this marker was at first placed near the back wall of the cemetery, nowhere near the actual gravesite. It wasn’t until 1921 that it was moved to its current location in the Poe family plot. Ironically, this marker is perhaps the more widely recognized of the two. One More Time And yet it’s still not the end of Poe’s post-mortem story. W. Fayette St. Entrance

Poe’s grave Thurgood Marshall Law Library

Westminster Hall and catacombs

N. Greene St.

Grandpa Poe

On October 10, 2009, Poe finally got the send-off he deserved, when the Poe House Baltimore held a ceremony to honor the 200th anniversary of Poe’s birth. This time the news was carried by such august news organizations as Reuters, CBS, ABC, and The Guardian. Tickets to the event sold out in advance, with fans coming from as far away as Vietnam. The service featured John Astin, of The Addams Family fame, as the master of ceremonies. Actors portrayed Poe’s contemporaries, including Rufus Griswold, Walt Whitman, and Arthur Conan Doyle. There was even a replica of Poe’s casket complete with wax effigy. A horse-drawn carriage transported the effigy from his former home (now the Poe House Baltimore) to the graveyard, followed by an all-night vigil at Poe’s grave.

Poe’s original burial location

Sources Poe Society Baltimore Baltimore Sun, October 31, 2019 University of Maryland School of Law

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Atlas Obscura

Poe by the Numbers In his short life of 40 years, Poe authored an extensive volume of works, creating more than 300 poems, short stories, essays, articles, reviews, and one novel. While reading about his life and works, the editors of this illustrious journal uncovered other interesting facts that could be quantified, which we’ve done, because, well, why not? Read on to learn about the other numbers in Poe’s life. Be warned, we could easily notate by each question “that we know of.” Such was the fluid and mysterious life of our dear Poe.

Virginia Clemm

1 Wives Graves

Original, unmarked, in the Poe family plot Current, near Greene and Fayette Streets

Siblings

William Henry Leonard Rosalie

Foster moms Benedict Arnold (rumored) General David Poe, Sr.

Frances Allan Louisa Patterson Allan

Famous military relatives

2 International copyright laws Better pay for writers

Publishing issues for which Poe fought * US presidents to whom Poe had access

Thomas Jefferson (through the University of Virginia) John Tyler (through his son Robert Tyler, a classmate of Poe’s)

Penn Magazine The Stylus

Magazines Poe dreamed of publishing **

Original burial October 9, 1849 Memorial service at 1875 reburial Third service October 10, 2009

Funerals

Unfinished works

The Journal of Julius Rodman, Being an Account of the First Passage across the Rocky Mountains of North America Ever Achieved by Civilized Man, an unfinished serialized novel Politian, an unfinished drama The Light-House, the unofficial title of Poe’s last work, in

progress when he died

Edgar A. Perry Quarles Edward S. T. Grey Henri Le Rennet

Aliases

Simple sandstone block marked “80” Nielson Poe’s marble monument (destroyed) 1875 marker at current burial place 1913 “Raven” marker at original burial spot

Tombstones

10 Works adapted to film * Another reason we love Poe!

** But never quite got around to

The Tomb of Ligeia The City Under the Sea The Conqueror Worm The Oblong Box Cry of the Banshee

The Pit and the Pendulum Tales of Terror The Raven The Masque of the Red Death The Haunted Palace

Dark Night of the Soul

Early October

A wrecking ball hit me in my chest. That’s what the pain felt like that wrenched me out of sleep. I gripped the bed covers and laid corpse stiff. A heart attack. A heart attack. I’m dying. I wanted to reach out to my wife. I wanted to call 911. I wanted to save myself, but I feared any movement, no matter how slight, would hasten my descent from living to dead.

to Plainsville. Resting against the bed, I noticed white light stealing around the blinds into the room. It had been pitch-black dark when the wrecking ball struck. I glanced at the bedside clock, 7:00 a. m., my usual waking time. “Gerald, are you okay?”

by Ann Fields

A crushing pressure, as if my heart was being balled like paper, joined the pain and I grabbed my chest. I couldn’t breathe and the room began undulating as if it had become part of a carnival fun house with mirrors that distorted and a floor that moved in waves.

I heard the worry in my wife’s voice. “I’m fine. Just fell out the bed, I guess.” The pain, the fall, the blackout was fading in the light of day. My wife sat back, giving me space, but kept a comforting hand on my arm. “You fell out the bed?! What grown man falls out the bed?”

I got dizzy, reached out to steady myself, but overreached and landed on the floor. Breathing in puffs, I laid still, clutching the carpet, and prayed to God, bargained with the devil, and pleaded with any being in between the two to let me live another day. Then, darkness.

“One that’s having a heart attack.” I tried to smile and failed. “What?” she asked, alarmed. “A heart attack? Are you sure?” “Severe pain. Heart pain. A million times worse than heartburn,” I replied, holding my head. “The room was rolling like waves. I blacked out. It was a trip.”

The next thing I knew, Amanda was shaking my shoulder, calling my name, and feeling me up like we were newlyweds again.

“But you’re fit and healthy. It must have been something you ate.”

I was still on the floor, but the pain was gone. And gone, too, was the crazy, carnival-like atmosphere of the room. Oh, man. I sat up gingerly, testing to make sure movement would not send me back

Of course, she would go to food first. Amanda

The Raven believed a vegan diet was the only way to avoid illness and live a long, healthy, productive life. But what I believed was a man had to have a steak every once in a while to be a man. “It wasn’t something I ate. It wasn’t heartburn. Or food poisoning. I’ve had both of those and I know this pain wasn’t either of those pains.” “Humph! You’re always eating off that nasty buffet at that strip club. My money’s on food poisoning, but what do I know? I’m no doctor.” She stood. “But you’re feeling better now? No lingering effects of, of, whatever it was?” “I’m fine, just tired and sleepy.” “That’s a relief.” “Wanna give us both relief?” I wiggled my eyebrows and rolled my eyes to the bed. “I can prove to you I’m okay.” “Boy, I am not going to make the kids late for school fooling around with you.” Amanda walked away and seconds later I heard the shower running. I picked myself off the floor, stretched, and yawned, wondering what the hell was that? I can’t believe I fell out the bed. I can’t believe the intensity of that pain!

 Even though the day had started with a bump, the rest of the day went smoothly—a few site visits to potential customers, a long lunch at the gentleman’s club with

the fellas, a handful of cold calls in the afternoon, deals closed, commissions earned, a few rejections but none that would jeopardize my ranking as number one salesperson at the technology company where I worked. The evening was the same as usual, too. A rushed dinner with a side of homework then off to my son’s little league basketball practice—him, to play; me, to coach. By eight, we were back home and by nine, the kids were bathed and settled in their beds. My wife was in our media/ game room no doubt looking for Halloween ideas on Pinterest, ideas that would turn into projects for me. So, I went downstairs and stretched out on my favorite lounger to enjoy an old March Madness highlights program on ESPN. Around midnight, I joined my wife in bed. She moaned when I disturbed the mattress and the covers. Hoping it was an invitation, I glanced at her. She was fast asleep. I clicked off the light and drifted off. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when that same heart pain gripped me and yanked me out of sleep. All the other symptoms made an appearance too—difficulty breathing, the fun house trick, loss of coordination, weakness. I ended up on the floor again. My eyes closed. For the second morning in a row, my wife shook me awake, more aggressively this time. I could feel worry in the grip of her

hands. I saw concern etched as lines between her brows. “You fell out the bed again? What’s wrong with you? Something’s going on.” I sat up slowly, feeling weak and sleepy. As before, I scooted against the bed. “Same heart pain. Man, it was excruciating. I felt like I was dying.” Amanda reached for my cell phone. “I would tell you to call Doc Taylor, but I’d be wasting my breath.” She’s right. I was sure this was a passing condition, nothing serious. I got to my feet at the same time Amanda hung up. “They can work you in tomorrow at 1:00,” she reported, adding the appointment to my calendar. She handed the phone to me then headed for the shower. I stretched, wondering, maybe it’s stress. I quickly dismissed that idea. My life was golden—a wife that made Beyonce’ look average, two smart, talented kids, a job I loved and excelled at, and a loving extended family that got along fairly well. We had money in the bank, an amazing house in an up- and-coming neighborhood, and excellent health. Yeah, my life was enviable.

 On the third morning, Amanda found me on the floor. The same condition landed me there— heart pain, shallow breathing, a spinning room, falling, and blackout.

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven “Come on, Gerald,” Amanda coaxed, pulling on my arm. “We’re going to the ER.”

That was all it took to knock the anger out of her – a helpless tone of voice, weakness on my part.

I sat up against the bed, head hanging low. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” Even I, in my bedraggled state, could heard the weary in my voice.

“Of course!”

“Did you hear me? We’re going to the hospital.” I heard her command this time. “No, I’m not!” I said, raising my head. “I’ll go see Doc Taylor, but I’m not going to a hospital.” Amanda stared at me. I stared at her. The staring match went on a full thirty seconds before I finally said, “Look, honey, I appreciate your concern, but . . .” I reached for my phone and pulled up my calendar. “I see Doc Taylor in six hours. He’s someone I know and trust. I’m alive. I can wait ‘til then.” I maneuvered around Amanda to stand. I considered the matter closed. I suppose she did too because she didn’t say anything. Just huffed and puffed and made a bunch of rustling sounds. I turned and saw she was making the bed, but I could tell by the way she was snatching those poor bed covers she was not happy about losing. I sighed and walked to her. “Amanda.” She stood up straight, hand on her hip, eyes throwing forks and knives at me. “You’re meeting me at Doc Taylor’s, right?”

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I ignored the mocking in my head that told me I was only fooling myself. Appeasing her wasn’t the only reason I’d asked the question. I wanted my wife with me. “Would you feel better if I stayed home? So I don’t miss the appointment.” I don’t know where her mind went but mine went to the last doctor’s appointment I’d missed. I was supposed to take Sophia, our daughter to a pediatric check-up. I’d gotten caught up at work and forgot all about my baby girl. I had not, though, forgotten about the cussing out from Amanda when she finally reached me to tell me of my mistake. She’d learned of it from the doctor’s office. Amanda smiled, hugged me. “You can be an ass sometimes, you know that?” That was her way of letting me know she knew I was pandering to her. “Yeah, but you love this ass.” I held her in my arms and smiled too.

 After Amanda and the kids left, I called my boss, William “Bill” Henderson, a recent transplant to the St. Louis office as the company’s new Vice President of Sales. The company had

offered me the job, but who wants to babysit grown folks all day? Besides, I can make more money as a sales rep than being in management. I got Bill’s voicemail. “Bill, Gerald here. Not gonna make it in today. Not feeling well. Will call and check in later. If you need me before then, you’ve got my number.” I crawled into a pair of sweats, admitting to myself I had not been totally truthful with Amanda. I was starting to think this wasn’t a passing condition, that there might actually be something wrong. Each day of whatever this was was zapping my strength and leaving me confused like my brain cells were being picked off one by one. I laid across the bed, wondering for the millionth time what was attacking my heart, my sleep, my health, my peace of mind.

 The irritating sound of the alarm jostled me from dozing, false sleep Amanda called it, referring to that level of sleep where one is easily awakened. I left the house and made it to Doc Taylor’s office with a minute to spare. Amanda was in the waiting room and had checked me in. I didn’t get a chance to sit before a sprite young nurse called my name and ushered us to an exam room. She asked the standard questions, took my vitals, and walked out. A second later, Doc Taylor walked in. He’d been my

The Raven doctor since as long as I could remember and could accurately retell every sickness and broken bone story of my life, my brothers and sisters, too. In all those many years of care, his appearance never changed. He wore a mostly white afro that was uneven, had liver-spots on his tan-colored hands, and a hunched back. “Gerald, Amanda! How are the kids? Your ma and pa?” He shook my hand, hugged Amanda, then squinted at me over his wire frames. “The kids are great. Happy, healthy, keeping us busy,” Amanda replied. I added, “Dad and mom are good. Dad just bought a boat. We’re planning to visit this summer and do a little deep-sea fishing.” “Warm Florida sunshine, all the golf he can stand, and now a boat. Sounds like he’s living the life. Makes me yearn for retirement.” Doc Taylor smiled. I matched his smile. “You can’t do that until you figure out what’s going on with me.” The doctor sobered. “Tell me what’s been going on.” Even as Doc Taylor asked the question, he retrieved my file, scanned it, and listened as I rattled through the symptoms. Doc Taylor “hmmmed” and laid the file on the desk, then poked and prodded, sticking instruments and his hands here and there. He wrapped up his exam asking questions about

level and characteristics of the pain. Turning to the computer, he said, “I know the Jacobs do not have a history of cardiovascular disease. Other than high blood pressure. But your pressure is normal, has been forever. Sure sounds like something’s going on with your ticker though.” He shrugged. Because his hunched back hiked one shoulder higher than the other, his shrug was lopsided. “We’ll take some blood and urine, run it through the mill and see what comes back.” While he typed in orders, Doc Taylor continued, “You’ll soon be forty. That’s a good age to get a full cardiology workup. I’m going to send you to Dr. Kennedy. One of the best cardiologists in the city.” He turned to Amanda, who’d been quiet. I could tell by the set of her face, she’d been soaking in the doctor’s every move, every word. “And how are you, my dear? Still working in mental health?” “I’m good and yes,” Amanda smiled politely, “unfortunately, more and more patients every day.” Her smile dropped. “How soon do you think a cardiologist can fit him in? The situation is distressing.” “I can imagine it is. It sure sounds scary, especially for someone as healthy as Gerald. A few weeks, maybe.” “Can’t you use your influence to get him in tomorrow?” That was the New York City aggressiveness coming out of Amanda. She’d

spent the first sixteen years of her life in Brooklyn. Twenty years of living in the Midwest had not softened her pushiness by much. “I can’t speak for Dr. Kennedy’s schedule. But I’ll give him a call, see what I can do. We’ve been trying to set up a golf game for the longest. I can kill two birds with one call.” “Thank you, Doc Taylor.” I was glad Amanda got her way. Otherwise, Doc Taylor would have seen a side of her I wouldn’t want him to see. Soon after, Doc Taylor left with a kindly squeeze of my arm and another hug for Amanda. We followed the signs to the lab. Before we got there, Amanda asked, “You’re not going to work, are you?” I looked at my wife and knew the answer she wanted to hear. This time we were in agreement. “I’m going home. See if I can make up some of the sleep I’ve been missing. Do you want me to pick up the kids? Pick up something for dinner?” “No, you rest. We’ll see you later.” Amanda kissed me then hurried off, back to work as a psychologist for a mental health clinic. I checked in at the lab, donated bodily fluids, and then I was free.

