By L. Avery Brown Founder, RBU
http://whenasouthernwomanrambles.blogspot.com/
http://magnoliablossomreview.blogspot.com/
*The following is a cautionary tale…prefect for scaring the peejeebers out of children who think it’s better to blame someone else for their misdeeds…
A Gullah warning...
Speak da truth, less’n ya be wanting da roots ta come up’n grab ya
In 1830 America slavery was so much a part of the Southern lifestyle that it was second nature. Yes, forced servitude of Africans simply was ‘the way things worked’ regardless of whether or not people liked it. And as a result the economy thrived. Cities like Charleston, Atlanta, and New Orleans boomed with mansions and the outlying regions were the sites of some of the largest, most stately plantations around.
But not everyone in the South was wealthy. Not hardly. In fact, there were some people…good people, white people who were so poor and whose debts were so deep that they found themselves doing things they would never have considered to make ends meet; things like prostitution and thievery. There was also another, quicker and decidedly less morally seedy and dangerous way to pay off ones debts; indenturing one’s children to wealthy merchants or land holders for a contracted period of time.
Sometimes children who found themselves in this situation were taken in as apprentices for merchants/tradesmen who had no children of their own to carry on their businesses. But more often than not, the boys and girls who wound up indentured ended up in the homes of wealthy plantation owners out in the middle of nowhere who wanted their own flesh and blood children to have white playmates.
However, the practice of selling off one’s freely born children was a practice that was looked down on and not really mentioned in polite society. After all, owning a slave was one thing as slaves had no choice but owning another white man’s child was a totally different thing because a free man does have a choice which is why it was a very hush-hush practice. If a child was lucky they wound up with a fairly decent person but if they weren’t they found themselves trapped in a nightmare of abuse and torment either at the grown hands of the people who owned their contracts or at the spiteful hands of the children who they were supposed to befriend.
This is the tale of Caleb, a kind, gentle hearted 12 year old boy whose family fell on hard times. His father, desperate to hold on to his home so that his wife and six other children would have a roof over their heads sold his second eldest son to the Davidson family who owned the Twin Rivers plantation and had two sons, Winston and Thaddeus.
Mr. and Mrs. Davidson weren’t cruel people; however, their eldest boy, Winston, 14, had a mean streak a mile long and Thad, 10, did whatever his brother told him to do out of fear. Winston enjoyed seeing just how far he could push the limits and when the Davidsons brought Caleb into their home they thought that his presence might help tame Winston’s dark streak because Mr. Davidson didn’t want his son to one day inherit the plantation just so he could run it into the ground. But that’s not how things turned out.
Caleb arrived in the middle of winter in ’30 and did his best to do whatever was asked of him which pleased Mr. and Mrs. Davidson to no end. They showered him with kind words often followed by the phrase, “Why can’t you be more like Caleb, Winny?”
The house slaves also like Caleb because he never demanded things of them and said please and thank you. Within weeks of arriving he was even allowed to go with Mr. Davidson to visit the field slaves. It didn’t take long for Winston to grow to resent Caleb because it seemed everyone liked Caleb better. And then he started thinking of spiteful ways to get back at Caleb and forced his little brother to go along with whatever he did or said. But his spite eventually turned to out right physical abuse.
During the day Winston, with a reluctant Thaddeus at his side, would corner Caleb and kick him or punch him and tell him if he told they’d get him worse the next time. But that wasn’t enough for Winston who liked to push things to their breaking point. So he accused Caleb of stealing his father’s hand crafted ivory handled letter opener. And Thaddeus backed up his brother for fear that he’d be beaten up, too.
When faced with the ‘facts’ as presented by his sons, Mr. Davidson had no choice but to punish Caleb even though he knew his sons were lying. But they swore. And they were his real sons. To side with Caleb would have been like siding with a slave...and that just wasn't done.
Caleb got 10 powerful swats with the paddle that night and Winston reveled in his power over the poor child whom he thereafter called ‘the whipping boy’ whenever his parents weren’t around. But it wasn’t like the whippings were something Mr. or Mrs. Davidson condoned because they truly believed that eventually their sons, especially Winston, would see how Caleb suffered and take it upon themselves to fess up to their misdeeds.
But months passed and Caleb, who would always stare in disbelief whenever Mr. Davidson said to Winston and Thaddeus, “Well, boys, if you say it’s the truth then I’m beholden to believe you”, was punished for nearly every misdeed the Davidson boys did. So rare was it for either of the Davidson boys to get in trouble that Caleb started fessing up to whatever it was that had been done before he could be accused. And all he could do was bide his time hoping that his father’s debt would soon be paid off and he could go back home.
Then one lazy afternoon in the early summer Winston approached Caleb to tell him that he and Thaddeus were going to take Mr. Davidon’s prized horse ‘Lady Davidson’, for a ride. Lady Davidson was a very expensive horse from England and Mr. Davidson had only had her for a month or so and he absolutely forbade anyone to ride the noble chestnut colored creature because he was training her for the Phoenix Stakes to be held in Kentucky next spring.
Caleb’s eyes grew wide, “But you can’t. Your daddy’s gonna tan y'alls hides if he finds out you been on Lady.”
Winston laughed, “So, what? If something happens we always have you.” And Caleb looked somewhat defeated because he knew Winston was right.
But Caleb knew something bad was going to happen. In fact, he could almost feel it and he watched the boys ride off into the pasture and then he ran to Miss Uela’s house. Uela, a withered old former house slave from Barbados who’d been allowed to quietly live out the rest of her days on the plantation, was the oldest slave the Davidson’s owned and she’d taken a shying to the pale skinned boy with blue eyes early on.
And for Caleb, the old woman reminded him of his great Grandma Wilma because she was very wise. He told her what the boys had done and that he just knew something bad was going to happen.
Miss Uela kissed Caleb on the forehead and said, “Child I feels it, too.” Then she handed Caleb a stone to put in his pocket as she said, “Dis here be a prayer stone. Mi-dee poweful dem tings is where I comes from. Now Caleb, boy, wadever done gonna happen tonight, you best keeps dat stone in you pocket. I done kissed it wid a prayer ta keep da devil from creepin up from da ground on them roots and jumpin in you pocket. Cause if'n he get in, you ain’t ne'er gonna see anoder sunrise. You hear me, boy?”
