Freebie Friday Ghost Story - KC Dyer

Happy Halloween!!! I hope you all are doing something fun today. In our community, the kids did trick-or-treat last night (don't ask me why - I don't get it) so all that's left for today are the school parades (anticlimactic since they've already worn their costumes for the night out) and Halloween parties. Oh - and Freebie Friday, complete with a completely fabulous ghost story!

Today's freebie, in celebration of the upcoming NaNoWriMo that starts tomorrow, is a purse-sized journal and miniature pen - perfect for jotting down story ideas. For your chance to win, simply leave a comment below about any of the ghost stories we've shared this week. And now, the story you've been waiting for... In keeping with our international theme, Canadian author extraordinaire, KC Dyer, has shared an excerpt from her upcoming book set in the tunnels and streets of Old Town beneath Edinburgh. Enjoy!

I can’t say how long the trip through the tunnels lasted. Hours? Days? It was long enough that my legs ached from the running. Long enough that the torch sputtered out twice, each re-lighting accompanied by muffled curses. And, most tellingly, long enough that my fear of the velvet darkness gradually ebbed into gratitude, for the number of rats I could hear must surely seem fewer than seeing the reality.

Even Iain’s breath was ragged when his footsteps finally slowed. He tightened his grip on my arm. “Time is short,” he hissed in my ear, “but we must slow down here.”

And right he was, for less than five steps later my hand brushed the splintery reality of a wooden door. Iain thrust the torch up to a metal plate near his eye level, and dropping my arm, used his other hand to slide the plate open. He turned to smirk at me and his eyes glinted red in the torchlight.

“We’re in luck,” he whispered. “Say nothing unless she speaks to you.”

“Who…?” I began, but he waved my question aside and turned the heavy iron handle of the door. Apart from the metallic click as the latch disengaged, there was no sound as the door swung wide enough to admit us both. A fetid stink of dust, and old wax and something else – rats, maybe? – enveloped me as we stepped through the doorway.

“Leave it ajar,” Iain breathed into my ear.

“Close it,” said another voice, clear and petulant. “Or I will not admit you into my boudoir.”

My heart felt like it stopped a moment in my chest. I’d heard that voice before.

A single candle burned low in a sconce on the wall, casting its dim glow onto the powdery walls, stained with damp. In the small circle of light sat a child, near what looked like an open box on floor. From her size she was past babyhood, perhaps six or seven years old, though it was hard to tell, as her face was wreathed in shadow. Her hair was long and tousled, but looked cleaner than it had a right to be in that dark and dreadful place. Half the girl’s head had been neatly braided, the long plait hanging down her back, but the other half hung loose, as though whoever had been helping her with it had been called away before completing the task.

“It’s cold,” she whispered, and her voice sweetened. “So cold. Is there no coal for the hearth? I cannot find my cloak. Have you seen my mama?”

Iain’s hand tightened warningly on my arm once more. “Ah, I’m sure your ma will return soon, girlie. We’ve brought you a wee doll, just to help you pass the time until she returns.”

The child clapped her hands in delight, but made no move toward us. Instead, Iain put his hand on the small of my back and pushed me forward. I stumbled on the uneven surface and nearly fell on the girl before recovering my balance. Not knowing what else to do, I held out the small doll.

She didn’t spare me a glance. Instead she continued to stare into the darkness towards the door – and Iain.

“You’re not my friend,” she said slowly, and she scrambled up onto her knees. “I can see you now…mama said I should keep away. I remember now. Mama told me to stay clear from you…”

She looked up at me then, and the pallor of her skin was reflected in the blue of her eyes – so faded as to be almost white. Under her chin, the skin of her neck was grotesquely swollen, and a purple-black that made her head almost appear to float above the rags she wore as a dress. She rose lightly to her feet and reached for the doll, but all I felt was a chill of icy breath on my skin as her hand passed across – and through – my own. In the time it took for me to turn and look at Iain, she was gone, her final word drifting through the air between us…

“…Demon”.

Iain shrugged. “Can’t think what she meant,” he said, grinning weakly.

And with the softness of a sigh, the candle guttered out.

Happy Hallowe'en!

Ghost Story - Marley Gibson

Today's ghost story is extra cool... Agency sister Marley Gibson is going to be on the Biography Channel tonight will actual film footage of hers! You'll want to keep an eye on Marley - the first book in her GHOST HUNTRESS series comes out next year. This story happened while she was researching for the series.

