Supernatural Friday: Who Haunts the Heights of South Mountain?

Welcome author Kathryn Hohmann, as she blogs about who haunts the Heights of South Mountain for today’s Supernatural Friday.

Remember that box-office smash, The Blair Witch Project? 

It’s the story of three students who set out in the darkened woods of central Maryland to investigate an old legend called the Blair Witch.  In the 1700s, a woman named Blair -- accused of witchcraft and cast out of a village -exacted her revenge by ritually murdering the village inhabitants.  In the movie, the hapless students go in search of the witch and after a night of paralyzing fear, they disappear, never to be heard from again.  Because the movie was portrayed as a documentary, fans were so determined to find the “real” Blair Witch that they swarmed to the town of Burkittsville, Maryland from as far away as London. 

 It’s no coincidence that the film makers picked the location around South Mountain, a region steeped in history and spooky legend.  Although the Piscataway Indians traditionally lay claim to these rich hunting grounds, the first white settlements date to the early to mid-18th century.  In those days, belief in the supernatural was common.  The area was likely considered a threshold between this world and the next, a “power spot” or “thin place,” where the barriers between past and present are permeable.   Ghost tales shared by settlers describe strange winged creatures that swooped down from the ridge of South Mountain to carry off inhabitants.  

 Then came the war between the states.   Being a border state, Maryland was divided so sharply between Union and Confederate that some families broke apart, brother fighting brother.  The conflict culminated on September 14, 1862, when armies faced off on the ridge of South Mountain in a clash that foreshadowed the battle at Antietam -- the single bloodiest day on American soil in the nation’s history. 

That was 150 years ago.  Yet even today, some visitors to South Mountain are frightened by hazy shapes in Confederate dress or claim to see misty lights and ghostly campfires burning on the old battleground, especially during the damp and dark September evenings.  During this year’s re-enactment, a few adventurous souls made the trek to the top of South Mountain, gathered at twilight,  lit candles and honored the dead.  There’s a marker that commemorates a regiment of Rebel soldiers who vanished in the aftermath of the battle.  There’s documentation about a Union burial duty that might have disposed of bodies, but no definite explanation for the soldiers’ disappearance.  Questions only lead deeper into the mystery.

Then there’s another phenomenon that defies explanation,  an eerie place called Spook Hill.  Local legend holds that -- at a certain juncture in the road--- vehicles can be stopped, put into neutral and simply drive themselves uphill.  Skeptics are quick to dismiss the phenomenon by explaining that the roadway is nothing more than an optical illusion and merely appears to slope uphill, but history says something else entirely.  On September 14, 1862, at the base of South Mountain, Union fire forced the Confederates to abandon their cannons and make a run for safety.   The giant weapons went rolling downhill, out of control and crushed the Rebels who had been fortunate enough to survive the sharpshooters’ bullets.  Legend says that Rebels killed during the retreat haunt this stretch of road, their souls forever tasked with the duty of pushing their cannons back up the mountain. 

Those drawn to South Mountain sense the imprint of the past on the present.  There aren’t definite answers, not about the Rebels who vanished without a trace on the mountain top or about the slant of the road below.  But one thing is certain:  It’s not a witch named Blair that haunts the hills of central Maryland, not even close.  It’s something, or someone, in blue or grey.
Kathryn
http://www.soldiers-rest.com  
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kathryn-Hohmann

About Kathryn Hohmann:
Kathryn Hohmann is a writer from southwestern Montana.  Her newest book, Soldiers Rest, is a novel inspired by the true tale about Rebels who vanished in the aftermath of a Civil War battle. She is co-author of Why We Ride, about women and horses and a textbook on emergency response.  Kathryn can be reached at http://www.soldiers-rest.com.

Buy the ebook at AMAZON

A Season of Fear and Superstition

It's that time of the year to smooch under the mistletoe, shop for loved ones and go view Christmas lights on the Tacky Lights Tour. The season is full of good tidings and happiness, nothing scarier than you might get that special gift from Santa Claus. Right?

WRONG! People in olden days didn’t stay indoors due to the “frightful” weather, but more because it might have been cold and dangerous outside. They knew in their hearts that dark forces lurked amidst the shadows of the snow drifts. Winter Solstice (December 21) was seen as a time when the fabric between the mortal world and the world of malicious spirits became thin enough for things to snatch unwary victims. Though the fiends are lout all winter, still, this time prove to be the scariest. When many gathered together to celebrate, it was hoped that the dark spirits would realize with all that din that there were too many bodies inside or caroling outside to grab one person. Another custom practiced was doors were flung open at midnight to let out trapped evil spirits caught inside the building. A candle was left burning in the window all night to insure good luck for the family inside. Any candle that burned out before dawn was deemed a bad sign.

Another thing said is that those born on Christmas are apt more to see a spirit than those not. But they have nothing to fear from any ghost if they chance to encounter one. They are also protected against deaths by drowning or hanging.


