My Book Signings on Friday the 13th and Saturday the 14th

I have two book signings this weekend. Friday the 13th, I will be reading from How the Vortex Changed My Life, and signing copies afterwards from 7:00-8:00 p.m. at Chop Suey Books in Carytown. The address is 2913 SWest Cary Street, Richmond, Virginia 23221. For directions or more information: 804-422-8066.  http://www.chopsueybooks.com/

Saturday, October 14th, from No0n to 1:00 pm. I will be signing copies of How the Vortex Changed My Life, plus any of my five nonfiction ghost books at The Little Bookshop in Midlothian. The address is 1318 Sycamore Square, Midlothian, Virginia 23113. For directions and more information: 804-464-1244. https://www.thelittlebookshopva.com/

Author Appearance at Scares That Cares July 22, 2017

I will be at the charity horror convention, Scares That Cares this coming Saturday, July 22nd, most of the time at the Horror Writers Association Virginia table in the dealers room at the Doubletree Hotel in Williamsburg, VA. You can purchase and get signed by me, one of my nonfiction ghost books (one concerns Williamsburg-Virginia's Haunted Historic Triangle) or my collection of horror short stories, Spectre Nightmares and Visitations. Plus 8:30pm – 9:30pm – I will be at the HWA Virginia Meet & Greet in rooms A and B. Information on cost, plus address of the hotel, what actors are guests, other authors, and more can be found here: http://scaresthatcareweekend.com/

Supernatural Friday: Pets Can Come Back Too...Sometimes, Most Times, Okay, Definitely!

Why should humans be the only ones entitled to an after life existance? Not only are there human spirits, but phantom animals have been seen for centuries. Besides wraiths of the family pet who passed away there are legends of the Black Dog, Pookas, animals that predict a family's deaths (such as the black bird did for the Cox family of Cloverhill Plantation in Chesterfield, Virginia, phantom panthers and big cats, and others.

Apparitions of the infamous Black Dog has been seen not only in British Isles, but many other places in the world. They may be distinguished from normal flesh and blood black canines by features such as large or glowing eyes—sometimes only one—their ability to appear or disappear out of thin air or into and out of the ground, no head, two heads; or the ability to change their size or appearance. Though sometimes these ghostly hounds aren't always just black, but seen as white or brown beasts.

The Black Dogs go under many names depending which county you are in. In the north of England in counties such as Yorkshire and Lancashire, you will hear names such as Guytrash, Shriker, or Barguest; in East Anglia and Norfolk you will hear Black Shuck, Skeff, or Moddey Dhoo; and in the south of England you will hear names like Yeth or Wish Hounds. The origin of the word Guytrash is unknown, but Shuck can be traced back to the Old English Scucca, meaning Demon while Barguest may come from the German 'Bargeist' meaning “spirit of the (funeral) bier.” The demon association is sometimes emphasized by the title ‘’Devil Dog.” In the south, Yeth means Heath, while Wish, in a similar vein, is an old Sussex word for marsh. This name for the hounds is widely used in Sussex, but the origin also seems linked to the term Witch Hounds, which is also common. Whether there is any connection between the two is unknown. The names may only be referring to the fact that these dogs are often seen in wild country places. In many places, the dogs are seen as omens of death. To see one means either a portent of your own death or the death of a family member.

You don’t have to go to the British Isles to see one. There have been some of these beasts reported in Virginia. There’s a legend of one that has been seen in Goochland, big as a young calf as it roamed the county. Sightings of it have always been reported to be near the State Farm, at the entrance to Thorncliff, and also at Chestnut Hill Bottom. Unlike Black Shuck in England, this one has never portended the death of anyone. There have been no tales of this animal seen since 1900 though.

Often, like the traditional Black Dogs seen in Britain, it would appear out of nowhere, trot alongside someone on foot or horseback or in a buggy. Even though it looked fearsome and was very big, it didn’t harm anyone. Some, though, didn’t want the dog accompanying them and would shoot at the animal. The bullets would just pass through its body, frightening the shooters, while the dog just kept trotting beside them. You can read more of the Virginian Black Dogs in my book, Haunted Virginia: Legends, Myths, and True Tales at various places, including AMAZON .

