Supernatural Friday: Haunting Summer Solstice Battle

With summer solstice in a couple if days, do ghosts wait for the dark of night, no matter how late? Or do they appear as usual? This original poem I wrote (please share the blog link and not the poem-copyrighted) is about one Civil War battlefield's nightly haunt on the upcoming solstice.

Haunting Summer Solstice Battle

By

Pamela K. Kinney

Only 19% visible;

the solstice moon

looks down

on the battlefield.

Silence,

except for crickets

in the humid night.

From both sides

comes pale, wisps of

shades on horseback

and many on foot.

Noise of battle erupting.

Out of sync,

no reality

Blue against gray,

Union against Confederate,

cannon fire and guns blasting.

Their ectoplasmic war began late,

All due to the

longest day

of the year

Dawn,

the cock crows

and phantoms

vanish with the sun.

Until the next night…

 

Supernatural Friday: Truth on the Living Dead

 

I want to set some records straight, as I noticed more and more people consider zombies to be flesh eaters, thanks to "Night of the Living Dead," and zombie horror flicks after that. In reality all undead is living dead. 

This goes back to Gilgamesh and maybe even back to caveman times. Vampires in Eastern Europe did not begin just drinking blood, but flesh too. They were also mindless like zombies, coming from their graves to attack their relatives, not everybody. Later this changed to any person could be a victim of the vampire.  Watching an episode of  "Game of Thrones," they had white walkers, but they di not bit or eat the living to change them. Those people died. It took the head walker with a crown on its head and do something--obviously magic--for the new dead to arise. So not all dead eat flesh, but all dead that rise from death are the living dead, or undead.

Zombie was a term a reporter called the ghouls of Night of the Living Dead. Romero thought of them as ghouls, not zombies. A zombie is supposed to be the living dead: people who die and are resurrected, but without their souls. According to legend, a zombi is someone who has annoyed his or her family and community to the degree that they can no longer stand to live with this person. They respond by hiring a Bokor who turns that person into a zombie. They can take orders, and they're supposed to never be tired, and to do what the master says.

Zombies are the product of spells by a voodoo sorcerer called a bokor. The word is believed to be of West African origin and was brought to Haiti by slaves from that region. Slavery was hard and cruel and it coud even be thought that maybe zombies was developed to keep a slave from killing themselves to escape slavery.  To become a zombie was the slave's worst nightmare: to be dead and still a slave, an eternal field hand. There are several ways to destroy zombies in fiction or movies and TV shows (decapitations or gunshots to the head are popular), though according to Haitian folklore the goal is to release the person from his or her zombie state, not to outright kill the person. There are several ways to free a zombie; feed the zombie salt; others say that if a zombie sees the ocean its mind will return and it will become self-aware and angry, trying to return to its grave.

The word "zombi" —spelled for years without the "e"— first appeared in print in an American newspaper in a reprinted short story called "The Unknown Painter" in 1838.  Then William Seabrook wrote about seeing "voodoo" cults in Haiti and the concept of the zombi to many readers. Several film scholars believe the book was the basis of the classic 1932 horror film White Zombie. The most famous studies of Haitian zombies was ethnobotanist Wade Davis' 1985 book The Serpent and the Rainbow: A Harvard Scientist's Astonishing Journey into the Secret Societies of Haitian Voodoo, Zombies, and Magic. Wade studied the case of Clairvius Narcisse, a man believed to have been turned into an actual zombie through a combination of drugs (including puffer fish venom and toad venom) in order to mimic death. Then they gave him the hallucinogenic drug tetrodotoxin to keep him in a zombie-like state.

So zombie does not mean the undead person is a flesh eater. Let's call the undead what it is-undead, living dead, walking dead. Because that is what they all are.