 Late that afternoon, when the

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven brood made it home, I discovered we had an activity-free evening— no basketball, no dance classes, no last-minute science projects, or gift paper to pimp for the school. After homework and dinner, I led the family outside to play a little two-on-two basketball in the driveway. I tired far too soon and copped a seat on the back patio while Amanda and the kids ran around the backyard, playing tag and tossing a Frisbee. At eight, when the sun was half-retired and the evening breeze had become stiff and chilly, Amanda called an end to family fun time. I helped the kids prepare for bed and once they were tucked in and kissed, I went back downstairs to catch a few hours of TV. At some point, I fell asleep and dreamt I was floating toward black panel curtains in front of which gray smoke shifted like clouds. I noticed movement behind the curtains, but just as I reached out to part the panels, I jerked straight up to sitting, eyes wide open, fully awake. My heart was racing at the speed of light and thumping hard. It wasn’t the crushing, pressurized pain of the past few nights, but it caused me to clutch my chest and take deep breaths. The house was quiet and mostly dark, the only slashes of light coming from the TV and a nightlight in the hallway. The normalcy of my environment calmed me as did the fact that even though the dream seemed real, we didn’t have dark curtains

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and certainly didn’t own a smoke machine. I glanced at the clock. After midnight. I got up and walked through the house, checking to make sure all was secure. As I walked upstairs to peek in on the kids and join my wife in bed, I prayed for no pain. I prayed for a full night of rest.

Mid October I sat in my car, surrounded by a sea of cars. The morning sun bore down, making the day unseasonably warm for October. If this heat keeps up, Amanda will have to change the kids’ Halloween costumes, I thought. Sometimes I still had lucid thoughts. Far too often not. I tried to distract myself from that last thought by grabbing my phone and sliding it in my jacket pocket. Then I exited the car and walked across the parking lot. A jumbled mind wasn’t my only worry. These days, I was physically weak as if my life’s battery was being drained. At work, I struggled to keep pace with the calls and emails from customers, my boss, and coworkers. At home, I struggled to keep up my end of being a decent dad and husband. All I wanted to do was lay down and sleep, but every time I fell into a deep, restful sleep, heart pain yanked me awake. I made it to the employee entrance and collapsed on the smokers’ bench. In the past, I

would have zoomed by this space to avoid second-hand smoke. Now, I needed the respite to recover energy I’d lost from dressing, driving to work, and walking across the parking lot. And equally important, I needed to check my appointments for the day. Yesterday, I’d called in sick and hadn’t checked my phone for calls, messages or appointments until Bill called cussing up a blue and black streak. An important client was threatening to take their business elsewhere because I’d missed my presentation time slot. After collecting client history and proposal information from me, Bill had abruptly hung up. I’d tried to rally the energy to dress and make it in. But no go. I’d remained on the lounger, calling the office every hour on the hour for updates. Bill never answered his phone, but his assistant, who’d always been nice to me, answered hers and kept me appraised. At the end of the day, she’d shared the good news. Bill had saved the one point six-million-dollar contract. I jumped up and fast-walked to my cubicle, wondering how severe my punishment would be. I arrived sweating, panting, to see a neon green Post-It note stuck square center of my monitor. A summons to the boss’ office. Shit! Shit! Shit! Taking a few deep breaths, I tried to collect myself then hurried to Bill’s office. My heart sank when I saw the HR rep seated in one of the two leather chairs in front

The Raven of Bill’s desk. I knew what was coming. I closed the door and took the chair next to Cindy. I expected her to be the one to fire me, but instead my boss, glaring at me, handed over a thick envelope and a short explanation. “Sick leave paperwork. Have your doctor complete and return.” “Sick leave?” I reached for the packet, turned it over, and peeked inside. “I’m not being fired?” “I wanted to after yesterday’s mess, but HR wouldn’t let me.” Bill still sounded as angry as yesterday. I looked at Cindy and she said, “Gerald, one mistake shouldn’t override your many years of contributions. DSC is grateful for all that you’ve done for us. The least . . . “ Cindy cut her eyes at Bill before continuing, “. . . we can do is support you in what is obviously a difficult time in your life.” She twisted in her chair to face me. “You’ve called in sick five of the last ten days. And I can look at you and see something’s not right.” That was a nice way of pointing out my drastic weight loss—I’d been subsisting on cranberry juice and water—the only things that would stay down, my redstreaked eyes with dark half circles underneath, and the gray pallor my dark brown skin had taken on. “We’re strongly suggesting you

take sick leave,” Cindy said. “With sick leave you can take all the time you need. Your position will be waiting for you when you’ve recovered.” She shrugged and looked troubled when she said, “If you continue at your current work performance, you might face a different outcome. Like I said, with all the great years you’ve given, all the wonderful successes you’ve had, we’d hate for it to come to that.” Bill snarled, “You are, after all, top gun.” Cindy ignored Bill’s interruption and said, “The decision is yours.” It sounded to me like I didn’t really have a choice. I pulled the packet closer to me. Bill pushed a pad and pen to me. “Write down the codes to your voicemail and computer. I’ll take your company cell phone.” He held out his hand. I walked out of DSC ten minutes after I’d walked into Bill’s office. I drove home on autopilot, wondering how in fourteen days I’d lost so much—my health, quality time with my family, and now my future at DSC. It was enough to make a grown man cry.

 That evening after reading a book to the kids—in mine and Amanda’s bed—and shooing them to their bedrooms, I went downstairs and collapsed onto the lounger, dead tired. A few minutes later, Amanda walked in carrying a glass of juice in one

hand and water in the other. She set the glasses on the coffee table next to the packet I’d brought from work and sat beside me. “All those appointments and tests and procedures and still no diagnosis,” Amanda sighed as she pulled out the sick leave paperwork and riffled through the pages. She mimicked Doc Taylor’s voice, “There’s no earthly reason why Gerald should have the symptoms he’s having.” I smiled at her imitation which was pretty damn close. “We need a second opinion, Gerald,” she said, turning to me and gripping my knee. Her brows were puckered, her voice intense. “Somebody not affiliated with Doc Taylor. I’ll check around for another doctor.” “Haven’t you done enough checking? You’ve asked coworkers, friends, and only God knows who else about my symptoms. You’ve researched the hell out of WebMD. Let Dr. Kennedy do this heart monitor test and if that doesn’t come back with anything . . .” “But that’s 30 days! By the time he finishes that test, you’ll be down to skin and bones.” I felt the same way, but I was not going to tell her that. One of us needed to be positive in this moment. I opened my mouth to say something reassuring but the doorbell rang. Amanda and I looked at each other, asking with our eyes, “Are you expecting someone?”

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven Frowning, Amanda rose and headed for the front door. I stood, too, but in my clumsiness bumped against the table and knocked over the juice glass. Blood red liquid sprawled across the coffee table. “Shit!” As I grabbed for tissues, Amanda said in a frustrated tone, “I’ll get it later. You’ll just make it worse.” That stung! If I were the old Gerald, it wouldn’t have but this new me—tired, sick, useless—read her harsh words and hard eyes as condemnation, proof I was no longer good husband material. I threw tissues onto the table and dabbed hard and quick to prove I was still viable, but I wasn’t fast enough. The paperwork was ruined, and juice was now dripping onto the sand-colored carpet. “Maria?” I heard my wife say from the foyer. As I continued working on the spill, I searched my brain trying to place a Maria. A parent on my son’s Everett’s basketball team? A co-worker? A parent on PTA with Amanda? One of her crazy patients? God! I hoped not! Throwing the tissues on the table, I followed the path to the front door, grabbing a heavy pewter candlestick along the way. Amanda was fixed in the middle of the doorway, blocking my view of Maria. Our guest must have heard my approach because she looked around Amanda and locked eyes with me.

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She was a good-looking woman, around our age with browntinted skin, an oval-shaped face, and dark eyes. Her hair was dark, too, with curls upon curls. I had no idea who she was, but I figured Amanda knew her considering she had the door wide open to her. I moved in place beside Amanda, putting a hand on her back. “Babe? You gonna introduce us?” Amanda pointed at our guest. “Maria Boche, a co-worker. She was just saying . . . “ “Noooo,” Maria said softly as her eyes traced an outline of my head, shoulders, and chest. “Noooo,” she repeated before closing her eyes. She began swaying from side to side. “What the hell?” I asked. Maria stopped and opened her eyes. Hers bore into mine. “A witch is riding you,” she said. Her voice was low-timbered and mildly accented. “Here.” She thrust a gold cross and one of those white religious candles at me, then let go the items so quickly, I had to juggle to keep them and our candlestick from crashing to the floor. Witch! Did she say a witch?! Maria said, “Wear the cross. Burn the candle. Pray for protection.” She backed away, out of the glow of the porch light. I stared, watching her shadow move quickly to a SUV parked at the curb. I looked at the cross and

candle in my hands. Protection? What the fuck?! “Hey, wait! Wait! Stop right there!” Amanda hollered, hoofing it after our uninvited guest. I followed the women. By the time I reached the curb, Maria was sitting behind the steering wheel and Amanda was beating on the passenger side glass with an open palm, yelling, “You can’t just say some shit like that and leave. You need to explain yourself.” Slowly, the window slid down, the engine died, and an inside light flicked on. Amanda demanded, “What are you talking about?” Maria stared at me. I stared at her. She ignored Amanda and spoke directly to me. “You picked up a witch.” She did that scan again of my head, shoulders, and chest, stopping at the place where my heart beat weakly. “She’s stripping you of life. Use those to repel her.” “Are you out of your head?” Amanda screeched. “That’s an urban legend!” Maria glanced at Amanda before returning to stare at my heart or at least the place where beneath layers of skin and bone it lay. “One day, when the witch has sucked your heart dry, you will be nothing.” I couldn’t get my mind to move past a witch and protection. Amanda, though, didn’t miss a beat. “You heard about his heart condition at work,” she accused.

The Raven “Why are you talking such nonsense? What do you want?” Maria finally looked at Amanda. “I didn’t want to come. But when the angels direct you, you move.” Something told me to look closer at the candle Maria had forced onto me. The image of San Miguel was glued on the glass. I trembled violently and suddenly felt cold. Cold and scared. “There’s no such thing as a blood-sucking witch. You got your Halloween characters confused, lady! Get away from our house and don’t ever come back.” Amanda snatched everything out of my hands and threw it inside Maria’s car, including our candlestick. “Ever!” She tugged on my sweatshirt and stomped off. I took a few steps back and again, our eyes, mine and Maria’s, locked. “You’re wasting the doctors’ time,” she said, “Spiritual warfare is your way back.” She started her car and drove off.

Join Gerald in the second installment of “Dark Night of the Soul,” when he confronts the dark, mysterious Maria, a woman who seems to know more about his life-threatening condition than all of his doctors combined. But as he follows Maria from one clue to another, will Gerald obtain the cure he desperately needs to save his life, or will he discover Maria is a sham spiritualist who is really after his soul? Find out in issue 4 of The Raven, coming in April 2022.

To be continued....

Issue 3 | October 2021

wide front door and around the corner, pausing at the practice field to savor the memory of his many past triumphs. Finally, reluctantly, he bade farewell to his beloved alma mater and slowly made his way home. Mama was cooking a feast in his honor tonight, and he rather imagined it would be his last decent meal-until he got to France, of course. Then he would have gourmet food, and some wine to go with it, perhaps in the company of a beautiful French mademoiselle.

by Sue Latham

The Afterlife of Adam Pennington

Adam Pennington strolled the halls of his alma mater. He hadn’t come here deliberately intending to come inside the building, but a janitor recognized him and unlocked a door for him. Adam stopped by the trophy case to bid the State Championship trophy a fond farewell, noting that the team photo was finally in the trophy case next to it. As captain, he was, of course, front and center. With satisfaction, he noted that his class photo, Green Hills High School class of 1917, also now hung on the wall next to the trophy case. Graduation day, quite frankly, had been the saddest day of his life. He was a Big Man on

Campus--student body president, debate team champion, and captain of the football team. Leaving it all behind was terrifying. And yet, imagining what the future might hold, he shivered with excitement. This time tomorrow he would be on a train bound for Ft. Riley, Kansas. After a few short weeks of basic training, he would achieve the ultimate dream of his short life, for he would be in France. He only hoped the war wouldn’t be over too soon! The summer recess was now well underway and the usually noisy halls were eerily quiet, his footsteps echoing loudly. With a nod to the janitor, he went out the

Except that Adam never made it to France. In just a few short weeks, he would return to Green Hills—in a pine box. The flu epidemic that was even then raging through the cities and military training camps was unstoppable, though Adam didn’t know this. In the end, it would claim the lives of 50 million people, including thousands of young soldiers like himself.

It was a while before Adam became fully aware of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered, he had been on a cot and a pretty Army nurse was holding his hand. His confusion was understandable, for now he seemed to be in his room back home. Except for the uniform that was neatly folded on the edge of his bed, the room was exactly as he had left it. The fancy travel poster that had fired his imagination and fed his dream

The Raven of standing atop the Eiffel Tower still hung exactly where he had tacked it to the wall when he was twelve. With some concentration and a little practice, Adam discovered he could move around easily, so he went to look for Mama and Papa, and his little sister Janie. He found them in the parlor as they were most evenings. Papa, as was his habit, was reading the evening newspaper, while Mama worked on a needlepoint. Janie was engrossed in a book. None of them looked up. Only Maisie the dog seemed to notice him when he appeared. The dog whined quietly, and feebly wagged her tail as he approached, but scurried away when he reached out to her. “Hey!,” Adam yelled. “Hey, I’m here.” But nobody heard him except the dog and she kept her distance.

Nobody broke the unnerving silence, and as Adam watched his father, he noticed that Papa hadn’t turned a single page of the newspaper. Mama didn’t appear to be making much progress on her needlepoint either, which, Adam noted with a pang of sadness, was the same one that she had been working on when he left. There was a photo of Adam in his uniform on the mantle, next to a family photo that included his baby brother, who died many

years ago, before Janie was born. Sometimes Mama glanced at the photo on the mantle, but mostly seemed to be lost in thought. Only Janie appeared to be truly absorbed in what she was doing. Adam tried again to get their attention, but finally gave up and went back to his room and curled up in the closet.