“Yes'um, Miss Uela.”
The old woman watched Caleb put the stone in his pocket, “Good den, boy. Now you go on now.”
A few hours later, Winston and Thaddeus came running to Caleb in a panic because Lady Davidson had stepped into a mole hole and fallen over. Winston, who looked truly terrified because of what his father would do to him when he found out as he wasn’t sure if Thaddeus could keep his mouth shut this time, begged, “Caleb, you’ve got to tell Father what happened. And…and…”
“Yes, yes. I know.” Caleb shrugged his shoulders.
The Davidsons were sitting in the parlor reading when the boys burst into the room. They listened to their sons tell them how Caleb had pleaded with them to take Lady Davidson out for a ride and how he was trying to jump her across the Beggar’s Hill, where they bury the poor unfortunate souls, when she stepped into a hole and fell over.
At this Mr. Davidson jumped up and told his sons to take him to his prized horse. As he left the parlor, he grabbed his rifle from the mantle. He took ten slaves with him, hoping that he could save her, but he knew it was unlikely.
It was dark by the time they made it to where Lady Davidson lay on the ground. But even in the darkness, they could tell that her front right leg had snapped and that she was in great pain. There was nothing they could do. Mr. Davidson loaded his gun and shot Lady Davidson twice in the head. Once to kill her, a second time to just in case the first one didn’t work. Then he looked at his sons and said, “You mean for me to believe that Caleb did this?”
Winston yelled out, “Yes, he did. He told us to come with him. Isn’t that right Thaddeus?”
Thaddeus quietly nodded, “Yes.” The two boys looked at Caleb.
Mr. Davidson said, “Is what they say true, Caleb?”
Caleb looked at the boys then put his hand on the stone in his pocket as he shook his head, ‘yes.’ He had no choice. If he didn’t, Winston and Thaddeus would beat the living daylights of him.
Mr. Davidson could see what he knew to be a look of terror cross Caleb’s face as he admitted to something he’d not done. And at that moment the wealthy man was beside himself with anger at what his sons had done and he knew something drastic had to be done to show his sons the error of their ways. He wanted his sons to see how badly their lies hurt others but he knew threatening them with spankings and taking away their toys wouldn't work.
So he grabbed Caleb and practically dragged him back to Twin Rivers with his sons hurrying behind him to keep up. When they arrived at the house he ordered his slaves to tie Caleb to the tree that was below his sons’ bedroom window. Caleb was terrified.
Mr. Davidson asked his sons one last time, hoping they’d tell the truth, “Tell me now, did Caleb take Lady Davidson out of the stable? Is he the reason I had to put her down?”
Thaddeus looked as if he might crack but then Winston screamed out, “Yes, Papa, I’ll yell it a hundred times before you and all that is good on this earth and in Heaven, Caleb did it.”
Mr. Davidson looked at Caleb and then at his overseer, “If my son says it’s so, it must be. Whip him one hundred times. Fifty on the back and fifty on the front.” He took his sons by their arms and escorted them inside the house then told them to go straight to bed.
Caleb heard the heavy front door slam shut. Then he felt the first lash. Then the second and third. He prayed that the boys would come out to stop it. But they didn’t and he lost count after the tenth lash. All he knew was that his back was being ripped apart because those boys refused to tell the truth.
A few minutes later, when Caleb felt his hands being untied, he thought it was over. But it wasn’t. The overseer looked at the bloodied boy and said, “Child if you ever believed in God, now would be a damned good time to pray for your soul.”
Caleb thought of the stone in his pocket and glanced up to see the boys standing in the window watching. They didn’t care one bit if he died, which he knew he was going to do. He closed his eyes in defeat.
Then he heard a sinister, beguiling voice. It wove itself around Caleb’s ears, “Up, up, up from the roots I come, child. I can feel your fear dripping down. Ask me now to save you. Ask me now to free you. Ask me now to help you get your revenge.”
Caleb's blood ran icy cold as it called out again, “Open your eyes, child. Toss out that prayer stone. Let me in, child. Let me in.” Caleb opened his eyes and watched a dark shadow rise from the naked runner roots of the massive tree that lay beneath his feet. The devil had come calling. The demon danced around him and whispered, “I can give you what your heart truly wants. Toss out the stone. Let me in.”
And so Caleb, whose faith in humanity was gone, reached in his pocket and threw out the stone. He watched the dark shadow snake its way up his legs and then saw it slither into his pocket. Then he looked at the overseer whose eyes had not seen what happened right in front of him and said, “I’ve said my prayer.” He was tied back up and the tree bark ripped into his already worn back.
Caleb was probably dead by the time the overseer got to the fifteenth lash. But he kept whipping. That’s what he was told to do. Miss Uela was right, Caleb never saw the sunrise. He was put in a burlap sack and buried in the family cemetery, right behind the house.
Around two o’clock Thaddeus woke up from a fitful sleep. Someone was tugging on his foot. He looked, bleary eyed, and it was Caleb. He was carrying a whip that seemed to have a life of its own; as if a serpent's tail had been tied to the handle.
Thaddeus felt the thing wrap around his neck and looked up into Caleb's hollow eyes. The wraith smiled, “Such a spineless boy. I ought to rip your head off. But I won't. You're nothing but a rabbit. I want the fox. Go run to your papa, rabbit.” Thaddeus didn't have to be told twice and was so scared he couldn’t make a sound. All he could do was run his father.
Caleb’s specter stared down at Winston…but let the smug boy continue to sleep. He smiled knowing that had the rest of Winston’s life to torment him then he faded away.
Thaddeus was so beside himself with what had happened that the next day he went to Miss Uela who had often told him tales of darkness to keep him on the straight and narrow. He confessed it all and begged her to help him keep Caleb away from him.
The old woman gave Thaddeus two stones, one for him and one for Winston and she said they would have to carry them everywhere, everyday for the rest of their lives to keep Caleb’s spirit away. But there was a caveat. They would have to own up to what they’d done to their father first or else the stones wouldn’t work.