 

Supernatural Friday: Deleted Fort Wead Civil War Park Chapter from Upcoming Paranormal Petersburg, Virginia, and the Tri-Cities Area

Sometimes sentences or paragraphs do not make it into a book of fiction or nonfiction. Sometimes it is a whole chapter. This is a chapter I researched investigated in person and wrote, but it ended up being taken out of my upcoming release, Paranormal Petersburg, Virginia, and the Tri-Cities Area from the manuscript by me when I edited it, along of another chapter during editorial edits. The other chapter was due to other reasons, but this one I felt just had me puzzling how I got phantoms of Union soldiers to talk to me when no died in battle at this fort, even though I thought of logical reasons. So with the book coming out August 28th, I am releasing this chapter for you to read for Supernatural Friday, along with the photos I was going to add to it.  And please, since these are my photos and my words, they sort of copyrighted to me, so just share the link to friends and family if you want them to read it. They can visit my blog anytime to enjoy it. Thank you.

                                                                    

                                                            Fort Wead Civil War Park

                                             The lawn

                                             Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return

                                             Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,

                                             The sad intangible who grieve and yearn.

                                                                                             ~T. S. Eliot

Bill drove me to Chesterfield County’s Fort Wead Civil War Park on Wednesday, June 4, 2014. It was in a nice suburban neighborhood. Most of the residents were at work or out somewhere, maybe even some just staying inside, but the area was quiet.

This park was one of few Civil War sites that the County has saved and made into a park for the public. Sadly, one site that can never be a park due to it being a shopping center is the Chester YMCA and even a cemetery, is where the Battle of Chester Station happened. This is not far from the intersection of Jefferson Davis and Route 10. I imagine the ghosts of those who died in this battle wandering through the YMCA, Chick-Fil-A across the street and nearby stores, confused by everything.

Fort Wead was named after Col. Frederick Wead, of the 98^th New York, (comma) killed in action at Cold Harbor. The Fort was constructed in June of 1864 at the rear of Union Lines to prevent Confederate forces from advancing in the event the main lines were captured. It was never used.  The fort had emplacements for six 32-pounder cannons within a small earthwork. A bombproof magazine was dug into the ground inside the earthworks and protected by a log and earth cover. All of the guns faced west, two in the corners and four along the parapet. Access to the fort came from an east side sally port, and it had a draw bridge over the surrounding moat.

I took my EMF meter, recorder, ghost box, and slung my camera around my neck as I walked up the wooden trail into the park.

I took pictures first, then I proceeded with an EVP session. I began by asking questions like “What year is this?” and “Are there spirits with me?” I got nothing, but when I listened later at home, I heard some other voices. I said, “I want you to understand that you cannot follow me home. Is that clear?” A man’s voice replied, “Sure.”

I turned on my ghost box, set it to AM, and from there to scanning.

I asked, “Are there any Civil War spirits with me?”

A man said, “Yes.”

What is your name?”

No one answered me. Then a male voice uttered, ‘Dead.”

“Did you just say dead?”

“Yes.”

I thought, Creepy.

“Are you Union Soldiers?”

“Yes.”

At that point, my box dropped out of scanning and went to a radio station. I switched the scanning back on.

I said, “Don’t use my ghost box for energy. Use me instead.

A man said, “Lady…”

I asked “What year did you die?”

“18…”

I said, “This is 2014.”

A male voice said, “Sure.” Like he knew that.

“What rank were you?”

“Private.”

“Did you have a girlfriend or a wife when you were alive?”

“Yes.”

“What was her name?”

I heard, “Cher—” Static made it hard to hear the rest.

 “North or South.”

Several male voices replied, “North.” I am not sure if they meant their loved ones or themselves.

I asked if they were standing near me. No one said one word. “Are you standing in front of me by the first sign?” Nothing. I pointed to my side and said, “Are you standing next to me or around me?”

A male voice said, “Ghost.”

That was interesting. I said, “How did you die? By cannon fire?”

Silence.

“Gun fire?”

“Yep.”

 “I hope you died quickly and not of gangrene.”

“No.”

“No, he did not die quickly, or no, he did not die of gangrene?