Before long, Adam lost track of days and nights. Time seemed somehow to fly by yet stand still at the same time. For something to do, he occasionally returned to the school, looking for reminders of his former glories. The trophies were still in the trophy case and the class photos on the wall, but now he recognized few of the students he saw walking the halls. A new crop of seniors— imposters!—now lorded over the underclassmen.

Suddenly, it was Thanksgiving, then Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Mama and Papa let Janie place the tiny candles on the tree. As the oldest, it had always been his special privilege to light the candles. Seeing Janie now take over this responsibility was almost more than he could bear. The next day, as they had since Adam could remember, the family went to visit his widowed grandmother. Adam passed the time in the back yard with only Maisie for company. The dog wagged her tail halfheartedly

when she saw Adam, but would only let him get so close before she ran away. He finally went to his room and consoled himself by peering out the window, where he could just see the edge of the football field that was in back of the high school, and a sliver of the bleachers.

Time passed, and each time Adam visited the school, a new crop of students whose names he didn’t know, and who didn’t know his, roamed the hallowed halls. New trophies appeared in the trophy case, and eventually the trophies he had been so instrumental in winning got shoved to the back. New class photos appeared, each class a little larger than the last.

Occasionally Mama would come in and tidy his room. Not that it was necessary, of course, for she was the only one that ever entered. But it did need to be dusted from time to time. One day, with a sad sigh and a few tears, she lovingly folded his uniform and packed it in his cedar trunk. “Don’t be sad, Mama,” he cried. “I’m right here!” But she didn’t hear him and left, closing the door gently behind her with a sniffle into her ever-present handkerchief.

As the years wore on, one day was pretty much like another, except for small changes that reminded

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven Adam of the passage of time. One day he became aware of the sounds of music and laughter coming from downstairs. He went to investigate, and discovered his family had acquired a radio. A marvelous piece of furniture, it occupied a special place in the parlor, taking up an entire corner. The room had been rearranged to accommodate this marvel, and thereafter Adam spent hours upon hours listening to programs with his family, even though they had no idea he was there.

That Christmas the elegant candles on the tree were replaced by electric lights. At first Adam was disturbed by this; he found their bright colors to be garish and unnatural, and missed the annual ritual of placing the candles carefully on the tree. But eventually he admitted that the colors were cheerful, and it was certainly convenient to turn them on and off at will, without having to worry about the tree bursting into flames, something Mama had always worried about. That year the family didn’t go to Grandma’s on Christmas day, and never went again. Mama acquired glasses, which she used only to read or work on her needlepoint. Papa began going bald, and Maisie spent most of her time on a cushion in front of the fireplace. Janie transformed from a little girl into a grown woman, seemingly overnight. One beautiful afternoon, all

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dressed in white, she descended the stairs on Papa’s arm. After all the guests had left, an eerie quiet fell upon the house, until Papa turned the radio on. Then one day Maisie came into his room, a sprightly young pup, her muzzle no longer white, and curled up with him in the closet.

Maisie wagged enthusiastically.

her

tail

“Papa! You can see me! Both of us...you can see us?” “Yes, Adam, I can. And I’ve come to ask you to come with me.” “Where?” Adam asked. “Where you should have gone a long time ago,” said Papa.

At Thanksgiving and Christmas, and sometimes for Mama or Papa’s birthday, Janie and her husband would visit. After a few years, they began bringing their son, who was also named Adam. One day Mama came into Adam’s room and he and Maisie watched her pack the rest of his personal belongings into the trunk—except for the poster of Paris, which remained where it had always been. Janie’s husband came and took the trunk away, and Adam later found it in a corner of the attic.

“I’m not ready to leave yet, Papa,” Adam replied.

After that, young Adam spent a couple of weeks every summer with Mama and Papa, sleeping in Adam’s room. Until he got a little older, he always slept with a light on, and Adam once overheard him tell Mama that there was “something scary” in the closet.

It became more of an effort to visit the high school. His team’s state championship trophy had been removed from the trophy case. So had the team photo and the photo of the class of 1917. Adam found the class photo in the school library, where it hung on the wall for a while, then it, too, disappeared. Then, on one visit, he saw a classmate. Chucky Hamilton, one year behind him, had been the football team’s water boy. Chucky was wearing a uniform. Not the same uniform as the one he’d been issued, but not

One evening Papa came into the room, looking young and fit, and with a full head of hair. “Hello, son,” he said. “Hey there, Maisie. It’s so good to see you again!”

“I know son, but you can’t stay forever.” “Please Papa, can’t you stay with me a while?” “No, son. But it was really good to see you, Adam. When you’re ready, we’ll be waiting for you.” Papa turned to leave. “Papa, wait! Where? Where are you going?” But Papa was gone.

The Raven entirely unlike it either. Chucky came closer, and Adam saw that part of his face was missing. “Say, it’s great to see you, Pennington!”

nephew’s annual summer visit with Grandma seemed not so long ago. But then Janie, who looked tired and sad, came in carrying a large satchel and said, “Do you need anything, honey?”

“Same here, Chucky. happened to you?”

What

“No, thanks, Mom. Won’t take me long to unpack.”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s another war on,” Chucky replied.

“Well, I’ll be right down the hall if you need me. Don’t forget to put some food and water out for Nibbles.”

“But it can’t be. NineteenEighteen was supposed to be the war to end all wars.” “Yeah, well, that wasn’t quite the way things turned out. Look, Pennington, why don’t you come with me?” “I can’t, Chucky. I’m not ready to leave.” “Suit yourself,” Chucky replied. “But I’ve got to be moving on.” “Wait! Don’t leave yet!” said Adam. “Stay awhile. I can show you where they put the photo of the championship team.” “Can’t, gotta go. But we’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.” And then Chucky was gone.

The door to Adam’s room burst open one day, and young Adam entered, dragging a large suitcase and carrying a small cage with some kind of furry animal in it. Adam reckoned his namesake must be about 11 by now. At first Adam thought he must have lost track of several months. His

Curious, Adam followed Janie to her old room. Mama had been using it as a sewing room in recent years. Now the sewing machine had been moved into a corner and Adam watched as his sister slowly and deliberately unpacked her things. Among them was a framed photo of her husband in a military uniform. She set it carefully on the bedside table. Then she unpacked a carefully folded flag, and burst into ragged sobs, clutching it to her chest. Adam thought back to his conversation with Chucky. Weeks, then months passed, and Janie and her son stayed in the house. It turned out that Nibbles was a guinea pig. She was very tame, and didn’t seem to be at all afraid of her young owner, but cowered in the corner and shook with fear when Adam approached.

Janie and young Adam stayed with Mama for what seemed like a long time. Nibbles eventually

joined him and Maisie in the closet. Adam lost his view of the high school football field when a multi-story office building was built near downtown. Adam learned that a war memorial was being planned for the town square and on the day of its unveiling, Janie came home and took Mama to it. It took Adam some time—weeks? months? years?— to work up the motivation to go see it for himself. He saw with satisfaction that his name was on it, on the side reserved for the fallen from the Great War (now known as World War I), although technically he hadn’t actually fought in the war. The other three sides were dedicated to the recent conflict, which they called World War II. There were many, many more names on these sides. Adam’s mollification at finding himself permanently memorialized was short lived. He hadn’t visited the school since the new office building blocked his view, and was shaken to his very core when he discovered there was now a sprawling modern building where his old high school had been. He was so upset that he stayed in the closet for what must have been months, for when he next ventured outside the closet it was snowing. Young Adam’s things were no longer in the room, which was bare except for the bed and the Paris poster. In Janie’s old room, the framed photo and flag were gone and Mama’s sewing machine

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven was back in its old spot. Mama was all alone in the house, except for him, and Maisie, and the guinea pig. But of course Mama didn’t know they were there, so she didn’t know she wasn’t alone.

One day—he had no idea how much time had passed—his sister Janie came in with a younger woman that Adam didn’t recognize. Janie looked much older than he remembered, and Adam noticed that an ornate ring with a large diamond now adorned her left hand in place of the plain gold band that she had once worn. “This room was my brother’s,” Janie told the other woman. Janie walked over to the poster of Paris. “All he ever wanted to do his whole life was to go to France, but he never made it.” “Oh my. What happened?” asked the other woman. “The flu, in 1918. During the first war. He only got as far as training camp. My parents were devastated. I was only six, so I barely remember him. The Historical Society was more than happy to have his things. Maybe if he hadn’t been so gung-ho on going to France, he would still be here.” Janie ripped the poster of the Eiffel Tower roughly off the wall. It left a noticeable rectangle of less-faded wallpaper behind. “Can you believe this has been hanging here for 40 years? No one ever came in here for years, until my son moved in when we

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lived here after my first husband died.” The younger woman regarded Janie with sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.” “Normandy, during D-Day. You know, convincing my mother to sell this place wasn’t easy. So many memories.” Janie sighed. “But it’s just too much for her now.” “She’ll be much happier with you.” “I hope so. It’s never easy, is it? Let me show you the other bedrooms.“ Shortly thereafter, to Adam’s astonishment, some burly men came and took away all the furniture.

Adam had no idea how long he was alone in the house. Some men came in and painted the walls, obliterating the rectangle where his poster of Paris had hung for so many years. Then a new family moved in, and a little girl settled into his room. Her name was Chloe, and at first she was reluctant to sleep there, insisting there was a monster in the closet. Chloe had a cat, a regal gray creature. The first time Chloe tried to bring the cat into the room, it hissed furiously and stampeded down the hall. Adam seldom saw the cat after that, but one day a tiny kitten came to visit him in the closet. But the kitten had only come for a visit, and when she left she took

Nibbles with her. Maisie looked after them, whining, and nudged Adam’s hand. “Not just yet, girl,” said Adam. “I’m not ready.” Chloe’s brother stayed in Janie’s old room down the hall, and Adam learned that he was the new star of the football team. How Adam envied him when he came home from practice in the evenings, exhausted and bruised. The new family were a jovial, noisy bunch. Where Mama and Papa’s magnificent radio once was, there was a newfangled contraption called a television. Adam didn’t care for it much, but had to admit that passing the time watching the blurry black and white images was better than lurking in the closet. At Christmas, instead of the live tree with the beautiful colored lights, there was a strange aluminum thing that only vaguely resembled any Christmas tree Adam had ever seen. Instead of the string of colored lights, there was a bright light attached to a motorized wheel that slowly rotated a colored disk. Adam wasn’t sure how he felt about this odd new thing, fondly remembering the real candles and the fragrant freshly cut tree, but nevertheless spent hours watching the sparkling metallic branches slowly change colors.

When Chloe got older, her friends sometimes came over and stayed the night. Chloe once told her

The Raven friends that when she was little she thought a ghost lived in her closet. Her friends convinced Chloe they should hold a séance. Adam tried his best to make his presence felt, but his efforts to make noise or move an object as requested were to no avail.

Another holiday season rolled around, and Chloe’s entire family decided to spend the holidays at the beach. Adam found himself alone with only Maisie for company. This year, knowing they wouldn’t be here, Chloe’s parents hadn’t even bothered to put up the shiny silver tree. Adam didn’t have the changing colors of the slowly spinning color wheel to entertain him, so he spent Christmas Eve watching the colored lights on the house across the street as they blinked on and off. A slushy, wet snow started to fall—the kind that wasn’t pretty and just made a mess of things.The neighbor’s house was one bright spot of color and light on an otherwise dismal grey evening. Maisie began wagging her tail, and Adam realized that there was someone else in the room with him. Mama was there, looking more

“It’s time to go, Adam.” Mama smiled and offered her hand. With Maisie bouncing joyously beside him, Adam took Mama’s hand and they left the house, left Green Hills, and left everything Adam had ever known. As they went toward the beautiful, comforting light, Adam could see that Papa was there, and so was Grandma Pennington, and Grandpa Pennington (whom Adam knew only from photos), and Nibbles, and the tiny kitten, and Chucky, and almost anyone Adam had ever known.

Break Out of Your Box

Time to dig up whatever that is rattling around in the darkest corners of your brain. Whether it’s a true encounter with the Unexplained, or that twisted little story you’ve secretly been scribbling down at work, we want to hear it.

Harry Clarke - illustration for “The Premature Burial”

Chloe’s football hero brother graduated, moved out and became a football hero at college. Then one day Chloe came into the room wearing a sparkling ring that she admired at every opportunity. Shortly thereafter, Chloe moved out and Adam seldom saw her. His room became a junk room and almost nobody ever came in.

radiant and beautiful than he’d ever seen her.

Submit your short fiction and real-life ghost encounters to ghostscribesdallas@gmail.com. We don’t pay, but our magazine is really cool.

The Raven is a Politics- and Religion-Free Zone.

Issue 3 | October 2021

Oh! My Soul! by Dr. E. B. Jones

Mark checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Only five minutes had passed since the last time he checked it. “Is this thing working?” Of course it was ticking, but he tapped its face anyway. Unable to sit still another minute, Mark bounded up from the hard plastic chair and left the boarding area. He paced up then down the wide hallway, trying to gin up interest in the various

boutiques lining one side of the terminal building. But the only thing that held his interest was his dream vacation in Providence Island. Finally, after years of school and hard work, he was minutes from a once-in-a-lifetime adventure on a tropical island that had captured his imagination from as early as middle school; an island that was several thousand miles away in the mid-Atlantic. All through middle and high school, surrounded by concrete in the Bronx, Mark had made up oral and written stories about living on an island. He loved that setting because it meant he could add palm trees, exotic fruit, and in later years when his hormones kicked in, sensual, dark-skinned beauties. Today he was merging those made-up stories with reality.

The Raven Dr. E. B. Jones is a retired professor of Educational Leadership. She considers Florida her home base, but Texas is where her grandchildren reside. So guess who spends most of her time in Texas? And guess who writes children’s books? In addition to picture books, E. B. writes short stories, poetry, and essays. Her publications include Nathan and his Magical Tablet and Breathe – Earth Day 2020. E. B. can be reached online at Facebook: Pam Enid Jones or Twitter: @JonesEbmjones.

