Welcome, my guest, author Paula
Cappa, as she blogs about secrets of the supernatural for Supernatural Friday.
Leave a comment to be entered to win a download of her book, Night
Sea Journey. The winner
has pick of the eBook in either PDF, Mobi, or ePub.
“Monsters are real, and ghosts
are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” Stephen King
We
sure do love to read supernatural fiction. Some of us can’t get enough. Why is
that? People have been reading supernatural stories forever. The bible is full
of supernatural phenomena: talking serpents, sorcerers, revived corpses, even
demonized swine. So lots of us have grown up with these ideas. When we read supernatural
tales, what do we really want? An escape
into the fictitious unknown? Or maybe a road map into the unknown. Maybe the
supernatural holds secrets we want to discover.
One
of the greatest authors of the supernatural is Arthur Conan Doyle. Most famous
for his Sherlock Holmes detective books, Doyle’s short stories are lesser
known, but I can tell you that they still prevail as some of the scariest and
disturbing stories out there. His descriptions are quite vivid, the writing
wonderfully atmospheric, the plots detailed and fast, and he delivers
satisfying endings. Because I am a short story writer, I especially appreciate
this craft.
The Leather Funnel by Doyle,
published in 1902, takes place in Paris in the home of Lionel
Dacre. The house, walled with grey tiles stained with lichens and mildew, had a
library filled with books on magic and psychic matters, and what else … eccentric items of display, specifically a
large leather funnel, brass rimmed, black and discolored with faded letters—likely
from the Middle Ages.
Dacre
insists that his house guest sleep with the leather funnel by his head, based on
the idea that we can receive important information through dreaming. And that this very old funnel might enlighten
the dreamer as to its origin, use, and history. Dacre tells his guest, “You are
yourself a psychic subject—with nerves which respond readily to any
impression.” The science of dreams is
new to this house guest; his doubts prevail, but he agrees to the experiment.
So, after the smoldering firelight goes out, the supernatural dream begins.
I
must tell you this dream is so frightening, that I couldn’t read fast enough.
The tension and descriptions were so compelling that I had to slow down if I
wanted to truly savor the images and the haunting fear. When the house guest
breaks through the bonds of the dream, he lets out a shriek waking Dacre and
the servants.
I
won’t spoil it by telling you the incredible nightmare and grisly revelation. I
will just say that dark dreams in fiction have often been an exciting plot
device.
Lovecraft’s
Dreams in the Witch House is another
you’ll find absolutely chilling as nightmares blur into reality for the
character Walter when a witch named Kaziah and her sharp-fanged furry rat prevail in his attic bedroom. The House of the Nightmare by Edward
Lucas White (died 1934) is really creepy: the main character meets a boy with a
hideous cleft palate, faded eyes—a monster-child who has a dream-beast. White
was a writer who actually dreamed his stories before writing them, and in fact
dreamed of reading each story in a book, recalling the actual words on the
page, even the specks on the paper. He awoke and wrote them down. Not that is
truly supernatural.
I
just adore these kinds of stories and probably why I wrote my first novel, Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural,
about an artist who dreams of a terrifying fire hawk that drags her beneath the
sea. Nightmares have always been a part of my life and would haunt me for
days—just like my character Kip Livingston. Except for Kip, the dream doesn’t end when
she wakes up. Not only is Kip haunted by her nightmare, but she has reason to
fear that this raging fire hawk will break out of the dream realm into her physical
world. What then?
I
still debate why we so love these fantastic fictions that thrill us so deeply.
Are horror stories a kind of metaphor for the ancient evil that lurks inside
us? Is it because ghosts and monsters truly exist inside us as King says?
Perhaps we do have subconscious secret
longings to be the angry ghost who haunts or the all-powerful monster who
attacks. Gosh, that is a scary
thought.
If
you’d like to read the above-mentioned short stories, you can find them online
at the following links (or if you’re like me and still enjoy real
page-turning of paper books, try your
local library):
The Leather Funnel, Doyle:
The House of the Nightmare,
White: http://gaslight.mtroyal.ca/housntmr.htm
Dreams in the Witch House,
Lovecraft: http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/dwh.asp
My published short stories are
links on my blog: http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
My novel, Night Sea Journey (Ebook) is available at
Amazon:
See below for a short excerpt:
Night Sea Journey, A
Tale of the Supernatural by Paula Cappa
“If a man could
pass through Paradise
in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had
really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awoke—Ay!
And what then?” Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Horn Island, Rhode Island
The owl rises.
A wrinkled blue spreads across the Atlantic.
Above the brooding waves, winds blow to leave ancient face prints against the
salt-caked windows in the house by the sea. Abasteron House is named for the
angel who rules the fifth hour after sunset. A watchful creature, Abasteron can
flash the air or whisper a note. She is known for her winter walks across the
dunes in the tilting sun.