 “Did you leave family behind? What state are you from?”

One man said, “Massachusetts.” I assume it was still the same spirit as he said, ‘Philip.”

 “Do you miss your home?”

 “Right.”

 “What is your last name?”

 “Huh?”

 “My last name is Kinney, what’s yours?”

I heard a couple of names. “Franks, Porter…”

 “I heard Porter. What was your first name?”

 “Bill.”

I stuck out my hand and shook it in the air. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bill Porter. Are you a Union soldier?”

 “Yep.”

 “No Confederates here? No Rebels?”

 “Yep.”

I held out my hand. “Touch my hand.”

A male voice: “Hold.”

I said, “I am going to shut off the ghost box and leave. Goodbye and thank you.”

 I left the recorder on, hoping to catch an EVP or two. Later at home, I heard something that sounded like gunfire. I also heard movement in the gravel, which wasn’t me as I had remained still.

Now since this fort had never been used, who were the Federal soldiers that communicated to me? Of course, I knew that the Civil War hospital at the Civil War Point of Rocks Park was not far, and there were nearby battles in nearby Chester. City Point where Grant and the Northern Army took over was also nearby. I imagine hapless phantoms wandering the area, maybe trying to get home, but maybe ending up to haunt Fort Wead and the nearby suburban neighborhood.

I left the park, an itch at the back of my neck as if many eyes honed in on me as I joined Bill in the car. The feeling left as we drove off, so I assumed they stayed there.

Fort Wead is located at 1107 Greyledge Blvd, Chester, Virginia 23831. It is a nice park. Not big, just right, for one to daydream a battle going on there. Just don’t be surprised if the daydream becomes reality, and you hear actual gunfire. It’s just the phantom soldiers still fighting. 

 

 

Supernatural Friday: Beware of Big Hairy Toes! (Retold Folktale)

 

As I am working on a horror wip at this time, I found this old folktale and rewrote for your Supernatural Friday of Memorial Day Weekend enjoyment.  As you go camping this summer, maybe even this weekend, it is spooky tales like this that are told around the campfire. Let's restart a tradition and get that fire going in the woods or at the beach, and tell spooky stories. 

Once upon a time an old woman went out in the woods. She planned to dig up roots to cook for dinner. Suddenly, she spotted something funny sticking out of the leaves. Digging around it, she discovered it was a great big hairy toe. Now it came to her that there was good meat on it and it might make a tasty dinner, so she stuck it in her basket and took it home.
Back at her cottage, the old woman boiled hairy toe soup in a kettle. That night she had the soup for dinner. The old woman went to bed that night with a full stomach and a big smile.
Around midnight, a cold wind arose and blew in the tops of the trees around the old woman's house. A large black cloud crept over the moon and from deep in the woods a hollow voice called out, "Hairy toe! Hairy toe! I want my hairy toe!"
Inside the house, the old woman stirred uneasily in her bed and nervously pulled the covers up over her ears. She forced herself back to sleep.
Something stomped from the woods as the wind whistled and jerked at the treetops. In the clearing at the edge of the forest, the same hollow voice said: "Hairy toe! Hairy toe! I want my hairy toe!"
Inside the house, the old woman shuddered and turned over in her sleep.
A, stomping sound stopped outside the cottage. The night creatures shivered in their burrows as a hollow voice howled: "Hairy toe! Hairy toe! I want my hairy toe!"
The old woman snapped awake and with her heart pounding and her stomach clenching, she leaped out of bed, she ran to the door and barred it. Knowing her cottage was secure, she lay back down to sleep.
The front door burst open with a bang, snapping the bar in two and sending it flying into the corners of the room. The sound of giant feet stomping up the stair came to the old woman’s ears. Shaking, she peeped out from under the covers. A massive figure filed her doorway. "Hairy toe! Hairy toe! I want my hairy toe!"
The old woman bolted upright and screamed: "I ATE your hairy toe!"
"Yes, you did," the giant figure said as it advanced into the room. It grabbed her.
No one living in the region ever saw the old woman again. The only clue to her disappearance came from a giant footprint pressed deep into the loose soil of the meadow beside the house. The footprint was missing the left big toe.