“Flight 342 to Providence Island, now boarding at gate 33D.” Mark nearly mowed down other passengers to get to the gate. Already he was feeling free of his consuming life as a neophyte lawyer at a major law firm in Manhattan. He needed to feed his soul. He needed Providence Island. The view flying into the island was beautiful, captivating. Mark gobbled up the sights of jungles of variant green trees and ribbons of sparkling blue water winding through valleys and tumbling down cliffs on the way to freedom in the sea. Upon landing in the capital city, Mark hastened through the rigors of customs and boarded the resort’s shuttle bus with other visitors, all under the friendly eyes of airport and resort staff. Riding in the shuttle into and through the center of the city, Mark saw a variety of trees—including his beloved palm trees—lining the streets,

sprouting between buildings, hovering over vehicles in parking lots, and fronting houses. Many of the tree branches were loaded with fruit! Oranges, apples, and plums, their sizes larger than any he’d seen in America, and all the fruit was free, available for the picking. Mark saw people pluck the fruit, shine it on their clothes, and take big bites, wiping juicy rivulets off their dark brown, tan, and caramel-colored faces. The buildings in the city center reminded Mark of home - steel and glass skyscrapers. But the houses! The further north they traveled, the more colorful the houses. Spring colors of peach, lime green, vibrant yellow, terra cotta orange, colors that matched the fruit. Mark felt like he was viewing a live action painting in a picture frame. After a two-hour ride of sensual delights, the shuttle passed through the entrance gates of the resort. A collective gasp escaped the tourists. The word beautiful didn’t fully capture the splendor

of the place. Verdant trees and bushes in all shades of green lined the red-pebbled drive. The sprawling, modern building of white stucco glowed brilliantly against the red, purple, yellow, and white tropical flowers that hugged it. The art-deco building seemed to draw all the sun’s rays to it. Mark stepped off the bus, eyes sparkling, mouth shaped in a smile. He followed the other visitors into an open-air lobby and was immediately approached by a waiter with a frosty, pinkcolored drink. Mark sipped deeply, an explosion of tartness and sweetness filled his mouth. He smacked his lips—something he hadn’t done since he was a boy. Mark barely had time to appreciate the layout and décor, especially the fossilized tree furniture shaped into chairs, tables, and work surfaces for the registration clerks and bellhops, before a card key was slapped in his palm and he was shepherded to his room.

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The Raven  That night, Mark strolled jauntily into the hotel dining room and smiled at the pretty, young waitress. “Dinner for one?” she asked, showing off dimpled cheeks. “Unless you want to join me,” Mark teased, but prayed for a yes. Like her unspoiled island, she was pleasing to look upon. “I wish that I could. Follow me, please.” She grabbed a menu and led Mark to a small table bordered by giant palm leaves on two sides and dining tables on the other sides. Once seated, Debi, or so her name tag announced, recommended the special. “Parrot fish and rice with ripe plantains in a delicious pepper sauce, and for dessert, homemade rum raisin ice cream.” “Sounds great.” Mark nodded, appreciating both the food choice and Debi’s lilting, accented voice. His stomach growled in agreement of both. Mark didn’t have enough time to take in the beauty of the room—the deep brown tables lacquered to a permanent shine, the orange, pale blue, and white curtains fluttering by the open patio doors, and more fossilized accents hanging as chandeliers from the ceiling—before his food arrived. He inhaled deeply then dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days.

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After scooping the last bite in his mouth, Mark leaned back in his chair, replete and happy. A waiter hurried over and gathered the dirty plate and utensils. Mark asked, “What is there to do in this place after dark?” “A local band plays international dance music. You should go.” The waiter winked. “Lots of pretty ladies. Tourists and locals.” Mark needed no further encouragement. He followed the waiter’s directions, hearing the loud, up-beat tempo as he neared the lounge. The dance floor was packed with party goers, gyrating to the fast rhythm. The smell of salt, sea, and exotic flowers wafting in from the open patio doors was intoxicating, as was the mellow rum punch he’d enjoyed with dinner. The slick bodies, inviting music, delicious meal, and smooth drink served to melt the final layer of his New York tension. Drawn by the mysterious bluewhite moon hanging in the sky and peeking through the open doors, Mark wandered outside onto the lushly landscaped grounds. His head bobbed in time to the music as he admired the waist high shrubs spouting flowers in all colors and the tall palm trees that curved in a seemingly reverent

bow to the moon. Unconsciously following the paved path, Mark turned a corner and stopped to inspect a hedge that had unusual prickly spikes. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught movement. He whipped around and saw a woman in a diaphanous white dress, the skirt of which lifted, dipped, and swirled in the moist breeze. Mark stood transfixed, taking in her chocolate skin, curvy, petite body, large, dark eyes in a pixie face, and full, sensual lips. A slow smile spread across his face. The young beauty returned his smile. Mark took that as a sign of encouragement and walked to her. “Hello, I’m Mark Smith,” he said in greeting. “Dance with me?” Her smiled widened and without a word she held out her hand to him. He fitted her small hand into his and felt a shot of electricity run up his arm and spread throughout his body. Mark was thrilled! He led her to the dance floor. As if sensing Mark’s desire for slow music, the band switched to sensual beats. Mark pulled his dance partner close. They fit together perfectly. One dance led to another to another to another with smiles and entwined fingers as the only form of communication. Mark could not remember when he’d been so in sync with a woman, but he did remember he was living out his boyhood make-believe stories an island, palm trees, exotic fruit,

The Raven and a dark-skinned beauty. His happiness exploded. Later, when the band leader announced the last song of the night, Mark felt like protesting. Reluctantly, he separated from his companion and stared into her lovely face. “What is your name?” “Rose,” she replied breathily, “Just call me Rose.” “Are you staying in the hotel? Can I see you to your room?” Mark asked hopefully. “Thanks, I’m okay. I live close by.” “Will I see you again? Will you

be here tomorrow night?” Mark did not care that he sounded eager, desperate. He had to see her again. He wanted to keep his dream, his stories alive. “Yes, I’ll be here.” He held her hand until she tugged away. She took steps backward then slipped away into the night. WOW! What a night, Mark thought as he strolled to the bar. Strolled was not the right word. He was high, walking on air after dancing half the night away with his new acquaintance, Rose. He claimed a stool and smiling, ordered a rum punch. For the

next few hours, he drank and replayed the scene of Rose in his arms. Mark couldn’t remember when he’d been so happy.  Mark woke the next morning with the image of Rose in his head. He bounced out of bed, humming songs he’d heard the night before. Quickly, he showered and dressed for a full day of tours and more delicious native meals. Mark was on cloud ninety-nine. He was living the dream! Just as he grabbed his card key and wallet, a sluggish feeling

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven overcame him. He leaned against the dresser, his head drooped. A strong sense that something inside him was missing engulfed him. All those rum punches, Mark scolded himself. He forced himself to straighten and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His color seemed a bit off, his eyes less lively, but he felt sure the feeling would pass. Mark stuffed his belongings in the pocket of his shorts, exited his room, and ran down the stairs to the concierge desk. There he scheduled his return ride to the airport for Sunday evening and booked daytime tours for tomorrow, Saturday. There was no need to make plans for his nights. Rose. Dancing. Maybe more. He could hardly wait.  Although Mark wanted to rush to the dance lounge Friday night, he forced himself to try a different restaurant on the resort grounds. This one was farther away from the lounge but had come highly recommended. Seated right away, Mark again agreed to the dinner special, remembering how scrumptious the previous night’s meal had been. When the plate of conch salad, crab in a butter and garlic sauce, and fresh, steamed vegetables was placed before

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him, he made himself eat slowly, same thing with the rich mango pudding for dessert. While the last dollop of pudding melted in his mouth, Mark marked fifteen minutes on his watch. Even though he was desperate to get to the lounge, he refused to rush off. He did not want to seem gauche. The third time he checked his watch, the wait time had expired. He signaled for the bill, added a generous tip, signed it with a flourish, and ran to the lounge. Tonight, he did not take time to appreciate the bodies in motion, the appealing music, or the alluring moonlight. He scanned the room, searching for Rose. There was no sign of her. His shoulders slumped. His smile faded. After walking around the room, and still no Rose, he decided to walk outside to where he first saw her. As he approached the outer doors, his heartbeat picked up and seemed to lead him directly to her. She stood under a flowering tree, looking more beautiful than he remembered – her body more sensual in a gossamer white dress, her lips fuller, parted in a silent invitation, and her eyes dark and smoldering. They seemed to be looking straight at even through him into his soul. Mark walked to her. She stretched out her hand, and without a word, they glided along the path and onto the dance floor. Their movements were more erotic and seductive than the night

before, building friction and heat between them. Reality slipped away. There was just him, Rose, and the slow music, which pulsed in time to the beating of his heart. Mark was mesmerized. Later, when the last note drifted to silence and the band leader wished all a goodnight, Mark lifted his head, feeling bemused. He looked around, as if lost, as couples abandoned the dance floor. He and Rose stood in the middle of an empty floor, holding on tight to each other as if they were each other’s lifeline, as if they were soulmates. “Come back to my room with me. I want to kiss and hold you all night long!” He begged. Even though they were still touching, he could feel her slipping away. “Not tonight,” she whispered, walking backward, until she disappeared into the dark night. Mark’s gaze followed ‘til she was no more. Feeling confused and bereft, he left the lounge and headed for the bar. Mark chose a stool at the corner of the bar and folded his hands under his chin as if he was going to pray. The bartender, Jean, per his name tag, sidled over to Mark. “What can I get you?” “Rum punch,” he answered, tossing aside the memory of this morning’s hangover. “Coming from the lounge?” Jean asked as he poured generously. Mark was inside his head,

The Raven wondering why he felt so alone and out of place that he almost missed Jean’s question. “Yeah, it was great, ‘til my dance partner left.” “Ahhh,” Jean exclaimed, handing over the drink. “Here, maybe this will help. Maybe not. On Providence, you must be careful who you dance with. All is not always as it seems.” The merrysmiled bartender winked. “What do you mean?” asked Mark. Jean leaned in closer to Mark and lowered his voice. “Providence means spiritual care. Care from God, nature, and ghosts. Now, God, nature, no problem. But ghosts . . .” Someone beckoned for Jean. He straightened, acknowledged the request. “Be careful. You don’t want to end up in the graveyard.” Mark smirked, “A graveyard? Ghosts? Sounds like local folklore.” “You don’t want to find out.” Jean walked away.  Mark woke Saturday morning feeling groggier and more tired than the day before. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tempted to blow off the day’s excursion. But as it was his last full day on the island and he really wanted to hike the Blue Mountain peak, he forced himself up. Sitting on the

side of the bed, head hanging low, he said, “Okay, Mark, for real, no more rum punch. Obviously, the rum here is more potent than the rum at home.” That settled, Mark showered and dressed and headed downstairs to meet the other hikers and enjoy a day in nature.  Exiting the elevator that night, Mark headed to the restaurant where he’d first dined. He moved slowly, having expended a great deal of energy hiking halfway— about 1500 feet—up Blue Mountain. He’d barely made it back down to the tour bus before collapsing. He flopped onto a seat, exhausted and winded. He hadn’t been able to enjoy the scenic tour or the guide’s factfilled monologue on the return trip to the resort. Even after a long, hot shower and a two-hour nap, Mark still felt lethargic, incomplete, off-balance. When Debi, the hostess, made suggestive small talk as she led him to a table, Mark could not rise to the level of flirtation. He agreed quickly to the dinner special, and she huffed off. When his meal arrived, Mark ate with as much gusto as he could muster, but the rich, palette-pleasing seafood boil did not engage his senses, did not please him as the food had the previous two nights. Mark felt cheated. He’d wanted everything he could get from this vacation. But he felt like his

dream, his childhood stories, his vacation was slipping away. All of it except Rose. She could save his vacation from ruin.  Again, Mark entered the lounge looking for Rose. He didn’t panic when he did not see her. He ran to the path and found her in the same spot. She was luminous! Her dress was alight, her face glowed, and there was a halo all around her body. It was as if the light from the moon had found her, just as he had, and focused all its intensity on her. The second Mark touched Rose, he felt whole, energized, like a light switched on inside him. His dream came back to life. Mark and Rose were so attuned to each other, their hands met, their bodies came together, and the next thing Mark knew, they were whirling on the dance floor as one, holding tight to each other with a deep soulful connection. He could tell tonight was different and for a split second he wondered, Is this real? “Tonight is my last night on the island. Say you’ll spend the night with me.” “Yes,” Rose breathed in his ear. “I will love you tonight.” She stared up at Mark. Her eyes were sparkling from a clear light within. She smiled coyly and lowered her head onto his shoulder. Mark smiled. All was as it should

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven be.  When the final dance of the night ended, Rose took Mark’s hand and guided him off the dance floor. He willingly followed and didn’t dare spoil the night with words. But words were not needed between them. All they needed was a touch. Rose led Mark along the path to the hotel’s driveway. There, she guided him a short distance

before turning up a lane. At the end of the lane, Mark saw a lovely cottage fronted by a profuse garden that seemed to glow. Pebbled rocks rustled underfoot, and an occasional call of a bird sounded but no other noise competed with the beating of his heart. Rose pushed open the front door and led Mark through a sparsely furnished, softly lighted living room. She veered to a passageway that ended at a carved wooden door. Rose opened the door and

Mark’s eyes went immediately to the large, four-poster bed in the middle of the room. They seemed to glide to the bed. “I will love your soul,” Rose promised as she gently pushed him down upon the bed. Something about her wording seemed different to Mark but before he could register the difference, he lost himself in her touch. She ran her hands under his shirt, stripping it off. She caressed him as she pulled off his pants. She stroked him while removing the last barrier of clothing, hers.

Jerry Weiss

Mark groaned, taking in her beautiful, taut curves. He moaned, caressing her soft, incandescent skin. She was out of this world beautiful! Mark embraced her and willingly gave himself away.  “Wake up, man. Get some clothes on.” The words vaguely reached Mark in sleep. He mumbled incoherently and brushed off the hand that shook him violently. He reached for Rose. “That must have been some party last night for you to end up here.” Again, words, followed by another rough shake. And, no Rose. Mark rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and rose to an elbow. With eyes wide open, he looked for his Rose, but the wrinkled old face of

“Teddy, don’t scare your sister.”