Apparitions of pets have been seen, plus a favorite toy seen rolling or moving as if a paw or nose still prodding it, and there has also been recorded of the feeling of something rubbing against legs or the push of a cold nose into a person's hand. Even sounds have been heard--either out loud or on EVPs from a recorder. I myself have gotten the meowing of a cat, once at Ferry Plantation during an investigation, and this past August 2011 at the Byrd Theater. A ghost cat has been seen and heard at Ferry; the ghost cat at the Byrd was more of a surprise to me.

Speaking of dog or cat spirits seen and heard, other animals' specters have been, too. Like horses. There is a story I read that concerned a child, who when her parents moved to Germany at the air base would keep avoiding an spot in the corridor of their home. She told her mother  that there was a horse in the middle of it. The mother looked up and found that the block of flats that their flat was in a military stable stood in the same area during World War II.

 

Another ghostly beastie seen was an ape at  Athelhampton Hall in Dorset, England. The place had been built by Sir William Martyn in 1485. Tyhe family's crest had an ape sitting on a tree stump and beneath that was the motto: "He who looks at Martyn's ape, Martyn's ape will look at him." Really owning this ape, it had the run of the hall. When one of Martyn's daughters had been spurned by her lover, she went to commit suicide in a room, locking herself in. Unfortunately for the animal, it followed her into the room and was locked in, too. It was found lying by her side, starved to death. This ghost ape is said to be heard scratching behind the walls.

In Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia, lays the tomb of famous author, Ellen Glasgow. After she passed away, it was discovered in her will a stipulation that her two pet dogs that preceded her in death be dug up from the backyard of her home and buried with her. There are those who claim to hear these two dogs running around and whining at the gravesite, late at night. Could Ellen be tossing them sticks to fetch?

 

Also in Hollywood is another dog legend, concerning one made of iron. It stands almost in the shadow of the pyramid. It came originally from the front of a store on Broad Street in the 19^thcentury. A little girl would always come by and pet it, talking to it and showing her love for it as if it were a real dog. But one day she never came back. She had perished in an epidemic in 1892 and was buried in Hollywood Cemetery. Because of her affection for the cast iron dog though, it was placed at her grave site. Eerily, it stands there to this very day, as if guarding her. There have been those who say that it moves occasionally, that they would pass it pointing in one direction and come back, to find it staring the opposite way.

On moonlit nights, rider less horses are heard, galloping around the Federal-style country house, Reveille in Richmond.Located on West Cary Street in Richmond’s West End is used now as administrative offices for the Reveille United Methodist Church since it was bought in 1951.  In Old House Woods in Mathews County, ghosts of horses and cows appear and disappear before people's eyes while two black headless dogs have been seen running through the woods.

 

Last is two ghostly animals tales set in the Great Dismal swamp in Chesapeake, Virginia. Both involve ghost deer.

 

There is another local Indian tale told that is set in the Great Dismal Swamp of the Tidewater region. It is one of tragic love. There had been an Indian maiden, Wa-Cheagles, who happened to be daughter of the chief of one of two warring tribes in the area. For years she had an interesting relationship with a doe that she called Cin-Co, which meant guiding friend. It was believed that Cin-Co brought deer into the swamp each autumn. The doe would always lead her current fawn up to Wa-Cheagles to show her, at the edge of the forest near a pool of dark brown water. This was the only way for the squaw to meet with the doe as squaws were not allowed into the forest because the tribes believed this to be an evil omen. 

One year, Cin-Co appeared alone, limping. She walked back into the forest, doing it two to three times, until Wa-Cheagles overcame her fear and followed her. The doe lead her to her fawn that had a hoof firmly on a barely living rattlesnake. No doubt this reptile had bitten Cin-Co and was the reason for her limp. The doe was telling the Indian maiden she wanted her to care for her fawn, since the doe was dying from the rattlesnake poison. While there, Wa-Cheagles heard a moan and discovered an Indian brave from an enemy tribe with a swollen leg from a rattlesnake bite. If she attended to him, she must pledge herself to him. Both then would be hunted down, to be killed by arrows with tips laced with water moccasin venom.

But she went ahead and helped him, removing her beret and tying it around his leg. Using some snakeroot she found, she applied a poultice over the wound. Ready to leave, she saw that Cin-Co had died and the fawn had vanished. Upset, she went back to her tribe.

For three days, she would sneaked away to tend to the brave. On the third day, her father appeared in the clearing, finding not only her, but the brave too. He carried away Cin-Co’s carcass, giving them enough time to get away.

Wa-Cheagles and her lover stopped at Lake Drummond to rest. Just then three warriors from her tribe confronted them, determined to erase the curse from their tribe.