Witches are a part of Christmas too—through our very own Christmas ornaments, or balls. In Scotland, people used to wear them around their necks to ward off witches. It was also believed in Scotland and Canada that if a witch touched one, her/his soul would be caught within the ball forever.

A witch ball is a hollow sphere of plain or stained glass hung in cottage windows in eighteenth-century England to ward off evil spirits, witch's spells, or ill fortune, though the witch's ball actually originated among cultures where witches were considered a blessing. Witches would usually "enchant" the balls to enhance their potency against evils. Later, they were often posted on top of a vase or suspended by a cord (as from the mantelpiece or rafters) for a decorative effect. Witch balls appeared in America in the nineteenth century and were often found in gardens under the name "gazing ball,” something that has come back, as I bought one last summer to place in my own garden. However, "gazing balls" contain no strands within their interior. According to folk tales, witch balls would entice evil spirits with their bright colors; the strands inside the ball would then capture the spirit and prevent it from escaping.

Witch balls sometimes measure as large as seven inches (eighteen cm) in diameter. By tradition, but not always, the witch ball is green or blue in color and made from glass. There have been others made of wood, grass, or twigs, instead of glass. Some are decorated in enameled swirls and brilliant stripes of various colors. The gazing balls found in many of today's gardens are derived from silvered witch balls that acted as convex mirrors, warding off evil by reflecting it away.


Because they look similar to the glass balls used on fishing nets, witch balls are often associated with sea superstitions and legends. The modern Christmas ornament ball is descended from the witch ball. According to an ancient tale, the ornament was originally placed on the tree to dispel a visitor’s envy at the presents left beneath the tree.


Besides the ball, mistletoe was also considered a powerful charm to be used against witches, along with lightening. The lightening? Is it connected, as maybe caused by a witch? Good question.


This time of year also has ghost stories told. Just as much as Halloween. Charles Dickens’ novel, the Christmas Carol, Is proof of that. Those Victorian people did more than go Christmas caroling or drank mulled wine by the roaring fires. There’s even that line in It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year song that goes "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmas long, long ago." There are novels and anthologies that come out this time of the year, ghostly fiction or horror stories. One book of fiction I found is Christmas Ghosts, edited by Kathryn Cramer and David G. Hartwell. I ordered for myself, a ghostly tale set during Christmas time for my Kindle, The Carousel by James Cessford. The eBook intrigued me to read it and it was not a bad price. Search Amazon or your local brick and mortar independent bookstore for other Christmas ghost stories to buy and read.

Besides, ghost stories, there are other dark myths and legends concerning with Christmas. In the olden days gone by in Finland, they believed in Joulupukki. Pagan people used to have festivities to ward off evil spirits. In Finland these spirits of darkness wore goat skins and horns. In the beginning this creature didn't give presents but demanded them. The Christmas Goat 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. 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. Puts a frightening twist on “have you been naughty or nice!” Krampus originates from Krampen--meaning claw. Young men dressed up in goat skins and masks they spend two weeks making and on December 5th go out to scare all and carry out "birching," mainly on young girls.

So, besides a season of “good tidings,” it is also a time of terrible fear. So get your children in at night and make sure they are good. And do the same for yourself. For you never know if that shadow moving along the street past your front yard is just someone looking at your Christmas lights, or something else waiting to get you! Happy holidays.

Christmas Facts

Each year, 30-35 million real Christmas trees are sold in the United States alone. There are 21,000 Christmas tree growers in the United States, and trees usually grow for about 15 years before they are sold. The highest priced tree was displayed i the Emirates Palace in 2013. It cost $11, 026, 900.
Today, in the Greek and Russian orthodox churches, Christmas is celebrated 13 days after the 25th, which is also referred to as the Epiphany or Three Kings Day. This is the day it is believed that the three wise men finally found Jesus in the manger. In the Middle Ages, Christmas celebrations were rowdy and raucous—a lot like today's Mardi Gras parties.
From 1659 to 1681, the celebration of Christmas was outlawed in Boston, and law-breakers were fined five shillings.
Christmas was declared a federal holiday in the United States on June 26, 1870. The first eggnog made in the United States was consumed in Captain John Smith's 1607 Jamestown settlement.
 

The U.S. produces 1.76 billion candy canes each year. Americans send 1.5 billon Christmas cards annually (I think this would include ecards).
Poinsettia plants are named after Joel R. Poinsett, an American minister to Mexico, who brought the red-and-green plant from Mexico to America in 1828. The Salvation Army has been sending Santa Claus-clad donation collectors into the streets since the 1890s.
Rudolph, "the most famous reindeer of all," was the product of Robert L. May's imagination in 1939. The copywriter wrote a poem about the reindeer to help lure customers into the Montgomery Ward department store.
Construction workers started the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree tradition in 1931.

Join Me at Celebrate With a Book Author Book Fair in Richmond, VA. Saturday, December 15th

Join me and nineteen other authors at the Celebrate With a Book Author Book Fair at Regency Mall 1420 North Parham Road Richmond, VA tomorrow, December 15th from 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. First twenty get free gift bags of goodies.