Thaddeus did exactly that as soon as he got back home and then shoved the stone in his pocket. His parents punished him severely but eventually forgave him. And apparently that appeased Caleb because Thaddeus, who carried that stone everywhere from that day on, lived to be eighty-seven and died of natural causes. He had several children, a successful business, and was the most honest man around.
However Winston refused to admit any wrong doing even though everyone knew he lied. But he was stubborn. He even threw the stone into the place where the Twin Rivers that gave the plantation its name met. And from that day forward Winston’s life was never the same.
When he’d sleep Caleb would wake him. When he’d look out the window Caleb would be standing in the yard. And when he knew he was alone he could feel Caleb’s angry eyes on him. But no one else could see what Winston saw. He was losing his grip on reality and his parents feared he’d do something drastic to ease his suffering. So they sent him away to school in England thinking being far away would help soothe his burdened soul.
And it seemed as if his parents had made a wise decision, too. Because as soon as Winston was on the ship headed overseas things seemed to go better for him. But he was weary and was always on guard. However after four years of relative peace, Winston thought that maybe his tormenter had forgotten about him and he decided he’d surprise his family and go back home.
He arrived at the Twin Rivers on his nineteenth birthday and as soon as his foot touched the ground he could feel eyes on him. Only when he looked around there was no one there. In fact, the whole place was deserted because it was a Sunday and everyone was at church nearly 10 miles away.
And Winston knew it would be hours before they returned. He stood by the tree and yelled for Caleb to show himself but nothing happened. Winston laughed thinking that he’d let his imagination get the better of him. Then he reached down to grab his bag and when he did the hair on the back of his neck stood up as an unholy wind drifted over him.
His heart nearly stopped. He knew Caleb was there. And when he turned around to face his tormenter he saw the terrifying visage of what had once been a polite, quiet boy whose only crime in life was being the son of a man who had debts only now Caleb’s skin which had been ripped from his body years earlier was now barely hanging on his bones.
Caleb laughed and held up a whip. Winston started to run but, the roots of the tree reached up and grabbed his feet and held him there. He watched the tail of the whip in Caleb's hand slither and writhe and then saw Caleb lift the the thing and felt the first of one hundred lashes.
When the last lash was given and Winston lay on the ground dead, Caleb melted into the tree. Winston was so badly beaten and the flies and buzzards had already claimed him that even his own family didn’t recognize him so they buried him on Beggars’ Hill with the other poor souls.
But exacting revenge on Winston did not free Caleb’s soul. The devil in his pocket lied to him when he said that by killing Winston he would find solace. No. His soul will never be at rest until he finds a new whipping boy...or girl. Any child will do. And now he wanders, using the roots of the trees to go all over, anywhere that there are knobby kneed trees, looking for someone to take his place. So, if I were you, it might be wise to remember Caleb the next time you try to blame someone else for your actions lest you want the roots to reach up and grab you.
The end.
10/25/10
10/22/10
The Haunting of Mister Tom
By Scott Riddick
http://www.atypicalread.blogspot.com/
Some people swore that the house was haunted. After hearing the grownups talk about what went on there, like the long nights of screaming or the way the lights turned on in the attic above the garage at strange hours or the amount of time the family spent away from the house, I found it easy to suspect something supernatural.
I had my own suspicions, but no one listened to a ten year old. But no matter how old you are, it’s easy to spot a monster when you have seen one like it before. Like my own father, the mister who lived in the house worked long hours at night up in his room above their garage. I could see through his window from my bedroom window. And I would watch him sitting at his desk banging away on his typewriter.
Many times, I saw his young, pretty wife stand behind him shouting. Sometimes she held a bottle that looked like the bottles my own mother got into after I had been put to bed. Mister’s wife would wave the bottle around, arguing loudly with him, or sometimes she just stood there crying.
Once, my father came home early from one of his business trips; alcohol was evident on his breath that almost always lead to he and my mother arguing. My father threatened to divorce my mother, and in return, she promised to take me from my father. Their arguing would give me nightmares which I would wake from and crawl over to my window to watch the mister. He would always be hard at work at his typewriter. I had never once spoken to the mister, but I felt a strange connection to him during those moments; as if he and I were one and the same.
One morning a faint voice outside woke me and I dragged my sleep-crusted eyes over to the window hoping to find my father home early from his trip. Instead, I watched yet another argument between the mister and his miss that came to an abrupt end with the sound of shouted pleas and the mechanized pull of the garage door opening and the rev of the family car’s engine.
I reached up to the window latch, released it from its catch and cracked the window enough to hear the mister’s words. “Honey please, I am nearly finished with it. I just need you to hang in there a little while longer.”
“I have had it, Tom! I have not slept a full night with my husband in more than a year and the children miss their father. The late nights and the drinking have created nothing but a drunken fool chasing dreams of being some famous writer. No more!”
The mister’s reply was lost in the sound of squealing tires leaving the man and his excuses behind. It reminded me so of that night my mother and father argued…only…my mother would not return the next day. It had rained most of the night and…
As I watched him standing on the curb, the moonlight caught his eyes, turning them a ghostly white. For a moment it looked as if his eyes were gone, leaving only empty sockets full of a dull light. It was a moment that changed me, hoping deep inside that I would never see that same look on my own father’s face. But time has a funny way of repeating itself, which is why I stop for a moment outside my old home and wonder long enough to know…
Nothing was ever the same again after that.
http://www.atypicalread.blogspot.com/
Some people swore that the house was haunted. After hearing the grownups talk about what went on there, like the long nights of screaming or the way the lights turned on in the attic above the garage at strange hours or the amount of time the family spent away from the house, I found it easy to suspect something supernatural.
I had my own suspicions, but no one listened to a ten year old. But no matter how old you are, it’s easy to spot a monster when you have seen one like it before. Like my own father, the mister who lived in the house worked long hours at night up in his room above their garage. I could see through his window from my bedroom window. And I would watch him sitting at his desk banging away on his typewriter.