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The Raven a wizened man was all he saw. Surprised, Mark scrambled to his feet, fully awake and naked. The old man, wearing overalls and holding a rake, laughed, showing missing teeth. “Oh, I know the story. Wasn’t a drunken tourist party. You lost a part.” Covering himself, Mark looked around, searching for Rose. She was gone! Seconds later it hit him. He was outdoors in the hot sun in a graveyard! As if he needed confirmation of that, an odd rotting smell filled his nostrils and everywhere he looked he saw headstones and tombstones. For a moment time stopped. Then in a wild panic, Mark searched for and found his clothes. They were strewn across several graves. He raced over, collected his clothes, and dressed to the sound of the old man cackling and beating his knee. “What happened?” Mark asked, shaking his head as if to wake himself from a crazy dream. “What happened to Rose, to her house?” “You fell for Rose!” the gravedigger said. “She’s our siren ghost who lures men to her grave to steal pieces of their soul for energy.” “Wait! Wait! Are you saying Rose is not a real woman? That she’s . . . That I had . . . sex . . . with a ghost? How . . . is that . . . possible?” Mark demanded.

“I can’t tell you how exactly. I’ve never been stupid enough to go searching for her. But to be fair, she preys on tourists. Men who don’t know better but should know better.” The man pointed at the grave Mark had slept on. “This is her grave.”

“Don’t know if it’ll help, but you’re not the first. Many men around the world missing a piece of their soul. Some come back year after year trying to reclaim something that will never be reclaimed. You’ll learn to live with a piece of you missing. You’ll get used to it.”

Mark moved close and read the primitive headstone.

The old man stooped to pick up a nearby bucket and said, “It’s probably best if you say your goodbye to Rose then get back to your hotel. There’s nothing else here for you.”

Rose Marie Strum Beloved Daughter 1865 to 1886 He felt sick. He’d slept with a ghost. He’d danced with a ghost. He’d lost a part of himself to a ghost. Suddenly, Mark had no energy. He sank to the grave, dizzy, at a loss. “She was real in my arms,” Mark said, sounding forlorn. “She was real when we touched.” “That’s how she takes. Our Rose has no use for words, but touch, that’s how she siphons the soul.” “So the house, the bed, . . .” “All make-believe. It all happened right here. On her grave.” Mark dropped his head in his hands.

The man shuffled off and Mark looked down at the grave of the young, beautiful ghost who had stolen a piece of his soul. He felt a loss that ran deep. But strangely, he also felt joy. He and Rose. They’d both gotten what they wanted. He’d fulfilled his lifelong dream to vacation on an island, to see palm trees and exotic fruit, to have adventures, and spend time with a sensual, dark-skinned beauty. He’d gotten the vacation of a lifetime. And Rose, she’d captured a piece of soul for the energy to appear human the next time she needed to touch a soul.

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” Edgar Allan Poe

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Ever wonder about the world of ghosts? How ghosts come to be? What’s their purpose? Why some people can see, communicate with, or feel their presence while others can’t? Ever wonder how a person becomes a ghost medium? Your dear editors wondered these same questions and more . . . until we met Echo Bodine. Echo is a world-renowned psychic, healer, and ghostbuster, who has been hanging out with ghosts for more than fifty years. Following is a Q&A session we participated in with Echo which was hosted by the Edgar Cayce Institute. Fascinating information! We hope it’ll come in handy when/ if you encounter a ghost.

My goal in life was not to grow up to be a ghostbuster. I was 17-years old, taking psychic development classes, and just beginning to understand my gifts when my career as a ghostbuster flickered to life. Carol, a family friend, called my mom and said, “Would you send one of your kids over to my house and check out the attic. We hear noises. Talking, walking.” “What are we looking for?” my mom asked. “I don’t know,” Carol answered. “Are we looking for ghosts?” “I don’t know.” They hung up and mom and I jumped into the car. On the drive to Carol’s, I was full of questions. “What do you think it is? Do you think it’s ghosts? What are we going to do if we find one?” “I

don’t

know,”

was

mom’s

response to every question. When we pulled up to Carol’s, it dawned on me this might be my first ghostly adventure. We got out the car and headed straight up to the attic. My mom and I looked around. I don’t know what she was looking for as validation of ghosts, but I grew up with Casper the Friendly Ghost and assumed if any ghosts were there, they would be a white, blobby thing, flying around. I didn’t see anything like that. But in one corner of the room, I saw a man, a woman, boy and girl, and they were see-through. I didn’t know why they were there, so I continued to look for Casper. Of course, no Casper. Soon, I turned to mom and said, “Can you see those people? Why are they here?” Mom said, “I see them. I don’t know why they’re here.” I could see mom was a little spooked but

The Raven more confused and frustrated than anything. As if she’d been part of the conversation the entire time, the see-through woman answered my question. “My husband was a smoker and an alcoholic. We all perished in a fire and he won’t let us go to the other side.” I looked at mom. She looked at me. I asked, “Did you hear that?” “Yes.” “What do we do?” Instead of answering me, mom turned to the family and said, “You’re going to have to leave.” The family said, “Oh, okay,” and they walked through the wall. We went downstairs. Because we didn’t see anything that looked like what we thought a ghost would look like, we told Carol she didn’t have any ghosts. We left. Later, Carol called and said, “All the sounds are happening again.” We didn’t know what to tell her. We didn’t know what to do. That was in the mid-sixties, and yes, turns out that was my first ghostly experience. Now, with more than fifty years of ghost adventures under my belt, I have learned a lot about ghosts. The first thing being, they don’t look like Casper. Printed with Permission – Echo Bodine and the Edgar Cayce Institute

Q & A with Echo Bodine How does the physical environment of a house or building contribute to attracting ghosts? What changes can be made to disinterest ghosts if they are attracted to a building? When a soul, a ghost does not want to go to the other side, they search the Earth plane for a house, building, etc. that is already occupied by other spirits. They go to that place, pick out their area, and don’t leave that space. So often when we go into a house, we ask the first ghost we see, “are their other ghosts here?” They will point out the other ghosts and where they are. But to be clear, ghosts are everywhere. We have been to funeral homes, treatment centers, suntan parlors, schools. Schools tend to attract teenage or teacher ghosts. Locations near where people died is another place that ghosts are attracted to. If you want to discourage ghosts from hanging around, you should clear out the ghosts and their energy. My teacher taught me that sage gets rid of ghosts. It doesn’t. To do that you have to ask the ghost to go to the light. Once the ghost leaves, burning sage clears the space of the ghost’s energy. The energy is that of being frustrated, of being stuck, of being trapped, and fear. That is what sage clears out. Nowadays, you can use Florida water, sweetgrass, sage, any of those will clear the energy.

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The Raven What tradition, practices, or cultures can we adopt to encourage ghosts to move on? With any ghost you tell them to go to the light. It’s a big bright light that is equivalent to the moon. Every soul knows that light is the light to heaven. Every ghost can see that light. Ask the ghost their name, then ask them, “Can you see the light?” Then tell them to go to the light, that they are not welcome in your home, business, or wherever you encounter them. Reassure them if you have to by telling them they need to start a new chapter in their life, that they will not be sent to Hell, that they will not see who they don’t want to see in Heaven. Be firm and tell them to move on. After the ghost has moved on and you’ve cleared the space with sage, do not talk about the ghost. If you do that invites the ghost to return. If you must talk about the ghost, try to wait at least three days. Let them get acquainted with the other side so they won’t want to come back. How do spirits get trapped or attached to material places and things? Ghosts are just the souls of people. Ghosts are us. We get attached to cars, people, places, jewelry, houses, etc. I met a ghost once who was living in a car. He loved that car. Remember, ghosts are just dead people who refuse to move on, who choose to stay Earthbound for one reason or another. They have not evolved, won’t evolve, and are limited in their beliefs. You have to help

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them cross over into the light. You can’t force them. You can’t make them go to the other side. They have free will in death as we have in life. But you can entice, threaten, show anger, anything to get them to cross over.

irritable ones. You don’t have to worry about evil spirits. You have nothing to worry about period. You are surrounded by amazing golden light. No evil spirit will mess with someone who lives in the light.

The number one reason souls choose to stay here is because they are afraid they are going to be sent to Hell. They have a fearful idea of God and so they are afraid to come face to face with God. That’s where reassurance helps.

Have you ever seen a demon? Has anything bad ever happened to you that was caused by a ghost?

Why is behavior like suicide repeated by spirits night after night? Ghosts who committed suicide think they are going to Hell for killing themselves. They are afraid so they stay Earthbound. They need reassurance. Tell them God is not going to send them to Hell. God welcomes everyone home. Say their name and tell them to go to the light. Be firm. Be loving. They need to go and set themselves free from the Earth plane because that is really what they were trying to do by committing suicide. Tell them they can start a new beginning on the other side. In general, spirits can get stuck in a time warp and keep repeating the same behavior. It is up to us to help free them, to help them move on. How do we protect ourselves from evil spirits? I have never met an evil spirit. I have met crabby ones, mean ones,

I have not ever seen a demon. Have I been hurt? Yes. One ghost in Kentucky tried to push me down the stairs. Another tried to push me out an upstairs window. One time I was slapped on the back of my neck by a ghost who would not go to the other side. There are some cranky ghosts out there and ghosts who are confused and lost. And I’ve even run into ghosts who have tried to scare me. But I’ve never seen anything I should be afraid of. What scares me sometimes is when I don’t know what we’re going to run into, what the situation is going to be, how angry or fearful the ghosts might be. But it’s not all serious, scary business. It’s funny sometimes when a ghost sees that I can see them. They get scared and run from me. Remember, ghosts are just people. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I often smell a scent I associate with a loved one, but the person is deceased. Is it real? Scent is one of the ways our deceased loved ones communicate with us. They come back to check on us and say hi. They think,

The Raven okay, what smell – Old Spice, cherry tobacco, cigarette smoke – will get our attention and let us know it’s them. Sometimes others in the room with us can smell it but most times not. I am interested in the concept of spirits trapped in Bardo, Purgatory, the Gray Zone, or those who died in battle. It seems sad that some remain trapped behind and can’t make it to the light. I am guessing you’re talking about the astro plane between our level of existence and the other side. There is that space where ghosts roam and live, and yes, I’ve heard it referred to by those names and more. For the people who died in battle, imagine waking from death confused and shocked, asking yourself, “Am I dead? Where do I go? What do I do?” Especially if you’re young, which a lot of soldiers are. Some ghost-soldiers choose to stay in that existence and reenact the death battle scene over and over because that’s what they know. They are stuck. Spirit guides will go to them and say, “You don’t have to stay here. The battle is over. You can come with us and go to the other side.” But some ghost-soldiers don’t want to go to the other side. They like the battle or they want the battle to turn out differently. They go through the battle over and over, hoping for a different outcome. You’re right. It’s sad. Do you see ghosts with your spiritual eye or your physical eyes?

Both. Primarily with my third eye. The third eye, the spiritual eye, rotates around the head. That sounds strange and I didn’t understand what that meant when my teacher first said it. I understood when I started seeing spirits coming up behind me or to my left or right. The third eye catches all that. But I also see with my physical eyes. What is the difference between a dead person and a ghost? Nothing. A dead person is one who is choosing to stay Earthbound as a ghost. Remember ghosts have free will. They are free to move about, come and go as they like. Why do some ghosts look so ominous and tall? When ghosts look like they are ten feet tall check and see where their feet are. You’ll be surprised. The feet are usually right next to your waist or chest level. That makes the ghost seem tall and intimidating. But remember they are people, dead people. They are a soul. When a ghost comes across as ominous, that is fear. Living people radiate fear energy and ghosts can absorb that energy and use it to make themselves look more powerful, bigger, scarier than they are. When you see a ghost that is radiating fear, or threatening, or if you feel fear when seeing a ghost, cross something on your body. When you cross something—your arms, legs, wrists, ankles, anything— the ghost won’t be able to take

your energy. The ghost won’t be able to do anything. So ghosts can be any sex? Yes. The majority of ghosts are men. Female ghosts tend to stay Earthbound for love. To watch over children, to comfort a spouse, or because they have fallen in love with a living person. What do ghosts look like? As they were at death, in their idea of youth, as our memory of them, or some other perception they have of themselves? When we see ghosts, they look as they did in life, including the clothing they would have worn all the time. But when a ghostly loved one comes to visit, they appear lively, cheerful, and usually younger, in their 20s. That’s why psychics when they describe a visitor will be off the mark sometimes. The ghost is presenting themselves as younger. You should stop and ask yourself, “Who looked like that in their younger years?”

To learn more about Echo and her work in the spiritual realm, visit her web page at Echo Bodine Trust The Voice Within.

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven

Spooky Happenings

Your humble editors are not sure what the plural of Krampuslauf is. Krampuslaufs? Probably not. Krampusläufen? Perhaps there is a Germanophone among you that can advise us. Graz November 28

www.graztourismus.at/en/see-and-do/ events/events/traditional-krampusand-perchten-procession_ev-6158

Salzburg November 27, December 3, and December 5

www.salzburg.info/en/salzburg/ advent/krampus-percht

Munich As of publication, dates have not been announced. Check their website for updates.

Grüss vom Krampus

www.muenchen.de/int/en/events/ christmas-market/krampus-run.html

Check out the slideshow featuring some fabulous Krampuses (Krapusse? Krampii?) from years past in Munich here: www.muenchen.de/ veranstaltungen/ event/7152.html

The Raven

Long before a certain pudgy guy in a red suit embarked on his annual global Christmas Eve breaking and entering spree, there was St. Nicholas. St. Nick should not be confused with the aforementioned crimson-clad chimney crawler. In fact, St. Nick is centuries older than Santa Claus, who didn’t make his first appearance until 1823. And St. Nick distributes his goodies to all good boys and girls on December 5, not Christmas Eve. But he’s usually accompanied by an assistant, and in some parts of the world—particularly the Germanspeaking world—that assistant is Krampus. Jolly old St. Nick seems perfectly happy to leave the dirty work of awarding the bad kids with sticks and stones to Krampus.* Greeting cards bearing the oddly incongruous salutation “Grüss vom Krampus” (Greetings from Krampus) often show Krampus carrying a sack full of crying children. We imagine these are the particularly naughty boys and girls. Their fate remains a mystery. And while Nicholas was a real person, the origins of Krampus are unknown, but may date back to preChristian times. Take that, Kris Kringle. Krampus is usually portrayed as having horns and a ridiculously long, Gene Simmons tongue. In centuries past, his appearance was relatively innocuous, but we can’t help noticing he seems to be getting scarier and more menacing as the years pass. If Krampus is what floats your boat and you have the money for it, many towns and cities in the German-speaking Alpine regions organize an annual Krampuslauf (Krampus run) in late November or early December. The Austrians seem to be particularly fond of Krampus. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, a Krampuslauf “often involves alcohol”, (shocking!) and “people dressed as the creature parade through streets, scaring spectators and sometimes chasing them.” For the Krampus-curious, there is no shortage of videos on YouTube, such as this one from several years ago in Graz.