 

Catch Me at the Science Fiction Yard Sale This Saturday, May 23rd (Rain Date: May 30th)

I will be selling and signing copies of my nonfiction ghost books and some of my fiction (like Spectre Nightmares and Visitations) and Paranormal World Seekers DVDs at Starfleet Atlantic's Science Fiction Yard Sale this upcoming Saturday, May 23rd, from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.  Rain-date is May 30th (but so far it has been on the date it is set first for years, so pray no rain during the daytime). The address of the free and open the public event is 4844 Linshaw Lane, Virginia Beach, Va. 23445. For directions or other information: 757-499-2359. There will be plenty of other vendors too.  And I will also have some used books, clothing, and collectibles, (plus a used Epson printer) for yard sale prices.

Supernatural Friday: What's Scary on Your Reading List This Summer?

Mrmorial Day Weekend is a week away. People will be thinking of swimming as the pools open and others head for three days at the beach. Daytime will last until 8:30 p.m. And yet, people read scary reads even though Halloween is still about five months away. Horror books are as good a read for the beach or to read indoors in the AC as that latest bestseller by James Patterson.

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. Today, horror has changed into many different ways. From urban fantasy. psychological, to gory fiction to weird, science fiction horror, paranormal romance, and Johnny-come-lately term, cozy horror (can being scared ever be called cozy?) not unlike cozy mysteries. 

 

So many ways to read yourself shuddering palpitations of the heart.

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 online estore.

Happy Haunting. . .I mean Reading!

 

Author Interview for Women in Horror Plus I Have a Giveaway

I have been interviewed by horror author MF Wahl at her blog, and I also did a video to watch. Leave a comment to be entered to win a signed trade paperback copy of my horror/dark fantasy collection of short stories, Spectre Nightmares and Visitations. You have until May 20, 2015 to leave a comment to be entered for the giveaway. http://mfwahl.com/pamela-kinney/

 

Upcoming Interview May 13, 2015

I want to apologized about no Supernatural Friday this past Friday, but been in layout for my fifth nonfiction ghost book, Paranormal Petersburg, Virginia, and the Tri-Cities Area, that has been available for preorders since January and releases August 28th. Supernatural Friday returns this Friday.

I will be interviewed for "Women in Horror" this Wednesday, May 13th, at Author M.F. Wahl's blog. You can read past women horror authors and listen to their videos at the link, until mine is available to read and listen to. I will also have a giveaway of a signed copy of my collection of horror and dark fantasy tales, Spectre Nightmares and Visitations when the interview goes live that you can win.

Supernatural Friday: May Day/Beltane-Let's Dance Around the May Pole

 

May 1st is the first day of May. But it is more than that. I remeber in sixth grade, we dressed up and danced around a may pole at the elementary school I attended in San Diego. It was all about dancing around a pole with ribbons. It goes back to Beltane and pagan rites.

With the Roman invasions of Western Europe and Britain, much of the symbolism and rites of the Floralia and Beltane became entwined -- eventually becoming the holiday we now call May Day or Walpurgis.  The custom of going 'a-maying', collecting flowers, greenery and the maypole early on the morning of May 1, survives virtually intact to this day. Same are the balefires in Britain, Germany, and other countries of Europe.  The sexual aspect of the holiday, however, has become almost extinct in many countries.  The festivities were viewed as sinful by some Christian leaders, and in 1644, the celebration was banned by the Puritan-controlled Parliament in Britain.

Druids and their successors raised the Beltane fires on hilltops throughout the British Isles on May Eve. These fires were lit in order to bring the sun’s light down to earth. In Scotland, every fire in the household was extinguished, and the great fires lit from the need-fire kindled three times by three men, using wood from nine sacred trees. When the wood burst into flames, it proclaimed the triumph of the light over the dark half of the year.