Many times, I saw his young, pretty wife stand behind him shouting. Sometimes she held a bottle that looked like the bottles my own mother got into after I had been put to bed. Mister’s wife would wave the bottle around, arguing loudly with him, or sometimes she just stood there crying.
Once, my father came home early from one of his business trips; alcohol was evident on his breath that almost always lead to he and my mother arguing. My father threatened to divorce my mother, and in return, she promised to take me from my father. Their arguing would give me nightmares which I would wake from and crawl over to my window to watch the mister. He would always be hard at work at his typewriter. I had never once spoken to the mister, but I felt a strange connection to him during those moments; as if he and I were one and the same.
One morning a faint voice outside woke me and I dragged my sleep-crusted eyes over to the window hoping to find my father home early from his trip. Instead, I watched yet another argument between the mister and his miss that came to an abrupt end with the sound of shouted pleas and the mechanized pull of the garage door opening and the rev of the family car’s engine.
I reached up to the window latch, released it from its catch and cracked the window enough to hear the mister’s words. “Honey please, I am nearly finished with it. I just need you to hang in there a little while longer.”
“I have had it, Tom! I have not slept a full night with my husband in more than a year and the children miss their father. The late nights and the drinking have created nothing but a drunken fool chasing dreams of being some famous writer. No more!”
The mister’s reply was lost in the sound of squealing tires leaving the man and his excuses behind. It reminded me so of that night my mother and father argued…only…my mother would not return the next day. It had rained most of the night and…
As I watched him standing on the curb, the moonlight caught his eyes, turning them a ghostly white. For a moment it looked as if his eyes were gone, leaving only empty sockets full of a dull light. It was a moment that changed me, hoping deep inside that I would never see that same look on my own father’s face. But time has a funny way of repeating itself, which is why I stop for a moment outside my old home and wonder long enough to know…
Nothing was ever the same again after that.
10/18/10
The Tale of "Bloody" Baker
By Glen Humble
http://kenttodayandyesterday.blogspot.com
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the geography of England, the county of Kent forms the South East tip of Great Britain and juts out into the English Channel.
Due to its proximity to mainland Europe, Kent has always played an important role in many major events of English history. The first Roman invasion fleet landed in 43 AD followed around four hundred years later by our ancestors the Jutes, Angles and Saxons.
In the year 597 Pope Gregory sent his missionary Saint Augustine to convert the pagan people of Kent and their King, Ethelred to Christianity. England’s religious affairs remained under the firm control of Rome until King Henry VIII established himself as head of the Church of England in 1534 when the Pope refused to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon and allow him to marry his mistress Anne Boleyn.
Following the death of King Henry VIII in 1547, England entered a period of great political and religious turmoil which eventually culminated in the accession of his Catholic daughter Mary to the throne.
Queen Mary I of England, more commonly known as “Bloody Mary”, fervently persecuted any Protestants who failed to recant their religion. Her reign of terror was felt particularly by the Protestants of Kent who were denounced as heretics in their hundreds and publicly burned at the stake.
In Kent, there lived a man called Sir John Baker, a prominent member of the Queen’s Court and staunch Catholic. He actively participated in the persecution of the Kent Protestants and was widely detested for it, earning himself the unflattering nickname “Bloody Baker”.
Traditional folk stories and legends usually contain at least a kernel of truth but names of places, people and other details are often altered and embellished as they are passed from generation to generation by word of mouth.
With all this in mind, we now come to the dark and gruesome tale told in Kent of Sir Richard Baker...
Sir Richard is said to have returned to his ancestral home in Cranbrook, Kent with a single foreign servant after having lived many years overseas. The two lived together in isolation in the old house.
Soon after their return, strange stories began to be told in the village of unearthly shrieks heard at night coming from the house and of people being missed and never seen again...
Nobody connected these strange occurrences with Sir Richard Baker, until that is, he received a surprise visit at his house from a young lady who he admired and had often invited to call by.
Although the lady’s companion begged her not to go but she would not be dissuaded and pressed ahead with the visit.
Arriving at the house, the two ladies knocked at the front door but there was no reply.
The door was not locked so they entered the house. Ahead of them at the top of the staircase they could see a parrot in a cage.
As they passed by, it shrieked out, “Peapo, pretty lady, be not too bold, or your red blood will soon run cold.”
The parrot’s prophetic words soon came true!
The two bold ladies cautiously pushed open the door to a room and to their horror found it full of murdered and mutilated bodies...
At that point they heard a noise. Looking out of the window they saw “Bloody” Baker and his servant dragging the lifeless body of a woman towards the house. The ladies, now terrified, managed to conceal themselves in a small recess under the staircase.
As the two murderers dragged the corpse of the dead woman up the staircase, her arm dropped down and got caught in the balustrade. “Bloody” Baker cursed and then hacked off the offending hand which fell into the lap of one of the ladies concealed below.
The two brave ladies fled from the house taking the poor dead woman’s hand with them. On one of the fingers was a ring. On safely reaching home, the ladies told their neighbours, many of whom had missing family members, of their grisly discovery.
It was decided to trap “Bloody” Baker.
The lady and her neighbours sent Baker a cordial invitation to a party. Unknown to Baker, the local constables were also to be in attendance ready to take him into immediate custody.
Baker willingly accepted the invitation.
The lady, pretending it was a dream, confronted him with all she had seen.
“Fair lady,” said he, "dreams are nothing; they are but fables.”
“They may be fables,” she replied, “but is this a fable?”
At this point she produced the murdered woman’s hand and ring.
The constables jumped out from their hiding places and seized Baker.
And the story traditionally concludes, that he was found guilty and burned at the stake...
http://kenttodayandyesterday.blogspot.com
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the geography of England, the county of Kent forms the South East tip of Great Britain and juts out into the English Channel.
Due to its proximity to mainland Europe, Kent has always played an important role in many major events of English history. The first Roman invasion fleet landed in 43 AD followed around four hundred years later by our ancestors the Jutes, Angles and Saxons.
In the year 597 Pope Gregory sent his missionary Saint Augustine to convert the pagan people of Kent and their King, Ethelred to Christianity. England’s religious affairs remained under the firm control of Rome until King Henry VIII established himself as head of the Church of England in 1534 when the Pope refused to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon and allow him to marry his mistress Anne Boleyn.