Source: Krampus and the Old, Dark Christmas by Al Ridenour

* It has been theorized that the whole good kid/bad kid ritual might have originated in early Christian times as an annual “rehearsal” for Judgment Day. Yikes!

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven

GhOst in the Machine

Grüss vom Krampus

The Raven The address Marcie gave me for the elevator When we last saw Margo and Ernie, they were at the Morris company was just down the street from Building and had made contact with angry entities who the Rent-a-Geek office. Indian Springs is were none too happy about the plans Corvus Enterprises normally a sleepy little place, but parking in were hatching for their home. Read Part 1 here. In this the center of town is at a premium on the installment, an unexpected visitor provides a vital clue, and best of days. We were in Ernie's vintage our intrepid ghost hunters go up against the big leagues. Mini, a more practical choice than my station wagon—Ernie can squeeze into a space half the size my car takes up. After “Is that why Dante set up shop in Indian Springs?” some searching, we found a spot a couple of asked Ernie. “I would have thought business would blocks away in front of a taco place. be better in a big city.” We were getting out of the car when we spotted Thornton coming out of the taco shop. He was dressed exactly as he had been the previous day. With his spiked black hair and extravagant make-up, he would have been hard to miss. To my surprise, he smiled when he saw us. “Margo and Ernie, isn’t it? Where are you headed this morning?”

“Partly, but this is his hometown—mine too, as a matter of fact. Actually, Dante had a studio in San Guillermo for a while, but he moved back here to take care of his mother. She’s elderly and an invalid. They’re very close. Well, this is your stop.” “Thanks, Thornton,” I said. “Tell Dante we might pay him a visit later. We have something to show him that he will certainly find interesting.”

“We thought we'd have a quick chat with the guy who services the elevators in your building,” Ernie answered.

Thornton raised a penciled eyebrow. “Will do.” I don't know what we were expecting to find. The building had obviously been a gas station in a previous incarnation. From the outside it had a quaint, mid-century vibe. But instead of the battered shelves of tools and parts and wall-to-wall grease that I was expecting, we found a gleaming office space. There wasn't a tool in sight, just cubicles and computers.

Thornton fell in step with us—it was on the way to his building. “Ah yes, Lance. He's an odd one. I predict that no matter what you say is going on he’ll chalk it up to outdated equipment. I’d be willing to bet money he’ll try to convince you the whole system needs an overhaul.” “I take it you've dealt with him before,” said Ernie.

“We’re looking for Lance,” I said to the young man who stood up when we walked in. He was tall and thin, and dressed in khakis and a clean, starched denim shirt.

Thornton shrugged. “We all have. He's been lobbying to replace the elevators for years. The landlord won't hear of it. He knows perfectly well that the tenants would rather put up with a cantankerous elevator than have their rents raised. Except for Welcher and Butz, naturally.”

“That would be me,” he said. “Lance Barrick.” He smirked slightly at my surprised look. “I’m guessing you’re the ghost hunters?” “I’m Margo Monroe, and this is my colleague Ernie Stapleton.” Lance shook our hands with an air of disdain. I had a premonition that we weren’t going to get much cooperation from him.

“So you're happy with your location?” I asked. “Sure, why not? It's a cool old building in a great location. A similar space in San Guillermo would rent for twice as much.”

“Marcie said to expect you, but I don't know how

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven you think I can help.” “Well, we set up a couple of surveillance cameras the night we were there, and we noticed the elevators doors opened— several times, actually. We were the only ones in the building.” “Supposedly the only ones in the building.” Ernie bristled. “We have several ways of knowing if there's anyone else around.” “Anyone? Or any thing?” He laughed. “Look, I'm pretty busy. Is that all you have? Elevator doors opening ‘by themselves?’. You know, that building is 100 years old. The elevators haven’t been replaced since the 60’s. If it was up to me, I’d tear the whole thing down and put up something modern.” I counted to ten and took a deep breath. “We are just wondering if it might possibly be some sort of software issue. Or maybe an electrical fault…” “Look,” said Lance, “what do you expect from a 50-year-old elevator? If you don't mind, I have a lot of work to do.” He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. I took that as a sign that we’d worn out our welcome. “Charming fellow,” Ernie remarked when we got outside. “So what do we do now?” “Well, I don't know about you, but the smell of those tacos made me hungry.”

Grüss vom Krampus

“Me too. I'm famished, but we should pay a visit to Marcie first. Adelberto’s is right next door. That should take care of your taco craving.” Marcie was filing her nails when we walked in. When she saw us she hastily stashed the nail file in a drawer. “What's up?” she asked. “We were on our way to lunch and thought we would check to see if anything new has been happening,” I said. “Funny you should ask. Sanjeev was working late last night and he said somebody's computer

came on by itself.” Ernie perked up. “Did it do anything?” “I don't know. You'll have to talk to him. Did you get in touch with Lance?” “Yeah,” I said. “You were right. He wasn't much help.” “I warned you.” She smiled sympathetically. “Sanjeev is here if you want to talk to him.” We found Sanjeev at his computer pounding on the keyboard and muttering softly what sounded like curses in some exotic language. When he saw us, he

I have quite possibly the coolest job in the world. Officially, I call myself a “research specialist.” My name is Margo Monroe and what I really am is a ghost hunter.

The Raven pushed his keyboard away with a dramatic sigh. “I thought I might get a visit from you two today.” “Just thought we'd check in to find out if you could tell us anything more,” said Ernie. Sanjeev shook his head. “It must've been about 11 o'clock. I was here by myself—as usual— and heard it boot up. But that's all. The employee it belongs to is on vacation. When I went to look, it was on the login screen. I checked the power supply, but it didn’t seem loose or anything.” “Have there ever been problems with the wiring in the building?” I asked. “Not that I know of, but I suppose anything’s possible in an old building like this.” “Is the computer still on?” Sanjeev shrugged. “Well, I didn’t turn it off and I don’t think anybody’s been in there today.” “Mind if we take a look?” asked Ernie. “Knock yourself out. Two cubicles down that way to the right.” We found the cubicle. When Ernie jiggled the mouse the screen came on. Instead of placidly displaying the login screen, there was a window with a warning box. Maximum number of logon attempts exceeded. Contact administrator to reset, it said in menacing red letters.

“Interesting,” said Ernie. We went back to Sanjeev's cube. “Did you know someone has tried to log on to that computer?” “Huh? Seriously?” “Enough times that it’s locked now. Come have a look.” Sanjeev, now clearly annoyed, accompanied us to the vacant office. “See?” said Ernie. “How many times could someone type in a bad password before the computer locks them out?” “Ten.” “Are you positive nobody else was here last night?” “Positive.” “In that case, in stands to reason that it was this morning when whoever it was tried to log in,” I pointed out. “Well, maybe someone from one of the satellite offices was just looking for a place to check email.” He frowned. “Is that normal?” Ernie asked.

“We’d appreciate it,” I said. “Even if it’s something totally mundane. Thanks for your time.” “Sure thing,” he muttered distractedly. We left him there, staring at the computer and scratching his chin. Ernie glanced at his phone. “I’m famished….we’d better hurry. Adelberto’s is going to be slammed this time of day.” We were just out the door, when we heard footsteps hurrying behind us. A woman called, “Excuse me!” We were astonished to see the receptionist from Welcher and Butz’ office. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Mind if we go in here?” “That's where we were headed anyway,” I said. We ducked inside the Mexican restaurant. It was crowded and noisy. She glanced surreptitiously around. “Is everything okay?” I asked. “I really need to talk to you guys.” “Why don't you join us for lunch?” asked Ernie.

“No. I’ll have to check into it. Potential security breach, you know.”

She shook her head. “I can't take the risk of them seeing me talking to you.” I didn't have to ask her who 'them' was.

I found a business card in my purse and handed it to him. “Would you mind letting us know what you find out? Here’s my card.”

“I’ll just go add our names to the waiting list,” said Ernie, and began snaking his way through the crowd to the hostess stand.

“Will do.” He stuck the card in his pocket without looking at it.

“Is there someplace we could meet—discretely, I mean,” she asked. “Maybe this evening,

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven somewhere where there aren’t so many people around?” I dug around in my purse and found the last business card from my stash. “Here's our address. Why don't you just come to our lab?” She barely stood still long enough to grab the card. “Thank you so much. I’ll come right after work… won't be able to stay long, but it's really important. Five-thirty or six if nothing goes wrong.” And she was out the door. Ernie edged his way back through the thronging crowd. “Fifteen minutes. I may starve to death before then. You couldn't convince her to join us?” I shook my head. “She's coming to the lab tonight, as soon as she gets off work.” “Well, what does she want?” “I don't know. She was afraid of being seen talking to us,” I said.

returned the call. They picked up almost immediately. “Hello, Margo. It's Sanjeev.” He actually sounded somewhat flustered. “You were right,” he said. “Right about what?” “That vacant workstation—the one that someone tried to log on to. It happened again. Where are you?” “We just finished lunch. I'm just a couple of doors down—do you want us to stop by?” He sounded relieved. “Can you? Yes…yes…that would be great! Thanks so much!”

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered. “No, thanks. I have to pick up my kids in a few minutes.”

“That was Sanjeev,” I said to Ernie. “I told him we'd pop in.”

“Well, to start with, I wanted to apologize for Mr. Butz’s behavior. I felt terrible after the way he treated you the other day. I wish I could say that he's not usually that way, but in fact he’s like that to everyone. Except people like Ronson Rummel. What a jerk.”

“New development?” he asked. “Quite possibly.”

I stared at him blankly. “I don't have the foggiest idea.”

We found Sanjeev in his office looking more stressed than normal. When he saw us he turned his monitor toward us. “This is a list of the passwords whoever it was used last night when they tried to log on to that workstation. This is a diagnostic tool that the tech support guys use to identify potential security issues. Look!”

Grüss vom Krampus

It was almost six that evening when the buzzer sounded and George the concierge informed us we had a visitor. I went into the hall to greet our visitor and showed her in. I invited her to have a seat and she sat perched on the edge of the sofa as though expecting she might have to make a quick getaway.

“We'll be there in less than five minutes,” I said, just as Ernie stepped out the door. I said goodbye to Sanjeev.

“What's her name?”

It was Ernie's turn to pay. While he was waiting in line for the register I checked my phone, as I always do when I've been somewhere where it would be impossible to hear a phone ring. I had missed a call. I didn't recognize the number, but could tell it was local. Motioning to Ernie, I stepped outside and

ten logon attempts. The first few attempts were just a scramble of letters, but by the fifth attempt, something recognizable started to form: 1Reveng$E.

Sanjeev's diagnostic tool showed the passwords used in each of the

“What can we do for you?” Ernie asked.

“If your boss is such a jerk, why don't you find a new job?” Ernie asked. She looked at him with a resigned expression. “When was the last time you looked for a job around here?” Ernie shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and mumbled some apologies.

The Raven

“Surely you didn’t come all the way here to apologize for something you have no control over,” I said. “No, you’re right. I came here to tell you something that I thought you might want to know.” She tapped her perfectly manicured nails nervously. “You can trust us—nothing you say will leave this room without your permission,” I said. “I hope so. It might not be the best job in the world, but it pays well. I'm really taking a chance by coming here. Look, I need my job, and if anybody finds out I was here talking to you that'll be it for me. If I lose this job, the MonsterMart will be the only game in town. I'm raising two kids alone—my husband was killed in Iraq.” She shrugged off our awkward offerings of sympathy. “I'm in a lot better shape than some of my friends. My kids will be starting high school

soon, but as soon as they graduate, I'll be out of this town so fast it will make your head spin. The day I get to tell Alvin Butz to take a flying leap will be the happiest day of my life. Anyway, I haven't seen any of your alleged ghosts, but my teenage daughter is crazy about that stuff. According to her, paranormal activity tends to increase when something happens to these old buildings.” “True enough,” I said, “but there hasn’t been any remodeling work in your building recently, has there?” “No, that's not it. Corvus Enterprises wants to buy out the entire block so they can tear it down and put up a parking garage. They’re doing everything they can to keep it quiet.” “That's crazy!” cried Ernie. “There's no way they could do that—that entire section of Indian Springs is designated a historical district. The entire block is more than a hundred years old.”

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven She smiled sadly. “And why do you think Corvus is talking to Welcher and Butz? They make sure their clients get what they want.” I shook my head. “There’s no way they could pull that off. This entire section of town is protected.”

asked Ernie.

security vids and get back to us.”

“Hmmm…not sure. But I'm beginning to see now why Sandy hates Corvus so much. But it does make sense. If the entities that have been trying to communicate with us are about to lose their home…”

“In the meantime, we have to find a way to get Nora out of here without him seeing her. Where's your car?” I asked Nora.

“Oh, anything they do will be legal—but just barely, mind you. They’re masters at putting together convoluted, confusing proposals. No one on the zoning commission will admit to not being able to understand them, so they get passed. The public doesn’t realize what’s going on until the demolition crew shows up. Then when the citizens get angry, they say, ‘Hey, you should have come to the hearings and spoken up.’ And they have a point. Most people don't pay the slightest bit of attention until it’s a done deal. Welcher and Butz are working with Corvus on the MonsterMart deal. What makes you think an old downtown building is any different? Look, I have to go.” She jumped up and headed for the door. “You didn't ask for any advice, but I'm offering it. Be careful of Ronson Rummel and Clay Hawk. And my boss, for that matter. They’re dangerous men.”

There was a timid tap at our door. I answered it and was surprised to see Nora there. Before I could say a word, she said breathlessly, “Weldon Spradley—Rummel’s assistant…he's out there!”