Then people thrust brands into the newly roaring flames and whirled them about their heads in imitation of the circling of the sun. As the sun rose at dawn, those who had stayed up to watch it might see it whirl three times upon the horizon before rising in all its summer glory.

Beltane was also considered one of the three "spirit-nights" of the year when the faeries could be seen. Stories talk that at dusk, one must twist a rowan sprig into a ring and look through it, so that you might see one of them, or more.

 

Veils between  the mortal world and other worlds are claimed to be thin on this day (like All Hallow’s Eve), and it is said that the Queen of the Faeries rides out on her white horse. Roving about on Beltane eve, the Fairy Queen tries to entice people away to the land of the Faeries. Legend has it that if you sit beneath a tree on Beltane night, you might see the Faery Queen or hear the sound of her horse's bells as she rides on her night ride. The legend also says if you hide your face, she will pass by, but if taking one glance at her may have her choose her to go with her. A Scottish ballad called Thomas the Rhymer, tells of this, in which Thomas chooses to go with the Queen and never seen afterwards.

According to old folklore, May is not a favorable time for marriages in the legal and permanent sense. References in the old books of this belief, say woe is to had by those who do marry during this month. One reason might be is May is the pagan handfasting month.

 

Supernatural Friday: The Raven Said, "What the Nevermore?"

In honor of Ravencon that I will be at later today and rest of the weekend, I will blog about myths and legends of the raven.

Because of its black plumage, croaking call, and diet of carrion, ravens has long been considered birds of ill omen and of interest to creators of myths and legends.

The raven is the national bird of Bhutan, and it adorns the royal hat, representing the deity Gonpo Jarodonchen (Mahakala with a Raven's head; one of the important guardian deities of Bhutanese culture.).  As a carrion bird, ravens became associated with the dead and with lost souls. In Sweden they are known as the ghosts of murdered persons.

In Irish mythology ravens are associated with warfare and the battleground in the figures of Badb and Morrígan. The goddess An Morrígan alighted on the hero Cú Chulainn's shoulder in the form of a raven after his death. 
 
Ravens were also associated with the Welsh god Bran the Blessed (the brother of Branwen), whose name translates to "raven." According to the Mabinogion, Bran's head was buried in the White Hill of London as a talisman against invasion. The name of the god, Lugh, is also derived from a Celtic word for "raven." He is the god of the sun, and the creator of the arts and sciences.  He is depicted as giant and the King of the Britons in tale known as the Second Branch of the Mabinogi. Several other characters in Welsh mythology share his name, and ravens figure prominently in the 12th or 13th century text The Dream of Rhonabwy, as the army of King Arthur's knight Owain.
 
According to legend, the Kingdom of England will fall if the ravens of the Tower of London are removed. It had been thought that there have been at least six ravens in residence at the tower for centuries. It was said that Charles II ordered their removal following complaints from John Flamsteed, the Royal Astronomer. However, they were not removed because Charles was then told of the legend. Charles, following the time of the English Civil War, superstition or not, was not prepared to take the chance, and instead had the observatory moved to Greenwich.
 
The earliest known reference to a Tower raven is a picture in the newspaper The Pictorial World in 1883.^[  This and scattered subsequent references, both literary and visual, which appear in the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, place them near the monument commemorating those beheaded at the tower, popularly known as the “scaffold.” This strongly suggests that the ravens, which are notorious for gathering at gallows, were originally used to dramatize tales of imprisonment and execution at the tower told to tourists by the Yeomen Warders. There is evidence that the original ravens were donated to the tower by the Earls of Dunraven perhaps because of their association with the Celtic raven-god Bran. However wild ravens, which were once abundant in London and often seen around meat markets (such as nearby Eastcheap) feasting for scraps, could have roosted at the Tower in earlier times. 
 