As the warriors drew back their bows to send their arrows flying, a dark cloud blotted out the sun and a loud rustling noise filled the air. A flock of wild geese flew around Wa-Cheagles and her lover. The geese settled en masse on the lake until not one inch of the water could be seen. Terrified, the braves dropped their bows and arrows and bolted. 

Just then, the “swamp spirit” rose out of the lake and strolled over the backs of the geese, approaching the two lovers. It told them that Cin-Co’s spirit had saved them. That Wa-Cheagles must continue the doe’s good work. The spirit magicked the maiden into a white deer, a small crimson spot on her forehead. Her lover became a charmed hunter. The spirit told them they would roam the swamp’s forest forever, side by side, protected from both animals and hunters by rattlesnakes.

To this day there are hunters and others who say they have seen the white deer and the Indian brave by her side. Whenever a hunter pursues them, a rattlesnake appears on the spot they had been sighted, hissing and rattling its rattle. 

Black Jack the hermit took off in his boat one Christmas Eve, his only companion being his faithful hunting dog. He rowed across Drummond Lake, went down Washington Ditch and landed near White Marsh Road. Both man and dog left the boat to hunt deer for their dinner. 

The Native Americans in the area claimed that white deer were protected by spirits. Jack’s dog flushed out a white buck, the biggest deer Jack had ever seen. The buck froze, and when he fired at it, the bullet pierced its chest. But instead of falling, it bounded away. The dog gave chase, but lost it. Jack began to wonder of the local Indian stories were true then.

Later, the dog found a red buck and this one dropped easily when Jack’s bullet hit it. He loaded the carcass in his boat and rowed for home. When it was almost dark, a blue-green light rose in the sky above the tree tops. Jack thought it was the moon rising, but then it zipped for his boat. It paused above his boat and illuminated the whole lake. Frightened, the hermit began to row faster. 

When he got to his cabin, he dropped the buck and gave an order to his dog to guard the carcass, then went inside to gather the things needed to clean and dress it. He changed his clothes, sharpened his knives and went outside. Both his dog and the deer had vanished! Grabbing a lantern, he searched and found small patches of blood in the snow trailing back to the lake’s edge. Stunned, he stood there, not knowing what to do. 

Just then a moan rent the air. Louder and louder it grew and sounding as if from the middle of the lake. He stared as the same blue-green light rose out of the water and over a giant cypress, covering the tree in its unnatural glow.

When the scream of a wildcat came, he jumped in his boat and raced downstream to the locks. He leaped onto shore and bolted to Captain Crockett’s cottage. It was midnight when he banged on the front door. Black Jack streaked past Crockett when he opened the door. For three hours he sat in the cottage, not speaking, due to both being frozen and the fear he felt. Crockett gave him a mixture of honey, swamp water, and moonshine, and it freed him enough to blurt out his strange story. 

The next morning Jack left, determined to find his dog and the missing deer. That night, Crockett dreamed of a white buck and the mysterious halo of light that surrounded its head. He awoke, knowing it to be a premonition of danger for Jack. So the next morning he traveled to the hermit’s cabin and found the door wide open and the fire out. Jack was not inside. He searched outside and found Jack in a kneeling position in a thicket. The hermit had frozen to death. No other tracks surrounded him, and Crockett saw no signs of a struggle.

It is claimed that since then, on Christmas Eve between midnight and two in the morning that Jack can be heard gibbering about the light and the deer. At break of dawn, his dog and the missing red buck can be seen where he was found. Hunters fire at a white buck, but never hit it. The deer and the dog vanish into the underbrush. 

The white deer that hunters shoot at and never hit could be the Indian maiden, Wa-Cheagles from the Indian myths chapter, except for their claim that it is a buck they saw and Wa-Cheagles became a white doe, protected by her warrior lover. 

Supernatural Friday-Sorry Three Days Late!-Cigarettes

Sorry this is late by three days for Supernatural Friday, but Mysticon was busy for me. This may hapen to me for Ravencon last Friday in April, so fair warning! Enjoy this original horror short story of mine. Please do not share the story, instead just share the link to your friends a nd relative to come read it here. It is my own story and copyrighted. Thanks again, and enjoy. 

"Cigarettes"

By

Pamela K. Kinney

The breathing in his lungs grew harsher as he ran and ran. Damn it, it hurt to suck in air. He didn’t dare look over his should to see if it still pursued him. After all, he might stumble over something and fall and the thing would be able to get him. The night being so dark he wouldn’t see it, not until it was in clawing distance anyway.