When the sale of my upcoming series, GHOST HUNTRESS, was announced, I was blown away by how many people wanted to tell me their ghost story. Who knew? This person's grandmother had a ghost, that one's uncle had a spirit in his office, another one saw an apparition on a dark road, and others reported angels and deceased relatives in hosital rooms and during raging storms.

I love hearing people's ghost stories and love learning of their experiences. I have to say that I didn't necessarily believe in or think about ghosts before I started doing research for the GHOST HUNTRESS series. Sure, I liked the paranormal movies and books and such, but I hadn't really considered the possibilities of having contact with another dimension.

Over the past year and a half, my husband, Mike, and I have gone to a lot of haunted locations in the name of research for my book. We've had a lot of personal experiences, gotten a lot of unknown voice recordings on our digital recorder, and we've each been touched when no one else was present. However, the most compelling evidence we have to date is that of our "ball
video" from Waverly Hills Sanitarium in Louisville, Kentucky that we captured this summer.

Waverly Hills was a tuberculosis hospital from 1929 through the early 1960s. Over 63,000 (yes, you read that right) people died there over the years. Men, women, and children. See, when a family member contracted the disease, the whole family would have to move into the sanitarium because of how contageous the disease was. Because of this, many well children came down with tuberculosis, as well, and eventually died. Very sad.

Mike and I were on the third floor of the sanitarium. It was a hot, hot July night in Kentucky. The only sounds were that of our fellow investigators, the chirping cicadas outside, and the UPS planes overhead. The place has no electricity and there was no wind or breeze that night. As we were walking down the hallway, we encountered two balls on the floor. A red one and a blue one. Much to our surprise, the larger blue one was rolling around the smaller red one. We had heard stories that visitors to the place would bring balls for the spirit children to play with. Who knew we'd actually see it move?

For fifteen minutes, we sat there and watched this ball move freely between Mike and me. It would roll to him, change directions and then roll to me. Then, it would roll around me and bump up against me. Clearly this wasn't just the wind blowing it, because there was no wind. Additionally, the floor was completely level and there was no way it was causing the ball to
move around. Finally it hit me! Turn the video camera on! Which we did. And we got twenty minutes of footage of me talking to what we believe was the spirit of a child as this ball moved around and back and forth between us.

At one point, the ball goes shooting into another room. I get up to retrieve it and as I'm bring it back in, I can feel something literally tugging it out of my hand. I mention that on the video and when I played my audio recorder back (a week later), I heard a disembodied voice that
said, "Hey, hey, let go."

Through some networking in the "paranormal community" and a lot of people hearing of our experience, we were recommended to a producer for a new TV show that A&E was putting together called MY GHOST STORY. It's a show about real people, not ghost hunters, and their paranormal experiences that have been caught on video. They were really impressed with the ball video and they flew us out to LA to interview us for the show. Fortunately, we made the cut for the premiere (7 stories out of 22 were chosen!) and TONIGHT the show will air on A&E's Biography Channel at 10:00 p.m. ET. If you'd like to see the ball video, please tune in then and check out our interview and footage. It's pretty amazing!

So, this Halloween season...do you have a ghost story to tell? What's yours?

Hope you'll watch MY GHOST STORY tonight!! Drop me a line and let me know what you thought of it.

Hugs,
Marley = )

Ghost Story - Ian Barker

Happy Wednesday! In keeping with the international theme, today's ghost story comes to you from Ian Barker, who hails from Greater Manchester in the UK. Ian is editor of PC Tools magazine. He's currently collecting rejection slips for a novel.

I’d agreed to have Nick for a week over half-term whilst my sister and her husband were away on their second honeymoon. Derek was up north on business so it would be nice to have some company in the house while he was gone.

The thing is, I hadn’t seen Sandra’s son for four years – living at opposite ends of the country doesn’t do too much for family ties – and I still remembered the rather shy eleven-year-old I’d last met. What turned up on my doorstep was a gangly, spiky-haired model for skateboarder chic. His black hoodie was made for someone three sizes bigger and he wore gravity-defying combat pants that seemed in constant danger of descending to his ankles.

“Hello, Auntie Pam.” He dumped a rucksack large enough to supply a three-month expedition to the Himalayas on my hall floor.

I put him in the lounge and went through to the kitchen to make tea. When I came back he was slouched on the sofa with the earpieces of an iPod firmly in place.