Following the death of King Henry VIII in 1547, England entered a period of great political and religious turmoil which eventually culminated in the accession of his Catholic daughter Mary to the throne.
Queen Mary I of England, more commonly known as “Bloody Mary”, fervently persecuted any Protestants who failed to recant their religion. Her reign of terror was felt particularly by the Protestants of Kent who were denounced as heretics in their hundreds and publicly burned at the stake.
In Kent, there lived a man called Sir John Baker, a prominent member of the Queen’s Court and staunch Catholic. He actively participated in the persecution of the Kent Protestants and was widely detested for it, earning himself the unflattering nickname “Bloody Baker”.
Traditional folk stories and legends usually contain at least a kernel of truth but names of places, people and other details are often altered and embellished as they are passed from generation to generation by word of mouth.
With all this in mind, we now come to the dark and gruesome tale told in Kent of Sir Richard Baker...
Sir Richard is said to have returned to his ancestral home in Cranbrook, Kent with a single foreign servant after having lived many years overseas. The two lived together in isolation in the old house.
Soon after their return, strange stories began to be told in the village of unearthly shrieks heard at night coming from the house and of people being missed and never seen again...
Nobody connected these strange occurrences with Sir Richard Baker, until that is, he received a surprise visit at his house from a young lady who he admired and had often invited to call by.
Although the lady’s companion begged her not to go but she would not be dissuaded and pressed ahead with the visit.
Arriving at the house, the two ladies knocked at the front door but there was no reply.
The door was not locked so they entered the house. Ahead of them at the top of the staircase they could see a parrot in a cage.
As they passed by, it shrieked out, “Peapo, pretty lady, be not too bold, or your red blood will soon run cold.”
The parrot’s prophetic words soon came true!
The two bold ladies cautiously pushed open the door to a room and to their horror found it full of murdered and mutilated bodies...
At that point they heard a noise. Looking out of the window they saw “Bloody” Baker and his servant dragging the lifeless body of a woman towards the house. The ladies, now terrified, managed to conceal themselves in a small recess under the staircase.
As the two murderers dragged the corpse of the dead woman up the staircase, her arm dropped down and got caught in the balustrade. “Bloody” Baker cursed and then hacked off the offending hand which fell into the lap of one of the ladies concealed below.
The two brave ladies fled from the house taking the poor dead woman’s hand with them. On one of the fingers was a ring. On safely reaching home, the ladies told their neighbours, many of whom had missing family members, of their grisly discovery.
It was decided to trap “Bloody” Baker.
The lady and her neighbours sent Baker a cordial invitation to a party. Unknown to Baker, the local constables were also to be in attendance ready to take him into immediate custody.
Baker willingly accepted the invitation.
The lady, pretending it was a dream, confronted him with all she had seen.
“Fair lady,” said he, "dreams are nothing; they are but fables.”
“They may be fables,” she replied, “but is this a fable?”
At this point she produced the murdered woman’s hand and ring.
The constables jumped out from their hiding places and seized Baker.
And the story traditionally concludes, that he was found guilty and burned at the stake...
10/14/10
Pumpkins, pumpkins!
By Kim
http://www.sandboxgems.blogspot.com
(RBU Join Date: 01/23/10)
This is a collage of some of the creations submitted at my daughter's school where they had a pumpkin decorating contest. Just goes to show you carving the traditional jack o'lantern isn't the only way to have fun with pumpkins. In the one with the most pumpkins, I love the Homer Simpson one peeking out and the one-eyed guy. Very fun!
http://www.sandboxgems.blogspot.com
(RBU Join Date: 01/23/10)
This is a collage of some of the creations submitted at my daughter's school where they had a pumpkin decorating contest. Just goes to show you carving the traditional jack o'lantern isn't the only way to have fun with pumpkins. In the one with the most pumpkins, I love the Homer Simpson one peeking out and the one-eyed guy. Very fun!
10/10/10
An October Story
By Frank Brinkman
http://icare2be.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 03/19/2010)
Dearest friend,
What I relate to you on this day is a family story. It is a true story never told outside of family circles. It is an old story going back generations. I ask only one boon. Do not repeat this tale to a stranger. Without this promise please do not read further...
The story begins with my grandmother Rosa in 1948.
She was spry, white haired, gentle speaking woman with a wonderful smile. She was a real southern lady. When she spoke it was like honey dripping from the sound of her voice. Grandmother Rosa was descended from the Powell family located in the hills northwest of Tullahoma, The settlement was called Powell Hollow, Tennessee.
The Powell family was one of the earliest to settle this hill area of Tennessee.
The Powells were skilled and artistic men and women. Aunt Grace Powell was a very creative woman who painted glass and China. The skill passed down to my mother who was also a skilled painter. Mom's specialty was painting on the backside of glass. This meant that all the details of a bird had to be put in first. Her paintings were an accurate depiction of birds. I also dabble some at sketching, painting, and making things with my hands.
I am sorry; I have digressed from the main story about Grandma Rosa. Grandma Rosa was a skilled quilter. She made quilts for her daughters and grandchildren. The story has been told that each square had a prayer for each stitch and knot. In later years you could hear her prayers and praises as she sat in her rocker. It sounded like she was having a conversation.
I was always amazed when we visited and Mom and Grandmother Rosa would sit and sew. When the conversation slowed, Grandma Rosa's sing-song voice could be heard quietly running through her prayers. Mom joined in to make a duet. There was an intriguing rhythm to their words of prayer and praise.