They warned his wife, Tillie and him, that some beast prowled the area at night, mainly when the crescent moon hung low in the sky. For months whatever it was, bayed long into the night as it prowled. Hearing it for so long, he hated it. Hated that it kept him indoors at night. Hated that fear of it ruled his and the town’s nights.  Tillie went to bed early those nights, but he stayed up until late, after the sound had died away. When he came to bed, Tillie seem to have a sexual appetite that rivaled none she had any other time during their marriage of one year. She appeared to pay no heed that he obviously spent the night smoking. The only time he applauded the creature stalking the woods nearby. It made his wife even more . . . sensual.

The past month, there had been nothing. And he needed some cigarettes. Bad enough that the shakes came over him and the craving dug deep into him. He grew sharp at Tillie, who started to give him angry looks. Looks she never had before. She bit back at him, like PMs had gotten control of her. She told him not to go. After all, he could get the damned pack in the morning. But he didn’t listen to her. After their worse argument ever, he stomped out the door and to their car.

It hadn’t taken him long—just a half hour to drive to town to the only gas station that stayed open until six at least. By the clock in the dashboard, it was six.

The owner of the place was locking up when he screeched the car to a stop. Would have locked the door and gotten into his own vehicle to drive away if Jim hadn’t paid him an extra twenty just to remain open for five more minutes to get his pack of cigarettes and pay for them. The man then closed the place and zoomed out into the street and down it. Normally, a cop would catch and ticket him, but since the killings, the police had more things to worry about then some speeder. Which was why Jim himself could stamp on the pedal for home. The only good thing; lack of cops and oh yeah, his horny wife. Though the way they been duking it out the past few weeks, he doubted he would get any tonight.

He had made about halfway home when the car broke down. He cranked the engine. Nothing. Tried again. It didn’t even give a cough.

The ‘bitch’ finally gave up the ghost on him. He couldn’t understand what the problem could be and it was too dark, with only a crescent moon and a few straggling stars as his light, as he couldn’t find the flashlight he swore he had put in the glove compartment anywhere in the vehicle. He climbed out, kicked the door shut, and not even bothering to lock it, trudged home.

There had been nothing for the first fifteen minutes of him tramping on the road. Whatever had haunted the woods must have left after the last death. A crescent moon mocked him from the sky and there’d always been that kind of moon during the killings. He heard not one peep from the woods on either side of him. The silence reassured him.

Jim remembered the terror that had filled the tiny town. That some beast had caught and ravished, even partially eating, some pets, a horse in a pasture, and fifteen people. . .  What was that? He paused, and stared at all the trees. Minutes before the night appeared harmless. Now the hulking shadows that lined the road on both sides of the road had his heart hammering. Though nothing moved.

Suddenly, the stillness bothered him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and under his armpits, despite the chill in the air. Heart pounding, he began to walk faster. Fear pushed him to break his stride into a jog.  Not much for exercising, his legs protested it.

A low growl came from the left of him.

Jim didn’t stop moving, but he turned to peer at the forest that way. Nothing.  A shadow detached from the trees and stepped onto the road.

Shit!

He broke into a run. His legs screamed, but he ignored them as a howl rent the air.  An answering prissy girl screams in his own ears.

God, was that him?

Yes, it was. He belted out into a flat-out run for his life. For that was what he was doing; saving his skin. 

He caught sight of a light. His house! The light glinted from behind the curtain at one of the front room windows.

Thank God, if he got inside and locked the door behind him, he’d be safe. Of course, he would give a call to the police and let them know the thing that been killed all those people and pets wasn’t gone. Tomorrow, he would tell his wife they need to love into town. Forget it, move some—

SMACK!

“Hell,” he cursed, “that hurts.”

Hurt? He felt sure that he’d broken his nose, running right into his front door. He wondered why Tillie hadn’t opened the door and hissed at him to get inside. But she hadn’t. What a time for her to go to bed. She had nagged about him going out, that it was not safe to do so, but then, she doesn’t even remain up until he made it back home, safe and sound.

Fumbling in his pockets, he found the pack of cigarettes that had foolishly drawn him out tonight, a lighter, and nothing else. No wallet, no keys.