“What are you listening to?” I said as I put down the tray. I’d opted for mugs, teenagers and the quality china aren’t a good mix in my experience.

Nick grudgingly removed one earphone. “Kaiser Chiefs.”

I half recalled hearing a track on the car radio. “Oh, they’re rather jolly aren’t they? They remind me a bit of The Jam from back in my day.”

A scowl preceded the replacement of the earpiece and the neck sinking deeper into the hoodie. There was also an odd sideways glance and a raising of the eyebrows as though passing silent comment to someone else. Maybe “jolly” wasn’t the appropriate term. I noticed the sideways glances more over the next few days, and thought I heard the odd muttered aside too but I never managed to catch the actual words. I just put it down to teenage hormones.

Then as I was on my way to bed on Thursday night I noticed Nick hadn’t shut his door properly. As I passed I clearly heard him say, “No, Mark, it’s different these days.” There was some other stuff that I couldn’t quite hear and I felt guilty about lingering to listen so I moved on. I was beginning to worry though. I’d half a mind to write to Sandra and say I was concerned about the boy’s mental state.

The next morning as he crunched his breakfast cereal I said, as casually as I could manage, "Who's Mark?"

For a fleeting moment he looked like he was about to burst into tears, then he looked down at his Corn Flakes and muttered, “Nobody.”

“It’s just that I thought I heard you talking to someone last night.”

“Oh... That’s just some stupid play thing we’re doing for school, I was rehearsing.” He blushed as he said it and I knew he was lying but I didn’t press the point.

“I thought we’d go shopping later, get some stuff for a special meal on Saturday before you go back. Your uncle Derek will be back on Sunday morning, so he can drive you to the station.”

He didn’t say anything, but there was that odd sideways glance with the raised eyebrows again. Nick trailed around the supermarket with his hands deep in his pockets and made monosyllabic replies to my queries about what sort of food he liked. When we got to the checkout I noticed a couple of extra items on the belt. A sliced white loaf and, oddly, a Glam Rock Greats CD. “Did you pick these up?” I asked Nick.

“No,” he said, injecting a surprising amount of feeling into a small word.

“If you wanted them you only had to ask.”

“I didn’t.” He was blushing again. The checkout girl was getting impatient and there was a queue, so I just paid for the lot. Behind me I distinctly heard Nick mutter, “Mark!” through gritted teeth. He hardly spoke on the way back. When I’d unpacked the shopping and looked up a recipe for bread and butter pudding to use up the unwanted loaf, I tried to talk to Nick again.

“Aren’t you a bit old for imaginary friends?”

“I don’t have imaginary friends.”

“Then who’s Mark?”

“No one.”

“So have you been talking to no one for long?”

“No, he’s only...” Nick suddenly became intent on conducting a close examination of his shoes.

“Only what? If something’s bothering you tell me.”

“I can’t”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t understand!” There were genuine tears in his eyes this time and he turned and thudded upstairs to the spare room. Maybe I should have taken a less bull in a china shop approach. Don’t get me wrong here, there’s nothing the matter with imaginary friends as such. I mean, I had one when I was a little girl. I was six and her name was Emma. We had great adventures together and my mother would play along with the conspiracy, laying an extra place at table or dividing my orange squash into two glasses instead of one. But I grew out of it. Well, when you get a bit older you do, don’t you? A fifteen-year-old boy with an imaginary friend though. That’s odd if you ask me. I made the pudding as a peace offering, but all the while I was composing that difficult letter to my sister.

I decided against cooking on the Saturday evening. Instead we sent out for a takeaway and I opened a bottle of wine. And yes, I did let Nick drink some. What’s the point of being an auntie if you can’t be a wicked one now and again?

After we’d eaten we listened to the Glam Rock Greats CD and Nick surprised me by knowing most of the words and being able to sing along. We giggled at his attempts to match Noddy Holder’s gravel voice. Then he produced a gadget that linked his iPod to the stereo – Derek would have had a fit – and we listened to the Kaiser Chiefs and the Arctic Monkeys. He even let me kiss him on the cheek before he went to bed.

What with such a successful evening and more than half a bottle of Riesling I went to bed more than a little drunk. That’s probably why I forgot to turn off the fan heater in the utility room.

It was pitch dark when I woke and there was an acrid tang in my mouth and nose along with a stinging in my eyes. Someone was tugging at my arm. “Come on,” the voice was muffled. I climbed out of bed and the smoke was worse. I felt a hand, cold and clammy, take mine.