“Wait,” called Ernie as she dashed out the door. “We don't even know your name!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there is. Yes, I’m here. Okay, thanks George. Yes, I was just going to suggest that. Thanks again.” He hung up and put his phone down. “Definitely somebody out there. George is going to look at the

“Nora.” And she was gone before we could even say goodbye. “What do you make of that?”

Grüss vom Krampus

“Where?” “Right outside. Just sitting there in his car, watching. Oh, what if he knows I’m here? He must have followed me.” Ernie whipped out his phone. “Who are you calling?” I asked. “Front desk.” He held up a finger. “George? Ernie Stapleton here... listen, I need you to do me a favor. Can you have a look and tell me if there’s anyone out front? Be very discrete, though—try not to let him see you. Sure, I’ll hold on.” To us he said, “He’s going to check.” “Isn’t there a security cam out front?” I asked.

“At a meter about a block away,” she said, motioning in the general direction. Ernie pondered for a second. “Give me your keys. I’ll go get it and pull up around back.” Nora looked visibly relieved. She handed her keys to Ernie gratefully. “The metallic beige Buick about a block down, on this side of the street.” He went out the back door and down the alley. A few minutes later, the Buick coasted slowly down the alley with only its parking lights on and rolled up to the loading dock at our lab’s back entrance. Ernie got out, handing the keys back to Nora. “I went around the block to cover my tracks, but I don't think he paid me the slightest bit of attention. He’s still out front,” Ernie said. “Keep your lights off until you get to the end of the alley—just to be safe—and take a right at the next block. It’ll take you right to the main road.” As we watched the Buick creep down the alley, Ernie said, “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?” “I don’t know, but I’m sure I’m about to find out.” “One of them is a scum-sucking bottom-feeder. The other lives in

The Raven a pond.” I was spared from having to respond when Ernie’s phone rang. It was George calling to tell him to check his email. George had sent us a screen cap of a grainy but fairly clear black-andwhite image from the security cam. Sure enough, lurking in front of our building was the polyester-clad toady who bumped into us as we were getting on the elevator at the Morris building. As an added bonus, we had a clear image of the car, along with its license plate. When I left, I drove around the front of the building to see if Weldon Spradley was still there. Sure enough, there he was, under a lamppost in the gathering twilight, staring intently at our building.

There's a cool new bookstore in my neighborhood, and I decided on impulse to stop by on the way home. In one corner is a coffee shop noted for their tasty sandwiches. I took the scenic route through my favorite shelves and picked up a couple of mysteries. Just outside the coffee shop are some tables and assorted comfy sofas arranged invitingly. I was scanning for an empty spot when I saw Sandy, deep in conversation with a woman I didn't recognize. She was smartly dressed and a little older than me. I was pretty

sure it wasn't a date. His back was to me so he didn't see me.

slightly chilly was not lost on Dante.

When I came out a few minutes later, they were gone.

“Won't you sit and let’s talk for a few minutes? Commissioner Wakefield is on our side,” said Dante.

I would've forgotten all about it, but when we went to Dante’s studio a couple of evenings later, the same woman was there, talking to Dante. A mountain of shredded fabric and remnants of some broken tables were piled in one corner. One of the elegant glass doors had been replaced with a sheet of plywood. The woman got up to leave when we came in with our suitcases full of gadgets. “Sorry, we didn't mean to interrupt. We are just here to set up our equipment,” I said. “We can come back in a few minutes.” Actually, I was slightly irritated. We had arranged to be here at this precise time. “Oh no, not at all!” exclaimed Dante. “We were just discussing the recent…incident…here. Ruth Wakefield, this is Margo Monroe and Ernie Stapleton. I'm sure you've heard of them. Commissioner, I thought it might be helpful if you told Margo and Ernie what you told me on the phone earlier.” “‘Commissioner’?” asked Ernie. “I'm on the city planning commission,” Ruth replied. The smile disappeared from Ernie's face. That the atmosphere in the room suddenly became

Ernie looked visibly relieved. We settled into the sitting area, but politely declined Dante's offer of a glass of wine—mixing late-night ghost hunting and alcohol is never a good idea. “Dante has already filled me in on your suspicions,” she said. “I don’t know if ‘suspicion’ is the right word. We know exactly who it was,” replied Ernie. He extracted his iPad from one of the gadget bags and showed them the video he’d shown me. Dante was overwhelmed. He seemed more sad than angry—for a few moments, he was unable to speak. “We’ll do anything we can to help,” I assured them. “We have really good evidence that will stand up in court—” The commissioner interrupted. “Can I make a suggestion? Going to the police may not be the smartest course of action.” Ernie stared at her in disbelief. “How can you say that? This is solid evidence.” “I’m not arguing with you on that. But do you understand that Ronson Rummel is the most powerful man in this county? He can and will do whatever

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven is necessary to push through his agenda. This goes beyond business. He takes any opposition as a personal attack.” I was becoming annoyed. Commissioner Wakefield was sounding more and more like a mouthpiece for the Powers that Be who were responsible for the whole fiasco in the first place, and I told her as much. I expected an angry retort, but the commissioner just shook her head sadly. “Margo, Ernie—you’re missing the most important point here. These people seldom fail to get what they want, and do you know why? Citizen apathy. The average person doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to local politics. I mean, how many people even know who their city council person is? What part of town do you live in?” “Oak Gardens. Near the Garden Heights shopping center,” I replied. “I thought so. I represent your district. Look, much as it pains me to say this, municipal government here is still very much a good ol’ boy network. My philosophy is that cities exist for the people who live there, not for corporations to profit from. But representatives like me are in the minority, and we get accused of being antiprogress often enough. Take your friend Sandy, for example. He rides his bike everywhere, right? It's good for his health, it's good for the environment, and it doesn't cost anything.

Grüss vom Krampus

He doesn’t even own a car. Not only that, he supports local businesses. But if it were up to Ronson Rummel, there wouldn't be a bike lane anywhere in the county. Corvus Enterprises have their corporate fingers in so many pies—construction companies, car dealerships, oil and gas. Riding bikes, shopping locally—where’s the profit in that? As far as Corvus is concerned, people like Sandy are the enemy.” “If that MonsterMart comes in, there won’t be any small businesses left before long,” Ernie said. “That’s precisely my point,” replied the commissioner. “But what about the mayor? In the last campaign, he talked a lot about improving the quality of life in Indian Springs,” I said. “Or was that just a bunch of hot air?” The commissioner sighed heavily. “Like in a lot of small towns, a handful of companies are the major job providers. All they have to do to get the mayor's attention is to threaten to move elsewhere. His job is on the line, you might say. Mine, too, for that matter. Rummel knows perfectly well that all he has to do is throw out a hint to his business cronies that Indian Springs isn’t business friendly. They have the money and political clout to influence the outcome of an election.” “What you say makes sense,” said Ernie. “We’re David, and Corvus Enterprises are Goliath.”

“Now you get the picture,” Ruth replied. “Did you know about his plan to demolish those historic buildings on the square?” “I do. The MonsterMart is just the first phase of a sweeping plan to start bringing a whole host of big-box stores into town. Phase Two is putting in more parking.” “But that would ruin Indian Springs! What can we do?” I asked. “Ronson Rummel can be outsmarted, but it won't be easy. It will take a grassroots effort, but I think we can beat them at their own game. They're not going to do anything that threatens their bottom line, so we have to act, and act fast.”

“It's all starting to make sense now,” said Ernie later, after Dante and the commissioner had left and we were setting up the equipment in Dante's studio. “It sounds like whatever entities are here realize their home is being threatened. Which would explain the sudden upsurge in paranormal activity.” Ernie whistled cheerfully as he set up a new piece of equipment. “What's that?” I asked. “What does it look like?” he replied. “Well, from here it bears a striking resemblance to that old radio that’s been sitting in your

The Raven garage for ages.” “And you would be correct.” “I always assumed it was broken.” “It was, but not any more.” He turned it on and spun the dial, not pausing on any station, until all we heard was static. “This was a top-of-the line model. It gets not just AM and FM, but also shortwave, VHF and UHF.” “I thought VHF and UHF were television.” “They are. My dad used to listen to reruns of Star Trek while he was in the garage tinkering with stuff. It was quite the thing back in its day, and there's a reason why I kept it all this time. It’s set to 740 MHz, which is the part of the spectrum that used to be reserved for the UHF television channels.” “Why 740 MHz in particular?” I asked. “Because back in the 60s Thomas Edison—long after his death—supposedly appeared to a guy in Germany and told him it was possible to contact the dead by tuning in to that frequency.” “Yes, I've heard that before, but don't you think it's kind of a long shot?” “Maybe, but it's worth a try. Edison was working on a machine to communicate with the dead when he died. I’m going to record whatever we get from it,” he said, unfurling the cord to

a USB microphone, which he hooked up to one of the laptops. “Great idea,” I said, and left him to finish setting up while I took a few readings. I got some spikes on my EMF meter, but they were suspiciously close to an electrical outlet that looked like it had seen better days. “I wish I knew how old the wiring in this building is.” “We should have looked into the history of the building,” he said. “I asked Sandy to do some research. If there’s anything out there pertinent to the case, he’s the one to find it.” Ernie nodded and fiddled with the controls on his laptop. “I’ve been tinkering with a new supersophisticated algorithm for enhancing video. This should be the perfect opportunity to test it out. Testing. One, two, three. There, that should do it.” I continued around the room’s perimeter until I came to Dante’s computer. “I don’t remember the last time I saw one of these. Hard to believe it still works.” When I jiggled the mouse on the elderly iMac, it sprang to life. The spreadsheet Dante had been working on appeared on the screen. I waved my K2 meter around the outside of the computer’s translucent plastic case. There was a brief flicker of lights when I waved it around the computer’s speakers, but otherwise the device remained quiet. “Base readings normal,” I said, speaking into my voice

recorder. A sweep of my electronic thermometer gave similar results: except for a draft near a floor vent, Dante’s studio was a consistent 76°. “Ready to turn off the lights?” I asked. “Let's go for it,” said Ernie, flipping the switch. The iMac cast an eerie light for a few seconds, then it went to sleep and we were in partial darkness. Outside, a street lamp created a distorted rectangle of light on the floor near the window. We spent a few moments, as we always do, just sitting quietly in the dark, and trying to absorb vibes from our surroundings. “Is anybody here?” Ernie asked. “My name's Ernie, and this is my friend Margo. We’re here to help you.” I added, “We know about Corvus’ plans to try to demolish this building. We hope you will trust us and think of us as friends. And we're going to do everything in our power to save your home. We'd really like to hear from you and we've brought some equipment that will hopefully make it easier for you to communicate with us,” Our devices remained discouragingly quiet. “Please, if there's anything you'd like to say—” “Hey, I think I heard something out in the foyer,” whispered Ernie. Sure enough, I heard a faint whir and the whoosh of the elevator

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven doors opening. Ernie pointed to a laptop that displayed the live feed from the camera in the hall. “Look! I think Otis is coming to pay us a visit.” “‘Otis’?” “What else would you call a ghost in an elevator?” We watched the elevator doors open, then close. At the same time, the lights on my K2 meter flickered encouragingly. “Hello there, we know you’re here. Is there anything you’d like to say? If you can speak into that device with as much energy as you can muster, we might be able to hear you,” said Ernie, pointing to the radio. We waited in silence, but not a sound came from the speakers. Suddenly there was a distinct change in the atmosphere in the room and I began to feel uneasy. I could have sworn that the room grew suddenly darker. Wondering if the streetlamp outside had gone out, I went to the window and looked out. The streetlamp was still shining warmly from the street corner outside. A lone car passed beneath the window; for a fleeting instant, I wanted to be out there in that car, going away from this place. I began to feel dizzy, as though I had just stepped off of a merrygo-round. I grabbed the nearest chair and the feeling passed as soon as I sat down.

Grüss vom Krampus

“Did you feel that?” asked Ernie. “My temperature gauge is showing a sharp drop in temperature.” Before I could reply, sounds suddenly crackled from the radio. Ernie and I moved our chairs in front of the table that held the radio. I could hear what sounded like voices coming from the radio, but couldn’t make out any words. “I think you’re just picking up a weak station from—” Ear-splitting static suddenly drowned my words. Ernie scrambled for the volume knob. YOU…ARE NOT…WELCOME HERE! The voice that boomed from the radio’s small speakers was deep and rasping. The feeling of dread came over me again. More static, then whispering from the radio. Ernie moved the microphone closer to the radio’s speaker. He bent over the speaker and listened intently. “It sounds like multiple voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.” “Let me try,” I said, grateful for the distraction. I put my ear to the speaker. “It sounds like they’re saying ‘We are many’.” WE DEMAND THAT YOU LEAVE! “OW! Right in my ear!” I exclaimed indignantly. My ear throbbed, but at least the queasiness had vanished. “Look, whoever you are–we’re not going

to leave. We’re here to help you any way we can. We want to hear what you have to say but you don’t have to shout.” “How many of you are there?” asked Ernie. We are multitudes, said a softer, less sinister voice from the radio. “That’s more like it,” I said. “Can you tell us why you’re still—” LEAVE NOW! “We’re not going anywhere. Can you tell us your name and why you’re here?” Ernie said. On the surface, he was maintaining his calm but I know him well enough to see he was as rattled as I was. We are not happy, said the softer voice. They will destroy our home. “We know, and we’re doing what we can to stop that from happening. Can you tell us why you’re still here?” I asked. “Did you live here? Maybe you worked here?” For several minutes, there was only static from the radio. “I think we’ve lost them,” I said. “Maybe we should–” Many have joined us. “Who am I talking to? Please tell us your name,” Ernie begged. “We want to help you, but we need to know more about you.” Much danger. “Danger?” I asked. “Danger from what?”

The Raven There is bad here. Ernie and I exchanged worried glances. “Can you tell us where the danger is?” Ernie asked. Not safe. More static crackled from the radio. There was the chorus of voices again, whispering unintelligible words. Ernie leaned over the radio speaker. “Can you understand them?” I asked. “No, but wait…is that music I hear?” He was right. The voices were being drowned out by music. Soon, I could tell it was Prohibition-era jazz, scratchy and a bit hollow sounding. Without warning, my vision started to blur. Dante’s studio vanished, and suddenly I was in a cramped, seedy little place. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar. A pretty woman in a red dress took a long, deliberate drag off her cigarette, sending a wreath of smoke circling her head. On the table in front of her was a halffinished cocktail. A jazz band was crammed onto a makeshift stage in a corner. They were smartly dressed, in black-tie evening wear, but their collective elegance was an illusion that vanished when seen from close up—their threadbare tuxedos were shiny and their shirt fronts beginning to fray. The music started, drowning out the buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses. A couple got up to dance.