Damn it—he must have left all his keys dangling from the ignition in his dead car and the wallet on the seat. Dead car? If he didn’t get inside, he might be dead as the junk heap. With a frantic hitch in his breathing, he tried the door knob, but the door refused to open. A dumb idiot to boot, he didn’t leave a key hidden outside, just in case. He darted over to the front room windows, fumbling with them, but none would lift up so he could climb inside. He got all way to the back. Put his hand on the knob of the back door, knowing it was futile as the howling grew closer. Twisted. . .

The door creaked open.

Oh God, oh God! Jim bolted in and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it and sliding the deadbolt home.  He backed away from the door, waiting for something to ram against it. When nothing did and the howling cut off, he backpedaled through the doorway into his living room. A light glowed from a lamp by the window and he switched it off. No need to alert the thing outside of any presence in the home as it was.

God. Tillie. What about his wife? He crept down the hallway, not turning on the light, and pushed open the bedroom door.

He stood in the doorway. Strange. Even when she’d gotten mad as soaked bear, she never shut the bedroom door on him. After what his life had been like earlier, he needed a cigarette. He took one out of the pack with a shaking hand, almost dropping it, but he didn’t and lit it, drawing the taste into his mouth before he blew out a ring or two. Tillie would kill him for smoking in their bedroom. With a shrug, he stepped inside. Heard the door slammed shut behind him and he turned. He thought he saw a shadow, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Tillie?”

A low growl that grew louder. His heart thumped like a rabbit pursued by a fox as he sweated. He reached over to the lamp on the bedstead near him. The light flooded the room, washing over what stood by the closed door.

It looked like Tillie and yet, it didn’t.  A mouth full of fangs too big for it, red eyes and a flat nose, with Neanderthal brows hung over the features like a hanging cliff. Claws like knives sprouted from her fingers and toes. Nude, she felt no sexual want at her form, for raggedy fur scattered over her skin.

“I told you to stay home, but no, you had to feed your addiction for smokes.” His wife's voice more growly and deep, and he admitted it, downright frightening. “Mother said not to marry a human, but did I listen? No. She said they were filthy, with their drinking and smoking. I thought you were different. I fought my old urges. Even when I heard Mother’s howls at night. Calling to me to come join her.” She shook her head and for a minute, despite her horrible visage, she almost looked like the old Tillie he had married. But only for a second as her face hardened. “Guess you can’t change a human and not even a troll either. I am finding I can’t control my need for raw human flesh just as you can’t stop smoking those nauseous cigarettes.

“Mother was right. Humans are only good for one thing. Food. She told me to never marry what you eat.”

Jim screamed, the sound growing shriller as she leapt onto him and bit his throat. His blood flowing and his fingers numbing, the burning butt dropped from them into the rug below.

A fire lit in the fibers. It raged as she dragged him outside to where another troll waited beneath a giant tree. Jim heard the screams of a fire engine in the distance as both started gnawing on him. Or maybe it was his own waning screams?

As darkness overcame him, he thought, Tillie always said smoking would kill me.

Supernatural Friday: Of Course I Live in a Haunted House: Guest Blogger Loren Rhoads

Today, I have a guest blogger, Loren Rhoads. She will tells us all about a true paranormal incident she had. After you read the story, check out her book, The Dangerous Type.

I live in a big old house four doors down from an enormous mortuary that’s been in operation since 1888.  When my husband and I first moved in, weird things happened:  the power surged at odd moments, dimming the lights to a murky brown or making them blaze white-hot; books cascaded off the shelves when no one was in the room; the TV switched itself on and off, talking to itself behind my back.

Since its construction in 1940, our house had only been owned by a single Italian family.  The elderly widow lived alone in it for 20 years after her husband died.  When she finally passed, the house went to her grandson, a flight attendant who didn’t want to live so far from the active center of town.  We thought we got a reasonably good deal on it because we bought it in December.

After we moved in, my husband traveled quite a bit with his band.  Generally I don’t mind being home alone, but the way things kept happening in the corner of my eye or in the next room before I entered made me jumpy.  I would lie awake in the middle of the night, listening to the floorboards creak as if someone paced from the living room to the bathroom and back.

One evening I was settling down in the spare bedroom to watch a movie when the basement door opened on its own.

I’d had enough.  “Hi,” I said aloud.  My voice shook just a little.  My heart beat hard and fast.  “I’m about to sit down to watch The Wizard of Oz.  Would you care to join me?”