Grandmother Rosa believed in the power of prayer, and she attended the revival meetings when the traveling preacher came to nearby Tullahoma, Tennessee. It was an exciting time when the revival tent was erected. The word spread from neighbor to neighbor and friend to friend. This was a big event for a small village. The result was the revival tent filled to overflowing, radiating the sounds of voices singing and shouting the Lord's praises. The preacher and his team were practiced in warming up "Born Again Christians" to a fevered pitch. Then, the first collection passed through the rows of sinners wanting to be saved again. The preacher began to speak in a quiet tone. When he paused you could hear a pin drop in the last row or the cough of a participant just waiting for the "laying on of the hands" and potential healing. As the preacher warmed up to his sermon he mentioned a lot of hell fire. The Devil took the stage as a demon to be avoided. Songs were sung like "Rock of Ages", "Beneath the Cross of Jesus", "Amazing Grace," and many old gospel songs. The intent was to whip the crowd into a religious fervor. Some of the devoted Christians began to speak in tongues and faint in the presence of the Lord. This is when the preacher invited the people to bow their heads and passed the second collection saying the Lord was the only one who knew how much they donated.
As the hat was passed to the back of the congregation he invited those who wished to be healed of their sins and afflictions to go forward. There were some who said some of these healings of cripples and blind were part of the preacher's show. The revival lasted as long as money appeared in the offering baskets. When the preacher detected the money was drying up, the tent folded in the night, and the revival was gone until next passage through these hill towns.
Grandmother Rosa and Mom believed what the revival preacher taught them. There were devils that walked the Earth looking to capture innocent souls for his home in the nether region. There were ghosts of lost souls that visited the area where they crossed over from life to the next world. Grandmother, Mom, and many others I have met, had a terror of meeting these demon life forms. I grew up with the same fears.
Mom, Dad, my brothers, and l lived on an 80 acre farm in Upper Michigan in Keweenaw County, 3 miles outside of the village of Ahmeek. The Gratiot River ran alongside the property, and on a bend in the river was the community swimming hole. The farm house was about a 1/2 mile from the Five Mile Point Road. The lane up to the farm gate was two tracks with grass in the middle. The evenings were quiet and the sky was filled with stars city slickers never see.
Mom and Dad would, on occasion, need to be in town late into the evening. The village tavern, Mallners, had the only telephone. It was on one of those warm summer evenings I was told to get everyone in bed just after dark. Our bedroom was the upstairs of the farm house. It was just an attic that was converted into a bedroom.
We got ready for bed. That meant sleeping under a sheet in jockey shorts without a T-shirt since it was warm. My brother and I had climbed into our bed and turned out the light on the nightstand. Earl started teasing me. "You’re touching me." I repeated it back. It went on for a few minutes in the dark, until we heard the whippoorwill call in the tree outside the house. The whippoorwill song was a beautiful sound I have remembered into my senior years. After the whippoorwill's song it became eerily quiet, and we began whispering, noting how quiet it was.
Cree-eak. The sound broke the stillness and we held our breath. The first tread on the stairway leading to our bedroom creaked when someone stepped on it. No car had driven into the yard. No car doors slammed shut. The front door had not opened and closed.
I held my breath. Earl crept closer to me in bed and grabbed my arm. We heard another "tish" like another footstep onto the next step. Just a second later squeaks from another stair tread. Someone was slowly coming up the stairway to the attic. I reached over and turned on the light. The footsteps continued up the stairs to the bedroom. The warmth of the summer evening slowly disappeared.
Coolness filled the room. Earl was the first to spot the depression in the rug.
We pulled the sheet closer around our necks. Then the depression moved to a new place, and we both could see two carpet depressions where something unseen was standing and walking closer to our bed. To say we were scared is an understatement.
When the creature reached the foot of our bed we were hardly breathing. Earl had a hold of my left arm and was squeezing it so hard it hurt. The sheet at the end of the bed sunk into the mattress like someone was leaning over the foot of the bed. I immediately started saying the Lord's Prayer. Earl quickly joined me. By time I said "who art in Heaven..." a red mist began to materialize and take shape at the end of the bed.
We continued, "hallowed be Thy name" and a red face could be seen in the mist. "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done!"
Goat-like horns became prominent out of the forehead. Shoulders and arms were reaching toward the sheet. "Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven!" His clawed hands became visible.
Earl and I were clinging to each other watching the apparition in our bedroom. "Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins as we forgive others!"
The face became gruesome and larger as he leaned forward and grunted as if it was hurt deep inside. "Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil."
At this point the grunt became a low growl. I could feel my body sweating even in the freezing cold room. "For Thine is the kingdom the power, and the glory."
As these words were spoken, the growl grew into a shriek that hurt my ears. “Now and forever. Amen!" With the end of the prayer the red mist clouded the room and slowly dissipated.
After the room cleared and the warmth returned we looked at the end of the bed where the marks on the sheet remained. We left the bed and ran downstairs to the kitchen. We turned on all the lights and held onto each other. Mom and Dad returned what felt like many hours later, but it was just three quarters of an hour later.
Mom and Dad were furious to see that we were still up. They wanted to know why. We told them the story as I have told you. They made a big show of "It is okay now. We are home. We will protect you." They said it was time to go to bed and led us up the stairs.
The light was still on. We showed them the marks in the carpet where the Devil had stood. The carpet was marked as if a cloven hoof had walked across and stood at the end of the bed. The sheet was marked with scratches where the demon had grabbed it.
To this day, I really wonder if Mom and Dad really believed what happened that night. Mom did move her family bible upstairs to sit in the middle of a old chest they moved to the foot of the bed. Nothing more was said about this incident by Mom or Dad. We attended Sunday services more regularly after that, and there was both wariness and thankfulness for what we had.
Earl and I have relived that evening many times. Both of us remember the events as if they happened just last week. The farmhouse had other surprises waiting our family. In the spring the weather became warm. Mom was in the kitchen ironing late into the evening by the kitchen windows. There was a gentle breeze blowing the curtains.
As the curtains moved with the breeze Grandmother Rosa came to the window. She smiled at Mom. Mom was so shocked she became immobilized as she watched her mother standing just outside her window. Finally, she put the iron down on its cooling plate and turned to move to the window. Mom called to her mother, "Mom?"
Her mother did not answer. Grandma Rosa smiled and waved her right hand in a gentle wave meant to say, "Goodbye." Grandmother Rosa faded away as a fog disappears with the warmth of the sun.
Now, Mom was confused and told Dad the story. He agreed to check on Grandmother Rosa in the morning. With the morning sun a car drove up the lane and stopped at the house. It was Franco Mullner, owner of the local tavern with the only telephone in Ahmeek Village. Mom and Dad met him in the front yard. Mom cried out and Dad held her in his arms.