They were young and dressed in the latest styles: the woman’s sleeveless, beaded dress sported the low waist that recently had become all the rage, and her hair was almost scandalously short. Her date wore a bow tie and slicked-back hair. The woman in the red dress watched them idly for a few minutes, then stubbed her cigarette out. As she finished her drink, the saxophone player caught her eye. She smiled boldly at him, then stood up to leave. His gaze followed her as she wove her way among the tables to the door. And then the music stopped and the vision was gone, and I was back in Dante’s studio. The silence buzzed in my ears. I took a drink of water to soothe my parched throat. What had I just seen? The music, clothing, and hairstyles were unquestionably from the 1920’s. I dismissed it as something I saw on TV—a documentary, probably. Except that it couldn’t have been, for the simple reason that it was in color. A movie perhaps? Or more likely my over-active imagination. “That was cool,” remarked Ernie. “Not at all what I was expecting… are you okay, Margo? You look like you just saw a ghost.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Very funny. Just feeling a little bit queasy.” My hands were shaking. I took a drink, hoping it would settle my stomach.

Maybe it’s time to—” He was interrupted by a soft boing. A square of light winked on as Dante’s iMac woke up. Ernie and I looked at each other. “Shall we have a look?” he said. I followed him to the desk in the corner. Dante’s spreadsheet was still open, but something new had been added to his rows and columns of numbers. An entry in a cell of the spreadsheet said Use cAre ErnieMargo much EV1L &here. Ernie whipped out his phone and took a photo. “Let’s get out of here. For once I can’t wait to pack up,” I said.

To be continued.... What do you get when you cross a lawyer with a bunch of angry ghosts? We don’t know either, so you’ll have to check out Part Three in the next issue of The Raven.

“You see? I warned you not to order the burritos at dinner.

Issue 3 | October 2021

Hard to believe the holiday season is already upon us. We are referring, of course, to those glorious weeks between October 7 (the day when our creative and spiritual mentor, Edgar Allan Poe, departed this world) and January 19 (Poe’s birthday). This year, we here at The Raven are looking forward eagerly to St. Nicholas Day, when Krampus makes his annual visit to our offices.

We know you probably already have your Halloween tree up and decorated, but in case you need some inspiration, we suggest you swing on over to CafeMom’s blog to feast your wondering eyes on this fantastic collection of trees.

We would be remiss in our duties if we didn’t tell you about Raven’s Brew Coffee. They offer coffees in a full range of roasts from light to French, and their merchandise is seriously awesome. Ravensbrewcoffee.com holidayseasoncheer/Instagram

For those of you who just can’t get enough of that funky stuff, may we suggest you do yourself a favor and check out Weird Darkness? True stories, podcasts, radio shows, events, weird news and who knows what else ...all dedicated to the paranormal, unsolved mysteries, with maybe even a touch of sci-fi for good measure. Their eponymous podcast will keep you entertained for hours, but it’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Visit their website at https://weirddarkness.com/ and be amazed.

Image: Side Project Photo

What We’re Consuming

Holiday Gift Guide We hope Krampus brings us anything by artist and graphic designer Monty Beauchamp. Monty is a kindred spirit whose fabulous Krampus art is a must-have for any fan of St. Nick’s creepy sidekick. Krampus playing cards $6.99 on Amazon

The Edgar A. Poe Macabre Mansion is a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle that features 20 of Poe’s short stories. Created by Holly Carden of DrawnByHolly $35.00 at hollycarden.com

How would you like to seriously impress your neighbors this holiday season? These fireproof ceramic skulls withstand temperatures up to 1800°F . Set of five skulls, $48.99 on Amazon.

On Our Wish List “The Dark Eye” is a video game, circa 1995, described as a first-person psychological horror adventure game and long considered to be one of the freakiest, most disturbing, stop-motion, point-and-click games to hit the gaming world. Based on the stories of Poe, it even features music by Thomas Dolby. Worth keeping an eye out for, but good luck finding a copy. Created 25 years ago, it is now considered vintage.

For the Person Wh We all have that special someone on our holiday gift list who--not to put too fine a point on it--is a pain to shop for. Fear not, dear reader: we have your answer. We can pretty much guarantee they don’t already have this nifty set of Edgar Allan Poe paper dolls.

ho Has Everything This limited collector’s set includes your favorite poet and storyteller as the Bard of Avon, Jake from State Farm, and the quintessential Baltimore Ravens fan.

The Raven

Ann & Sue’s TBR* List What says the holidays are here like Krampus & ghosts? And haunted houses? Here are the latest finds we’re adding to our list of books to read. Did we miss any good books? Send us your thoughts and suggestions at GhostScribesDallas@gmail.

Krengel & The Krampusz by M.C. Norris The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories by Various Authors Short & Twisted Christmas Tales by Various Authors The Haunting of Leigh Harker by Darcy Coates Poems Bewitched and Haunted by John Hollander

* To Be Read

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The Raven

Book Review

jeans. While riding the elevator from the seventh floor to the lobby, the car stops at every floor and at every stop, a ghost enters the car with Will. Each ghost has a story to tell. By the time Will reaches the lobby, he is face-to-face with a major decision. Does he adhere to the rules and face the consequences or trash the rules and face the consequences?

Long Way Down Ann Fields reviews Long Way Down, by Jason Reynolds, the story of 15-year old Will and a monumental life decision he must make.

When I finished reading Long Way Down, I was struck by the similarities between it and Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Both stories rely heavily on ghosts whose main function is to hold the past, present, and future up for examination. In Dickens’ tale, four ghosts have starring roles. In Reynolds’ story - six ghosts, all with a fair amount of page presence. Both stories culminate with the main character forced to make a life-impacting decision. To decide one way will perpetuate the status quo, to decide the other way leads to uncertainty. At the end of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge chooses uncertainty, and we quickly witness it morph into certainty when Scrooge is a changed man, when his family, coworkers, and friends forgive and accept him. The ending of Long Way Down is less clear cut. The compression of time is another shared element of the stories. Scrooge has one night to make his lifeaffecting decision. Will has one elevator ride; one minute to make the most important decision of his young life. The reader is reminded of this frequently due to time-stamping. On certain pages of Long Way Down, the hour, minute, and second is displayed. For example, 09:08:02 a.m. appears at the top of the page when the first ghost appears and 09:09:09 a.m. is the time the elevator reaches the lobby. The “visual” ticking of the time bomb builds tension, adds interest to the reading, and reminds us about the finiteness of our lives.

Two days before we meet Will, his older brother, Shawn is killed—shot in the streets in a suspected gang-related incident. Will and his mother are devastated, but instead of grieving, Will must adhere to the three rules big brother Shawn taught him: no crying, no snitching, get revenge. With his father also dead, it falls on Will to get revenge, to kill the shooter who murdered his brother. Intent on doing just that, Will boards the elevator one morning with his brother’s gun pressed into the waistband of his

With both stories the reader is given a hint about the mood and theme of the tale through the title. Even before cracking open the novella, A Christmas Carol, we expect a cheery, lighthearted read. But on page one we enter a world that is the opposite – dark. The main character’s circumstances are harsh, the environment is deary, the plot depressing. There

Issue 3 | October 2021

The Raven are light moments of course, but overall, the atmosphere of the story is not what we expected … until we arrive at the end. Break out the smiles and cheers! Expectation met; character redeemed.

started reading the book, I was so glad I did not let my preconceived notions win. Reynolds presents a fresh take on the violence embedded in our country, while educating readers and forcing us to think about the rules—and/or people—that govern us. This is not just a story for one segment of society, but for all.

The title Long Way Down offers a different impression, one that warns of trouble, wrong turns, rock bottom. I expected to read about a young man starting out on the right path and ending up dead, incarcerated, or living a harsh, unrecommended life. But on page one Will is already at the bottom and by the end, the reader is confronted with two meanings of the phrase “long way down.” So as not to divulge the ending, I’ll just say the expectation set by the title is met.

I discovered other delights during the reading. The story unfolds in verse form so although it weighs in at 306 pages, it is fast paced. Anagrams and a micro play add to the fast speed of the read. The anagrams act like connectors, tying the action of the story together and spotlighting the themes. They also hint at Will’s blossoming understanding. The micro play serves as backstory for one of Will’s key relationships. The visual layout of the book is quite appealing. Every page contains a muted design, splashes, slashes, abstract artwork that begs for analysis. On one page, the shape of a question mark is formed by words, causing one to ponder the significance of the subtle question embedded in the text; on yet other pages, the cover art with minor changes. The book is a feast for the eyes as the story is a boon for the brain. Combined, the offering is both stunning in a slightly wicked way and a mental workout. It is beautifully written, lyrical, and visceral.

There are other similarities I highly recommend adding Long Way Down to your reading schedule. between the two works – the It was the most joyous yet troubling 14 hours of reading I’ve had in reliance on relationships whether months. its acknowledged or not, comfort in the familiar even if the familiar is not idea, and stunted dreams and poisoned possibilities. There are differences, too, such as the setting (merry, ole England vs. today’s urban environment), the handling of social issues, and more. Speaking of social issues, I must confess I was not interested in reading Reynolds’ book. In spite of it racking up 14 awards, including the Edgar Allan Poe Award, I did not want to read about gang violence, guns, and drugs. But I attended a literary event (pre-COVID) that he headlined and found his transparency and backward entry into writing courageous. Once I

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The Raven

Poetry Corner

In this terrifying issue, we are thrilled to present more horribly-fantastic haikus from one of our favorite horror poets, A. F. Stewart.

Dear readers, your humble editors are so taken with Horror Haiku pas de Deux that we want you to have your very own copy. All you have to do is be the 7th (EAP’s death date) and 19th (EAP’s birth date) person to email us stating you’d like A. F. Stewart’s book. Email G h o s t S c r i b e s Da l l a s @ gmail.com by December 31, 2021. Good luck!

Hear those jingle bells Smile, you’re on the naughty list Krampus is coming

Raven caws, warming Heed the cry, and stay away The witch is hungry

To read more horror haikus by A. F. and other writers, take a cyber trip over to #HorrorHaikuesday every Tuesday on Twitter.

A. F. Stewart is a steadfast and proud sci-fi and fantasy geek. She was born in Nova Scotia, Canada, and still calls it home. The youngest in a family of seven children, she always had an overly creative mind and an active imagination. She favors the dark and deadly when writing—her genres of choice being dark fantasy and horror—but has been known to venture into the light on occasion. As an indie author she has published novellas and story collections with a few side trips into poetry and nonfiction. She is fond of good books, action movies, sword collecting, geeky things, comic books, and oil painting as a hobby. She has a great interest in history and mythology, often working those themes into her books and stories. Printed with permission – A.F. Stewart.

Issue 3 | October 2021

Speaking of Art

Meet Anel Anaya Lecona, Artistic Makeup Artist. Her specialty is Catrina from the Dia de los Muertos tradition. Like many successful artists, Anel did not grow up expecting to be one. A native of California, Anel was drawn to the cosmetology industry after finishing her formal education. She quickly discovered hair was not her thing, but she was racking up accolades and recognition in makeup. In 2010, she won a scholarship to Rudy Makeup Academy in California. Officials at Rudy’s told her she was given a scholarship because

of her answer to the question, “Why do you want to become a Rudy’s girl?” Her answer, “I don’t want to do makeup for celebrities, weddings, or quinceañeras. I want to do makeup for the dead.” She graduated from Rudy’s and immediate success was hers.

didn’t feel I was strong enough to do that. She’d passed away in my arms. I closed her eyes. I counted her last three breaths. I didn’t think I could do it.” Anel fulfilled her mother’s last wish but, “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Not so! What came next was a huge road bump. Her mother passed away. “My mother always said I had more to share with the public. That I would work with my heart.” Anel did not believe her mother. She thought she was average, normal. She gained confidence when her mother’s doctor handed her an envelope after her mother’s death. Anel opened it and inside was a note from her mother asking Anel to do her makeup upon her death. “I

As fate and passion would have it, turns out that preparing her mother—hair, makeup, clothes— in death was the door opening to her future. “I’ve been doing Catrinas ever since. It’s a passion that I do in memory of my mother and now my father.” Catrina is the female skeleton associated with Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). The first Catrina was created in 1912 by artist, Jose Guadalupe Posada.

The Raven He named it La Calavera Garbancera, which is the term working class and poor Mexicans used for rich Mexicans who tried to pass as European by wearing pale makeup to whiten their skin. “That’s why the original base is white. The black used around the eyes represents death.” In the Hispanic culture Catrina and Dia de los Muertos is taken very seriously. “November 2 is the original date for Dia de los Muertos. Not October 31! That’s Halloween with its costumes, candy, and such. Dia de los Muertos is more than that. It’s a way to honor and memorialize

Grüss vom Krampus

the dead. It’s a celebration of life and love.” Months before the Day of the Dead, Anel begins preparing. She scours thrift stores for clothing and props. Friends give her clothing, flowers, beads, and other items. “I start connecting, feeling, touching the fabric. Then, I dream. The theme and ideas come to me in a dream. The Catrinas smile, turn away, and leave. And that’s when I know what I am going to do. I don’t even know how to draw, but I am good at connecting, at feeling.” Anel pulls together the entire

look—the makeup, which is often the last step, clothes, props, flowers, etc. And she creates the headpieces. Anel takes partial credit for how the created characters speak to people. The remaining credit goes to the models. “They give my art life.” Anel shared the story of a lady who approached her after a show. The lady hugged the model, took lots of photos with the model, and cried throughout. The lady kept saying, “This reminds me of my mother - the colors, the flowers, the combination. This is my mother’s spirit.”

The Raven “I create every Catrina in loving memory of my mother. I love mixing beauty and death, dark beauty. I let my heart talk to my hands, which guides them to create.” A few of Anel’s creative, distinctive designs appear here. Additional spectacular art can be seen at the social media links below.

More from Anel Facebook Instagram TikTok “Meet Anel Anaya” Voyage Dallas Magazine | Dallas City Guide

Issue 3 | October 2021

The RaVen