I waited for a response, but didn’t hear one.  I shifted over on the sofa to leave room for the ghost.  I didn’t want to touch her.  I’d assumed all along that I was dealing with the ghost of the previous owner, not someone (or several someones) who had wandered over from the mortuary down the street.  If it was only one ghost, I could deal with it.  If we were going to face a continual string of hauntings as people couldn’t move on, I would have a much more difficult time adjusting.

“I don’t mind if you stay in the house with us,” I told the empty room.  “You lived here a long time and must have happy memories here.  In fact, I would like it if you could stay and watch over the baby we hope to have someday soon.  But I ask that you stop trying to scare me.  Don’t sneak up behind me or drop things or open doors, unless you absolutely must.  Don’t make the lights flicker. We all live here now. It would be best for us all to get along.  If you can’t abide by that, I have a friend who can cast you out.”

I pressed the button on the remote and settled in to watch The Wizard of Oz.  I felt much more relaxed than I had in days.

The power still goes out every couple of months, but now the whole block goes with us and we blame PG&E.  The doors stopped opening on their own once we brought the baby home from the hospital.  I’m up quite a lot in the night, but I haven’t run into the ghost.  I like to think that she’s still here, serving as a guardian angel for my daughter.  I wonder if all she wanted was a baby to love.

Loren Rhoads

                                                              ***

The Dangerous Type  Book blurb:

The Dangerous Type has been called La Femme Nikita meets Serenity. Former Imperial assassin Raena Zacari has been released from prison and she’s ready to track down the man who trained her to kill. Humans are a minority in a dangerous galaxy peopled by tomb robbers, gun runners, and media pirates. Publishers Weekly accused author Loren Rhoads of bringing grimdark to space opera. Kill By Numbers and No More Heroes, the other two books in the trilogy, will be out from Night Shade before the end of 2015.

About Loren Rhoads:

Loren Rhoads is the author of The Dangerous Type, Kill By Numbers, and No More Heroes. The In the Wake of the Templars trilogy will be published by Night Shade Books in 2015. She is also editor of The Haunted Mansion Project: Year Two and author of a collection of essays called Wish You Were Here: Adventures in Cemetery Travel. Learn more at www.lorenrhoads.com.

Links:

The book’s home page:  http://lorenrhoads.com/writing/the-dangerous-type/

Loren on Facebook: www.facebook.com/loren.rhoads.5

Loren on Twitter: http://twitter.com/morbidloren

Loren’s blog: http://lorenrhoads.com/blog

Buy Links:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1LT1V31

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-dangerous-type-loren%20rhoads/1121330783?ean=9781597808149

The trilogy's homepage: http://lorenrhoads.com/writing/the-dangerous-type/

Author Li ve Appearances Through August 2015

I will be either selling and signing my books and the Paranormal World Seekers DVDs, an author guest or an appearance.


Ravencon--April 24-26, 2015--DoubleTree by Hilton Hotel Richmond – Midlothian. 1021 Koger Center Boulevard (10800 block of Midlothian Turnpike), North Chesterfield, Virginia 23235.

Science Fiction Yard Sale--May 23, 2015 (Rain Date-May 30th): 4844 Linshaw Lane, Virginia Beach, Va. 23445. 9:00 a.m to 3:00 p.m.

Virginia Haunt Fest 2015--June 6, 2015 (it is also June 5th, but I am being a vendor on the 6th)-9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.: Behind the Curtain Studio, 118B Thompson Street, Ashland, Virginia 23005  Phone: 540-205-5629.

Scares That Cares--July 24-26, 2015: Double Tree by Hilton Hotel Williamsburg  50 Kingsmill Road Williamsburg, Virginia, 23185.

Phantomcon--August 7 and 8, 2015: Holiday Inn North Fort Lee, 401 E. Roslyn Road, Colonial Heights, Virginia 23834. 
 

Supernatural Friday: Better Watch Out; Krampus is Coming to Drag You to Hell!

Christmas is not just a time of joy, gifts, and goodwill, it’s also a season of dark myths and legends. 

In the olden days gone by in Finland, they believed in Joulupukki. That word means Yule buck.