“Shut your eyes and bend down low.” The next bit I only know though my bare feet; the dense bedroom carpet giving way to the shorter pile of the landing and stairs, the woodstrip of the hall, the prickly doormat, the cold concrete of the garden path and then the damp tarmac of the pavement. “You can open your eyes now.”

Slowly I lifted my eyelids, and there was Nick, shivering in his underpants. “You saved my life,” I said.

Then I realised that both his hands were engaged in rubbing his arms to keep warm, but that someone’s fingers were still curved around mine. I turned to see another boy, about Nick’s age standing next to me, dressed in flared jeans and a tank top, his blond hair in a collar-length feather cut. He gave me a dazzling two-million candle-power smile. I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words could come out, he'd gone. He didn't walk or run or fade like the Cheshire Cat or disappear in a puff of smoke; he just wasn't there any more.

I turned back to Nick. “Was that...?”

“Mark, yes.”

“But... He’s... I mean, how...?”

“I suppose you’d call him a ghost. He died trying to rescue someone from a fire in 1975. This was why he found me.” Nick nodded towards the house, then looked a little wistful. “I don’t think he’ll be back now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t. I was scared he’d go away if I did and...”

“Oh, Nick!” I hugged him until the wail of an approaching fire engine broke the spell. As if on cue neighbours, overcoats hastily thrown over nightwear, emerged from their houses with blankets.

“Auntie!” Nick pushed me away. I realised that he’s fifteen and doesn’t want to be hugged in the street by a middle-aged woman in a passion-killer nightie. “You won’t tell anyone? About Mark, I mean."

“I don’t think they’d believe me if I did.”

I mentally rip up the first letter to my sister and begin to write another telling her what a marvellous son she has. Then I wonder what Derek’s going to say about the house.

Happy Halloween!

Ghost Story - Nicole Maggi

As promised, today I bring you the first of five ghost stories to get us in the Halloween mood this week. Today's story is from Nicole Maggi, an actress and writer from LA who also happens to be one of my fabulous critique partners.

Many years ago, when I was in college, I worked as an Assistant Stage Manager on a play that was being done in the Emerson Majestic Theatre in Boston. Theatres are notoriously haunted; the Majestic certainly was, from the seats up in the unused second balcony that would randomly snap up and down to the ghosts that wafted through the basement costume shop.
The Stage Manager I worked with was named Melinda, and one day we started chatting about haunted theatres. She told me this story.

Melinda used to work for the Alley Theatre in Houston, a theatre that was founded by a group of women. One of the founders, Iris, was murdered in the theatre offices several years before Melinda started working there. Iris had hired a security guard and had run a routine statewide background check on him when she had hired him, but a few months later when she ran a nationwide check on all the theatre's employees, she'd discovered he was wanted in a couple of states. So she fired him. Knowing her habit of working late, he came to the theatre one night and strangled her with a telephone cord. He was convicted and sentenced to death for the murder.

Fast forward to Melinda working there years later. One day, one of her crew members called in sick, so Melinda called up her friend Amy to fill in. Amy came to the theatre during the day to run through her crew routine. She was in the wings when she heard the sound of someone violently choking onstage. She ran out onto the stage, but no one was there. A search of the theatre turned up no one; it was empty. She chalked it up to her imagination and left.

Later that night, after the show, Melinda and her roommate were the last ones in the theatre, shutting out all the lights and locking all the doors. Now, the stage at the Alley has a central vaum running behind it, with a single door that leads out onto the stage. As a final check, Melinda reached for the doorknob to check the stage. As she did so, her roommate said, "Don't open that door." Melinda ignored her and opened it.

"It was like looking into the pit of hell, " Melinda told me. "The stage was gone, the theatre was gone, the world was gone. If I had stepped out onto where the stage should be, I would have fallen into a bottomless hole."

Screaming, the two women fled the theatre, jumped into Melinda's car and raced to - where else - the nearest bar. At the bar, they ran into Amy and told her of what had just happened. Amy then related what she had heard earlier in the day. And as they're talking, they suddenly become aware of the TV over the bar. There's a little item on the news. The man who had murdered Iris was supposed to have been executed that day, but had been granted a stay of execution.

The next night, Melinda was at the theatre until 3 am and nothing happened. "Iris was just pissed," she told me, "and she let us know it."

Happy Halloween!