Grandmother Rosa had died the evening before in Murphysboro, Tennessee at her home. She still lived above the factory her husband had used to build the hydraulic flushers which he had patented. To this day, the Petersen Hydraulic Flusher Company is still in business. Mom's grand nephew is running the company. We left that same day to drive to Tennessee to attend the funeral.
I only remember the long drive to Murfreesboro and the long drive in the funeral procession from the funeral home to Powell Hollow and the Powell family cemetery. The line of cars seemed to go on forever.
As the funeral procession proceeded down the highway cars coming the other way pulled over and stopped. People along the highway stopped what they were doing and turned to watch the procession, some even bowed their heads as the hearse passed in front of them. The sight of strangers paying respect along the highway has stayed with me some sixty plus years.
Traditionally, the Brinkman men have hunted deer and bear for two weeks in October. Last year my grand nephew shot a massive 12 point buck in his first year of hunting. It has also been a tradition that the 16 year olds received the prize hunting spots and deer were driven to them. This provided the new hunters the joy and pride of their first hunt. It was not just sport the men hunted for. It was meat for the winter for the larger family. The deer provided sustenance for those who had little enough to eat.
In late October, Dad went hunting with his friends away from the farm in other areas of Keweenaw County where they had spotted deer and bear. I mention away from the farm because I have a memory of being in the back seat of the car when Dad drove into the farmyard. There, under the apple tree, was a huge buck standing and looking directly at us.
Dad did not move the car. As we sat there, the deer picked another apple from the ground and started walking off into the potato patch disappearing into the darkness of the night.
At home on the farm on a warm October afternoon we had just finished lunch when we heard the chickens in the two chicken coops begin to make a commotion and our beagle dog named Girl began to growl at the door. Mom told Girl to stop and asked, "What was wrong?"
She went to the door to look out and in the front yard a black bear was walking away from the chicken coops and crossing the road toward the side of our house. Mom locked the front door and closed the front windows. She gathered us into the living room away from the windows. We could hear the bear sniffing and snuffling around the front door.
Then, we heard the bear scratch at the front door. He stood up and scratched at the door to open it. Mom ran and got a 12-gauge shotgun. We waited. And after what seemed to be the whole afternoon, the bear meandered off into the woods.
We stayed in the living room until we heard Dad's car drive up the lane. We ran out to tell him the events of the afternoon. Then we went around to the front of the house to look at the front door. The hungry black bear had left scratches 5 feet up on the door with both claws as well as along the bottom door sill.
Dad had recently slaughtered and smoked our hogs and planned to sell some of the meat to the local Ahmeek Village store. And Dad determined the bear must have smelled the smoked hams which had hung in a back bedroom that was used for cold storage and wanted to fill his belly before he hibernated for the winter.
Mom said this was the last straw and demanded Dad sell the farm so we could move into the village. And before winter had fully come to the farm, Dad had arranged to trade the farm for a house in town.
There we lived in peace for several years, but that is another story. You now know some of the family secrets. The demon who unsuccessfully came to us to collect our souls, the ghost of my Grandmother Rosa visiting my mother after she was dead, and the hungry bear making a joke out of going hunting.
I could go on to tell you of a wife to whom you cannot tell a lie or on whom you can cheat…who has an uncanny knack of knowing what is to come…or of daughters that are strong and yet retain a sense of a larger world. They have inherited the touch of "knowing" from their mother.
Again, I ask for the boon I mentioned. Do not repeat this story to strangers. I would protect the family from intrusion. I humbly thank you for your kindness.
http://icare2be.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 03/19/2010)
Dearest friend,
What I relate to you on this day is a family story. It is a true story never told outside of family circles. It is an old story going back generations. I ask only one boon. Do not repeat this tale to a stranger. Without this promise please do not read further...
The story begins with my grandmother Rosa in 1948.
She was spry, white haired, gentle speaking woman with a wonderful smile. She was a real southern lady. When she spoke it was like honey dripping from the sound of her voice. Grandmother Rosa was descended from the Powell family located in the hills northwest of Tullahoma, The settlement was called Powell Hollow, Tennessee.
The Powell family was one of the earliest to settle this hill area of Tennessee.
The Powells were skilled and artistic men and women. Aunt Grace Powell was a very creative woman who painted glass and China. The skill passed down to my mother who was also a skilled painter. Mom's specialty was painting on the backside of glass. This meant that all the details of a bird had to be put in first. Her paintings were an accurate depiction of birds. I also dabble some at sketching, painting, and making things with my hands.
I am sorry; I have digressed from the main story about Grandma Rosa. Grandma Rosa was a skilled quilter. She made quilts for her daughters and grandchildren. The story has been told that each square had a prayer for each stitch and knot. In later years you could hear her prayers and praises as she sat in her rocker. It sounded like she was having a conversation.
I was always amazed when we visited and Mom and Grandmother Rosa would sit and sew. When the conversation slowed, Grandma Rosa's sing-song voice could be heard quietly running through her prayers. Mom joined in to make a duet. There was an intriguing rhythm to their words of prayer and praise.
Grandmother Rosa believed in the power of prayer, and she attended the revival meetings when the traveling preacher came to nearby Tullahoma, Tennessee. It was an exciting time when the revival tent was erected. The word spread from neighbor to neighbor and friend to friend. This was a big event for a small village. The result was the revival tent filled to overflowing, radiating the sounds of voices singing and shouting the Lord's praises. The preacher and his team were practiced in warming up "Born Again Christians" to a fevered pitch. Then, the first collection passed through the rows of sinners wanting to be saved again. The preacher began to speak in a quiet tone. When he paused you could hear a pin drop in the last row or the cough of a participant just waiting for the "laying on of the hands" and potential healing. As the preacher warmed up to his sermon he mentioned a lot of hell fire. The Devil took the stage as a demon to be avoided. Songs were sung like "Rock of Ages", "Beneath the Cross of Jesus", "Amazing Grace," and many old gospel songs. The intent was to whip the crowd into a religious fervor. Some of the devoted Christians began to speak in tongues and faint in the presence of the Lord. This is when the preacher invited the people to bow their heads and passed the second collection saying the Lord was the only one who knew how much they donated.