During the Second World War, most of the Tower's ravens perished through shock during bombing raids, leaving only a mated pair named "Mabel" and "Grip." Shortly before the Tower reopened to the public, Mabel flew away, leaving Grip despondent. A couple of weeks later, Grip also flew away, probably in search of his mate. The incident was reported in several newspapers, and some of the stories contained the first references in print to the legend that the British Empire would fall if the ravens left the tower. Since the Empire was dismantled shortly afterward, those who are superstitious might interpret events as a confirmation of the legend. Before the tower reopened to the public on 1 January 1946, care was taken to ensure that a new set of ravens was in place.
To the Germanic peoples, Odin was often associated with ravens. Examples include depictions of figures often identified as Odin appear flanked with two birds on a 6th century bracteate and on a 7th century helmet plate from Vendel, Sweden. In later Norse mythology, Odin is depicted as having two ravens Huginn and Muninn serving as his eyes and ears – Huginn being referred to as thought and Muninn as memory. Each day the ravens fly out from Hliðskjálf and bring Odin news from Midgard.
 
The Old English word for a raven was hræfn; in Old Norse it was hrafn; the word was frequently used in combinations as a kenning for bloodshed and battle.
The raven also has a prominent role in the mythologies of the Indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast, including the Tsimishian, Haida, Heiltsuk, Tlingit, Kwakwaka'wakw, Coast Salish, Koyukons, and Inuit. The raven in these indigenous peoples' mythology is the Creator of the world, but it is also considered a trickster god.^[ For instance, in Tlingit culture, there are two different raven characters which can be identified, although they are not always clearly differentiated. One is the creator raven, responsible for bringing the world into being and who is sometimes considered to be the individual who brought light to the darkness. The other is the childish raven, always selfish, sly, conniving, and hungry. When the Great Spirit created all things he kept them separate and stored in cedar boxes. The Great Spirit gifted these boxes to the animals who existed before humans. When the animals opened the boxes all the things that comprise the world came into being. The boxes held such things as mountains, fire, water, wind and seeds for all the plants. One such box, which was given to Seagull, contained all the light of the world. Seagull coveted his box and refused to open it, clutching it under his wing. All the people asked Raven to persuade Seagull to open it and release the light. Despite begging, demanding, flattering and trying to trick him into opening the box, Seagull still refused. Finally Raven became angry and frustrated, and stuck a thorn in Seagull's foot. Raven pushed the thorn in deeper until the pain caused Seagull to drop the box. Then out of the box came the sun, moon and stars that brought light to the world and allowed the first day to begin.
 
In the Talmud, the raven is described as having been only one of three beings on Noah's Ark that copulated during the flood and so was punished. The Rabbis believed that the male raven was forced to ejaculate his seed into the female raven's mouth as a means of reproduction. Interestingly according to the Icelandic Landnámabók – a story similar to Noah and the Ark, Hrafna-Flóki Vilgerðarson used ravens to guide his ship from the Faroe Islands to Iceland.

 

Supernatural Friday: Snow Angel (Original Fantasy Story) by Pamela K. Kinney

 

(Enjoy my short fantasy story, "Snow Angel." It is copyrighted, so just share the link if you want others to read it.)

Snow Angel

By

          Pamela K. Kinney

I remember that winter night when I saw the snow angel. It had just started to snow after supper, about six o’clock. Thanks to the weather, when the sky would have been just turning dusk, instead darkness covered the scene like a shadow.

Pressing my face against the ice-cold glass of the large picture window in the living room, I watched the snow falling in the dark. It was illuminated by an eerie kind of ghost-light. At least that’s how I thought of it.

Silence. The only movement came from a lone cat struggling through the drifts to disappear down a storm drain across the street. 

I sensed rather than heard someone behind me. I blew out my breath, fogging the glass.

“Mom, it’s time for bed.”

My daughter, Marie. Of course, who else would it be, since I lived with her and her husband, Andy?

I looked over my shoulder at her. “This feels like a reversal of when you wanted to stay up later. Remember those days?”