In December, pagan people had big festivals to ward off the Joulupukki. These spirits of darkness wore goat skins and horns. In the beginning this creature didn't give presents but demanded them. It was an ugly creature and frightened children. It is unclear how this personality was transformed into the benevolent Father Christmas. Nowadays the only remaining feature is the name. The process was probably a continuous amalgamation of many old folk customs and beliefs from varied sources. One can speak of a Christmas pageant tradition consisting of many personages with roles partly Christian, partly pagan: A white-bearded saint, the Devil, demons, and house gnomes. Nowadays the Joulupukki of Finland resembles the American Santa Claus. While most gift givers around the world deliver their presents in the middle of the night while everyone is sleeping, children in Finland get to see Joulupukki in the act of delivering the presents.

 

This reminds me of Black Peter and the Krampus, both being Santa’s “evil twin.” In many areas of the world, it is said that St. Nicholas has a companion. This companion is Krampus, though another version is Black Peter, or Zarte Piet or Zwarte Piet. Black Peter is associated with the Netherlands and has dark skin. Krampus isn't a man though. He has horns, goat hair, hooves, and claws. Just like a demon. His job is to accompany St. Nicholas and to warn and punish bad children. He is said to carry a basket on his back where he will place the bad children and take them to Hell to be tossed into the pit. It puts a frightening twist on “have you been naughty or nice!”

 

Krampus originates from Krampen--meaning claw. Krampus is the dark companion of St. Nicholas, the traditional European winter gift-bringer. This fiendish being is usually seen as a classic devil with horns, cloven hooves and monstrous tongue. Unlike American children who get coal if they’re bad, instead the Krampus beats them savagely for their misdeeds and then drag them down to hell. Born of a pre-Christian, Alpine Pagan tradition, he is identified by matted-black hair, along tongue that snakes out of his maw, and cloven hooves. He also sports a large wicker basket on his back, filled to the brim with thorny, unbreakable birch sticks for those beatings he delivers. He always comes with St. Nick who brings presents, but before the gifts are handed out, those who are bad is given what they "deserve" by him. Also, taking part in this Krampus legend, are young men that dress up in goat skins and masks they spent two weeks making and on December 5th, head out to scare all, and carry out "birching," mainly on young girls. Krampus makes the Grinch before his heart went several sizes bigger look good!

Williamsburg Book Festival

Yesterday, September 21, 2013,  I was signing at the Williamsburg Book Festival in Williamsburg, Virginia. Held in the Williamsburg Community Building on N. Boundary Street, it was a day of book signings by me and other authors and also some free workshops for writers.

Authors were were there included

Warren Bell	Cindy L. Freeman	Greg Lilly	Ronald G. Munro
John Broadwater	James J. Frey	Narielle Living	Frederick W. Siegel
Marie Chu	Barry Jordan, Jr.	Robert J. Mandala	Mary Montague Sikes
Robert A. Fiacco	Baine Kelly	Jake McKenzie	L.B. Taylor, Jr.
Henrietta F. Ford	Pamela K. Kinney	Frank Milligan	Maureen Wlodarczyk
			Chesapeake Bay Writers

Here are some photos from the event.

Supernatural Friday: Happy Haunting. . .I Mean Reading!

 

It's Friday and I've been ill past couple of days.  So today, I will go easy on myself. Since World Horror Convention is going on this weekend in New Orleans and it's summer and many libraries will be doing summer reading, where you read at most ten books and turn in you did so for a prize, maybe even to help buy bag of foo for a animal shelter, or something else.

Horror books are a good beach read or to read indoors in the AC. With Stephen King's novel,  Under the Dome coming as a TV minseries end of this month, might be a good time to attempt to read it before hand. Or numerous other books.

What is horror? Horror fiction, horror literature and also horror fantasy is a genre of literature, which is intended to, or has the capacity to frighten its readers, scare or startle viewers/readers by inducing feelings of horror and terror. It creates an eerie and frightening atmosphere. Horror can be either supernatural or non-supernatural. Often the central menace of a work of Horror fiction can be interpreted as a metaphor for the larger fears of a society. The genre has ancient origins which were reformulated in the 18th century as Gothic horror, with publication of the Castle of Otranto (1764) by Horace Walpole.

So, see you can even take on the old classics. Like Dracula by Bram Stoker, H P. Lovecraft’s tales, those scary tales by Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson ghost story, The Haunting of Hill House, and many others.

Right now, I am reading NOS4A2 by Joe Hill (Stephen King’s son).  I am reading

Reliquary, sequel to Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. What are you reading, or what other scary books are you planning to read this summer? Leave a comment, so others can find these great reads in their local library or at their bookstore or an online estore.

Happy Haunting. . .I mean Reading!