As angels go,
Raphael rules the spring, Uriel the summer. Many know Duma as the angel-prince
of dreams, blessed with spiky blond hair and shocking green eyes. The
perfection of the universe requires these messengers who, on occasion, assume
physical bodies or borrow them from nature.
From the rocky
shoreline, all can see Abasteron House, a cream-colored wooden structure on a
grassy hill. A fringed garden hugs the house bordered with sea lavender
abandoned to run wild. Inside, the walls are painted oyster white. High
bleached ceilings pitch into arches over the chimney room—named so because of
the twin fireplaces set at each end. The wide floors spread with faded Carolina
Ash: white wicker sofa, white stuffed chairs, and a bowl of yellow pears on the
whitewood table.
In the bedroom,
a woman sleeps under an iron headboard scrolled with delicate birds the color
of eggshells. D. Kip Livingston
clutches her pillow. Her coverlet is askew, bunched to leave a leg exposed, a
foot to dangle on the edge. One hand grips a revolver beneath the lace trim of
the sheets. Her night-bound eyes flutter.
Duma arrives. A
chamber opens.
Pale light
creeps over the ocean’s moaning verge. Kip stands on the beach, her ankles
buried in spotted locusts. Thick bands of yellow nymphs and boat-shaped males
with short horns swarm the shoreline like warriors on attack.
The waves
advance. Battalions of quickened snakes shine the surface water. Above the grey
sea, Kip sees a dark figure leaking streaks. It’s him. The firehawk.
He flies, full
and fast, prowling the hump-backed crests. With a chest full of orange flames,
the firehawk hooks his charred wings on a nest of stars. In a hot fit of pride,
he races toward her.
A scream jams
in her throat.
He hovers above
her face, spewing ash, showing off one golden claw. He thinks himself full of
beauty. What a plumage he has, all full of bone. The muscles on his neck bulge,
lumpy veins galloping with blood. Greedy, his teeth plunge out. The beast lets
go of his fire-tongue. From the open mouth, Kip hears his tumultuous heart.
He thinks
himself a king.
Black snakes
crisscross over Kip’s chest like a cage and propel her into the deepest waves
pulsing with ice chunks. She twists and screams, but the high rollers crash
over her, filling her mouth with foam. The firehawk soars in triumph. With his
hairy ropes, he reels her out to sea like a thrashing trout. Blue arrows,
boiling with fierce light, rip open the sky as she fights to keep her head
above the freezing water.
A giant
black-blue serpent swings up from the inky waves. It spreads its hood, expands
its ribs to expose devouring jaws.
Kip bolted
awake.
Shards of ice
crashed the floor. She jumped out of the sheets before a chunk hit her. The
black-blue serpent shot up from the mattress. His marble eyes darted just as he
lunged at her like a sword.
Stunned,
shaking, unable to draw a breath, she searched for the revolver under her
pillow. Hurry! With slippery hands, her body dripping as if the sea were
leaking from her flesh, her feet sliding on the wet floor, she found the gun.
Kip tightened her grip on the metal, narrowed her vision into a pinpoint, and
with razor-keen aim, she pulled the trigger. The serpent jerked and hit the
floor, spurting filmy white liquid in all directions. Again, she pulled
trigger, this time releasing a scream that knocked her back against the wall.
She sucked in a breath, fists still clenched. Angel Uriel blew a clean breeze
through the open window. Heart calming, refreshed, she rolled her head against
the firm plaster wall. Steady. Awake. Safe in Abasteron House. Was it Tuesday?
Wednesday?
On the floor, the serpent twitched with
spasms. There was no time to lose. She reached into the night table drawer and
removed a hatchet. For leverage, she separated her feet, gripped the handle
with both hands, raised her arms, and slammed down the hatchet.
What a cruel
chop. The head flipped and landed at her feet. Another chop and she separated
the tail. Again the hatchet came down. Methodically, Kip joined the tail at the
serpent’s head, positioned the middle sections at both ends. It shook
violently. With a close of its gleaming fangs, the serpent convulsed and
finally lay dead.
Battle won. She
gathered sheets soaked with seawater, sand, and slime and dumped the dead snake
inside the bundle, then tied it with double knots. The eyelet hem of her
nightgown hung heavy. She wrung it out, grabbed the sack, and headed outside.
The
Atlantic
rolled forth; it reminded her of rhythmic wave trains. How everlasting the
waves were, their sine wave patterns a muscular inexhaustible power. Perhaps
only God was mightier.
She dragged the
sack through the darkness to the far sand dunes and didn’t stop until she
reached a wide expanse dotted with sea grass. With claw-like fingers, she dug a
deep pit. Sudden winds blew her dark hair into her mouth—the strands tangled
between her teeth. Salt stung her tongue.
With a groan,
she heaved the sack into the pit. How many times had she buried the serpents?
For how many weeks, these wretched dreams, night after night. Months now.
Quickly she covered the hole with sand and sat back on her haunches. With a
huff, she patted the sand into a hard surface and walked away. No, she wouldn’t
look back. What for? The dream was dead and buried now. Until she dreamed
again.