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Mom, but the doctor gave me strict instructions that you get enough rest.”

Grumbling, I moved away and headed down the hallway to my bedroom, Marie close on my heels. Not caring, I shrugged off my clothes and flung them to the floor. Marie flashed frustration on her face, but stooped and picked up the clothing, tossing it in a hamper nearby, snatching my nightgown and slipping it on. I ducked beneath the soft pink blanket on my bed. My daughter leaned over to give me a kiss on my cheek. Feather-soft, her lips tickled my skin.  

“’Night,” she said, her voice a whisper, “and dream of snow angels dancing in the snow.”

“That’s silly,” I said. “I only told you that story when you were a kid to get you to sleep during the night. It was my way of getting you to not worry about monsters in closets or under your bed.”

“There are all kinds of angels in Heaven, Mom. The snow angel is God’s own special answer to make sure that snow falls just right so that children will have a wonderful winter world to marvel at.” She stroked my hair. “Least that’s how you explained it to me. Now go to sleep.” 

She left me alone. I didn’t feel somnolent.  Instead I never felt so wide awake.

I slipped out of bed and sat on the window seat by my bedroom window. I peered through the glass and tried not to smog it up with my breath, hoping the snowflakes were still lit up with that odd glow. Thank goodness, they still were.

Just then, I noticed a dark shadow moving in the distance, outlined by the glow, too. Flickering off and on like a shorted bulb, it appeared to be gliding closer and closer to the house. I rubbed my eyes, thinking they were playing tricks on me. But when I took my hands away, something peered back at me from the other side of the window, and it was not my own reflection! 

Heart pounding, I toppled off the window seat. Its head—at least I assumed that was its head—popped through the glass as if it were water and looked down at me. Twin orbs of icy-blue glowed from that dark visage. The glow grew brighter and brighter. Unable to move or speak, I fell into that glow and a sense of peace and warmth filled me. I stood. 

“Who are you?” I whispered.

Silence.  It slid its head back through the window. I got the feeling that it wanted me to join it outside. Not even stopping for a robe or shoes, I unlatched my window and shoved it and the screen up. Frigid air invited itself in and I shivered, but I still climbed out. I dropped down into a soft drift of snow piled beneath my window. To my surprise, I didn’t feel the cold snow squished between my toes and the freezing wind of the blizzard biting into my exposed skin. A warmth filled me, and, feeling giddy, I danced through the snow, laughing. 

My visitor took my hands, and I stopped dancing and looked up at it. It loomed over me, the ghost-light revealing a long figure of ice and snow. Its wings, made not of feathers but icicles, chimed like church bells. The being was glorious and terrifying at the same time. I wasn’t frightened. 

“You’re a snow angel, aren’t you?” I asked breathlessly. “A real snow angel.”

It just pressed me against it. Together, arm in arm, we danced a waltz through the snowflakes. We seemed to be floating on air. Magical, like Christmas morning or that first kiss. 

There was nothing to fear, and, when the angel offered, I let it fly me up, up, through swirling snowflakes, high above the neighborhood.

****

At first I never gave a thought to my family. But when I heard the screaming and crying from far away, it drew me back. I peeked at the scene below. Morning had dawned and the snow stopped. Something small and indistinct dressed in a pink nightgown lay blanketed by snow right under my bedroom window. 

The window was still propped open. Marie dropped to her knees in the snow and snatched up that still form, screaming and crying. Andy stood over her, talking on his cell phone. 

Marie stared up at the sky. She acted like she couldn’t see me. But I saw her tear-stained face and the pain in her eyes. “Why, God, why?”

I wanted to go to her, but I felt a touch on my shoulder and I looked to see the snow angel hovering beside me. It held out a hand. I took it.

I looked back at Marie and said, “It’s all right, everything’s all right.”

Ready now? 

I nodded with a smile. We rose higher and higher and passed through a tear in the sky that appeared.  The tear closed behind us and I passed through shining gates, entering the snowy fields of Heaven.