Signed books make great Christmas gifts!

 

Supernatural Friday: Candy Cane: Myth and Reality

It is said that the candy cane came by a candy maker in Indiana who wanted to make a candy that would be a witness, so he made the Christmas candy cane. He took several symbols from the birth, ministry, and death of Jesus Christ. He began with a stick of pure white, hard candy, which symbolized the Virgin Birth and the sinless nature of Jesus, It had to be hard to symbolize the Solid Rock, the foundation of the Church, and firmness of the promises of God.He formed the candy in the form of a “J” to represent the precious name of Jesus. It could also represent the staff of the “Good Shepherd.”
Thinking that the candy was somewhat plain, the candy maker stained it with red stripes, using three small stripes to show the stripes of the scourging Jesus received by which we are healed. The large red stripe was for the blood shed by Christ on the cross.

These Jesus celebrating candies were then, the story goes, handed out to good children in church or used as a form of identification among Christians when they were persecuted. But none of this is true! Candy canes were not invented in Indiana, since the first reports of hard candy sticks (the precursor to candy canes) come from the 17th century.

Actually, white candy sticks were actually quite common at Christmas. One story says that they turned into J’s because one choirmaster bent them to look like a shepherd’s staff for children during the nativity scene. But there is no evidence that that’s true either.

In America’s introduction to Christmas candy canes can be traced to August Imgard, a German immigrant who’s credited with introducing the Christmas tree to Ohio in 1847. The National Confectioners Association makes a claim that Imgard “decorated a small blue spruce with paper ornaments and candy canes.” But an article from 1938 points out a ceremony that a different kind of sweet was used.

Ornaments were made of paper, festooned in long chains by the younger members of the pioneer community. Kuchen baked according to a recipe sent from Bavaria by Imgard’s mother, hung upon the tree and served both as ornaments and tidbits. The cookies were colored with brown sugar and the family spent weeks baking them in quantities for the guests. Gilded nuts were other ornaments and inside the gilded shells were warm messages of greeting.

Red-and-white striped candy didn’t show up until around the turn of the century in America.

Other myths concerning the candy cane:
A sweet treat made for children who behaved in church.
A way for Christians to identify each other during time of persecution.

Whether how the candy cane came to be, now they are as much a part of the holidays as Santa Claus.

Supernatural Friday: Secrets of the Supernatural: Guest Blogger: Paula Cappa

 

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:

 http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/LeaFun.shtml

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:

http://www.amazon.com/Night-Journey-Tale-Supernatural-ebook/dp/B009ONWSC2/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1350058974&sr=1-1&keywords=Night+Sea+Journey+paula+cappa

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.

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

I was recently tagged by to participate in The Next Big Thing, where authors answer ten questions about their current works in progress. If you haven’t read Greg Lilly’s post about what he’s working on now, jump over to his blog to take a look. 




In turn, I tagged two excellent writers for next week’s posts. Olyn Warfield: “Newcomer O. Warfield's storytelling in rhymes follows the escapades of Doberman Omar Blue and his pack in her two books, Omar Blue and K-9 Town, USA and Led By An Eagle, and Sapphire Phelan: Dark heroes and heroines with bite...sink your teeth into a romance by Sapphire Phelan today. Her current release is an erotic urban fantasy The Witch And The Familiar is “A sexy, erotic twist on the apocalyptic battle between good and evil.” Watch for their posts on December 12th.




So thanks, Greg, for asking me what I’m up to with my writing. Here’s what I had to say:
 

What is the working title of your book? I am working on a supernatural thriller at the moment as WIP, but lets talk about my finished manuscript of my young adult paranormal in first edits partially;The working title right now is Demon Memories.

Where did the idea come from for the book? I wanted to write a young adult paranormal, and I guess my last urban fantasy with Heaven and Hell and the apocalypse still struck with me. And I wanted to do another type of demon possession story, in which maybe the demon didn’t purposely possess the teenage girl.

What genre does your book fall under? Young adult paranormal, with some elements of urban fantasy and maybe even romance even.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I hadn’t even thought of who would play the characters in my book. Most times when I write my stories, no one character resembles any actor or actress in real life.  Personally, the way I am fussy about how my characters act and considering I’ve done professional acting and even directed an audio drama and a play too, I would like to  be there when they do auditions, to make sure they get the best actors for the roles.

What is the blurb of your book? Possessed by the demon, Cresil, a teenage girl, Harper must join an old friend and the demon too, to prevent a demonic army from rising to start Armageddon. 

Where do you plan to submit your book, or will you self published it? Will be submitting it to agents and NYC publishers first.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? Couple of months.  50,000 of it was written during WritNaNo.

 

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Redemption by R. K. Ryals, Iced by Karen Marie Moning, the Fallen series by Lauren Kate, others like that, though I hope mine is different enough to be my own tale.

Who or What inspired you to write this book? Myself.  My readers. My critique partners, too. But in the long run, only I can inspire myself to write anything I write.