Kip walked home
along the shore, sea spray on her cheeks. Full morning broke. Sun ablaze, gulls
flapped at the chin of sky. Abasteron House appeared small with its evergreen
shutters and peaked roof against the big sky. Was that a white crane soaring
over the roof? Maybe she’d pick some fresh sea lavender and fill Abasteron
House with shades of plum and violet. And she’d let the soft aromas act as a
balm for her thoughts.
Kip climbed the
hills to the beach path that lead to the house. The flagstones felt warm
against the soles of her feet. At the porch, each step gave her pause. That
white screen door stood ajar over a foot wide and hung perfectly still. But the
hinges squealed as if the wind were batting the door back and forth. Her own
shadow shifted. She watched it slip inside the doorway, yet she hadn’t move a
single finger. Who’s there? She
licked her thirsty lips, made a step back. Then another step. She grabbed the
porch rail, a bad case of the shakes overwhelming her. Tears mounted. She
swallowed them back.
Kip whipped
herself around to face the sea. Her eyes wandered the soothing blues and
greens. She swept her vision across the shoreline. Almost immediately, she
spotted the sailor. “Good Morning!” Her voice cracked. She threw a wave even
though he hadn’t seen or heard her greeting. Certain she was fully awake now,
Kip saw this sailor as her guarantee she was back in the concrete world. Every
morning, rain or shine, the man trotted the beach in his navy shorts and
tee-shirt. That scoop of white sailor cap tilted perfectly to the right on his
head. Some mornings he’d see Kip in the garden and give her a wave as he
passed. What a smile. But not today. Today he was trotting up island, east to
west, head down.
Oddly, the sky
piled high with sudden clouds. Sailboats tossed on the horizon like twisted
handkerchiefs. Even the beach seemed to retreat in the face of that ferocious
surf heaving up sand and shells and driving the seabirds into fearful circles.
The shimmer off
the sea swelled up like an old claw, long and suddenly greyed. Her tears
surfaced but did not fall. Kip entered the garden and filled her arms with sea
lavender.
Seven thunders
rolled up from the sea, but she did not hear them.
Author Bio:
Paula Cappa is a published short story author, novelist, and freelance
copy editor. Her short fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Twilight Times, Every Day Fiction, and in
anthologies Human Writes Literary Journal, and MysteryTime. Her writing career began as a freelance journalist for
community newspapers in New York
and Connecticut.
Currently she has a novel, Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural, on
Amazon.com. A second novel is planned
for release by spring 2013. She continues to write every day.
9 comments:
Wonderful guest blog, and made all the better with the links to the stories referenced.
Rob M. Miller
Wonderful guest blog, easy to read, insightful, and made all the better by having links to the stories referenced.
Looking forward to more,
Rob M. Miller
Great blog - loved it! Enjoyed the excerpt as well. PS - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a fascinating character -- he didn't just write about the supernatural, he believed in it strongly. He was a prominent member of the Ghost Club, an organization devoted to psychic phenomena.
I really like what Stephen King said, “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” I'll paraphase it's one of the Anita Blake stories. "In the world of monsters you are either food or a bigger monster. I. Am. Not. Food." Needless to say that has stayed with me. Loved the blog. Keep writing so I can keep reading.
Thank you Mary, Dani, Rob for your fine comments. I find it so much fun to read or reread the master ghost writers from years ago. Their prose and the historical settings are so inviting. On my WordPress blog I will be posting these kinds of "tasters" regularly, focusing on authors like deMaupassant, Crawford, Wharton, Blackwood, Hawthorne, Bierce. I hope you will read more of Doyle's work. The fascination with the old tales of terror continues!
Thanks for a fun read. As it happens,the life of ACD and his manifestation, Sherlock, are lifelong interests. I have no way of confirming this, but I believe that Sherlock is the most recognized literary character ever created. At any rate, his short non-Sherlock stories are less well-known but equally compelling. He did become quite credulous towards the end of his life, and his grief over the loss of his son drove him to be a bit of a "mark" for the unscrupulous, as I'm sure you realize. Lots to consider in your post! And can't wait to see upcoming tasters. Keep em coming! Kathryn Hohmann, http://www.Soldiers-rest.com
Great stuff! As it happens, I'm a Sherlockian of sorts and believe his detective is the most well-known literary creation in...well, creation. Less well known are the works you've pointed out...thanks! Keep it coming and I'm looking forward to the tasters. See you around the web writers' world...I'm at http://www.soldiers-rest.com
All the best, Kathryn
Congratulations, Kathryn Hohmann! You are the winner of Paul's new release.
Thanks Kathryn for your thoughts. I'm still learning about Doyle. Fascinating author. Congrats on your win! I'll work out the details to get you a copy of Night Sea Journey.
Your web site Soldiers-Rest.com is lovely. I love historical fiction!
Paula
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