As the hat was passed to the back of the congregation he invited those who wished to be healed of their sins and afflictions to go forward. There were some who said some of these healings of cripples and blind were part of the preacher's show. The revival lasted as long as money appeared in the offering baskets. When the preacher detected the money was drying up, the tent folded in the night, and the revival was gone until next passage through these hill towns.
Grandmother Rosa and Mom believed what the revival preacher taught them. There were devils that walked the Earth looking to capture innocent souls for his home in the nether region. There were ghosts of lost souls that visited the area where they crossed over from life to the next world. Grandmother, Mom, and many others I have met, had a terror of meeting these demon life forms. I grew up with the same fears.
Mom, Dad, my brothers, and l lived on an 80 acre farm in Upper Michigan in Keweenaw County, 3 miles outside of the village of Ahmeek. The Gratiot River ran alongside the property, and on a bend in the river was the community swimming hole. The farm house was about a 1/2 mile from the Five Mile Point Road. The lane up to the farm gate was two tracks with grass in the middle. The evenings were quiet and the sky was filled with stars city slickers never see.
Mom and Dad would, on occasion, need to be in town late into the evening. The village tavern, Mallners, had the only telephone. It was on one of those warm summer evenings I was told to get everyone in bed just after dark. Our bedroom was the upstairs of the farm house. It was just an attic that was converted into a bedroom.
We got ready for bed. That meant sleeping under a sheet in jockey shorts without a T-shirt since it was warm. My brother and I had climbed into our bed and turned out the light on the nightstand. Earl started teasing me. "You’re touching me." I repeated it back. It went on for a few minutes in the dark, until we heard the whippoorwill call in the tree outside the house. The whippoorwill song was a beautiful sound I have remembered into my senior years. After the whippoorwill's song it became eerily quiet, and we began whispering, noting how quiet it was.
Cree-eak. The sound broke the stillness and we held our breath. The first tread on the stairway leading to our bedroom creaked when someone stepped on it. No car had driven into the yard. No car doors slammed shut. The front door had not opened and closed.
I held my breath. Earl crept closer to me in bed and grabbed my arm. We heard another "tish" like another footstep onto the next step. Just a second later squeaks from another stair tread. Someone was slowly coming up the stairway to the attic. I reached over and turned on the light. The footsteps continued up the stairs to the bedroom. The warmth of the summer evening slowly disappeared.
Coolness filled the room. Earl was the first to spot the depression in the rug.
We pulled the sheet closer around our necks. Then the depression moved to a new place, and we both could see two carpet depressions where something unseen was standing and walking closer to our bed. To say we were scared is an understatement.
When the creature reached the foot of our bed we were hardly breathing. Earl had a hold of my left arm and was squeezing it so hard it hurt. The sheet at the end of the bed sunk into the mattress like someone was leaning over the foot of the bed. I immediately started saying the Lord's Prayer. Earl quickly joined me. By time I said "who art in Heaven..." a red mist began to materialize and take shape at the end of the bed.
We continued, "hallowed be Thy name" and a red face could be seen in the mist. "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done!"
Goat-like horns became prominent out of the forehead. Shoulders and arms were reaching toward the sheet. "Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven!" His clawed hands became visible.
Earl and I were clinging to each other watching the apparition in our bedroom. "Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins as we forgive others!"
The face became gruesome and larger as he leaned forward and grunted as if it was hurt deep inside. "Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil."
At this point the grunt became a low growl. I could feel my body sweating even in the freezing cold room. "For Thine is the kingdom the power, and the glory."
As these words were spoken, the growl grew into a shriek that hurt my ears. “Now and forever. Amen!" With the end of the prayer the red mist clouded the room and slowly dissipated.
After the room cleared and the warmth returned we looked at the end of the bed where the marks on the sheet remained. We left the bed and ran downstairs to the kitchen. We turned on all the lights and held onto each other. Mom and Dad returned what felt like many hours later, but it was just three quarters of an hour later.
Mom and Dad were furious to see that we were still up. They wanted to know why. We told them the story as I have told you. They made a big show of "It is okay now. We are home. We will protect you." They said it was time to go to bed and led us up the stairs.
The light was still on. We showed them the marks in the carpet where the Devil had stood. The carpet was marked as if a cloven hoof had walked across and stood at the end of the bed. The sheet was marked with scratches where the demon had grabbed it.
To this day, I really wonder if Mom and Dad really believed what happened that night. Mom did move her family bible upstairs to sit in the middle of a old chest they moved to the foot of the bed. Nothing more was said about this incident by Mom or Dad. We attended Sunday services more regularly after that, and there was both wariness and thankfulness for what we had.
Earl and I have relived that evening many times. Both of us remember the events as if they happened just last week. The farmhouse had other surprises waiting our family. In the spring the weather became warm. Mom was in the kitchen ironing late into the evening by the kitchen windows. There was a gentle breeze blowing the curtains.
As the curtains moved with the breeze Grandmother Rosa came to the window. She smiled at Mom. Mom was so shocked she became immobilized as she watched her mother standing just outside her window. Finally, she put the iron down on its cooling plate and turned to move to the window. Mom called to her mother, "Mom?"
Her mother did not answer. Grandma Rosa smiled and waved her right hand in a gentle wave meant to say, "Goodbye." Grandmother Rosa faded away as a fog disappears with the warmth of the sun.
Now, Mom was confused and told Dad the story. He agreed to check on Grandmother Rosa in the morning. With the morning sun a car drove up the lane and stopped at the house. It was Franco Mullner, owner of the local tavern with the only telephone in Ahmeek Village. Mom and Dad met him in the front yard. Mom cried out and Dad held her in his arms.
Grandmother Rosa had died the evening before in Murphysboro, Tennessee at her home. She still lived above the factory her husband had used to build the hydraulic flushers which he had patented. To this day, the Petersen Hydraulic Flusher Company is still in business. Mom's grand nephew is running the company. We left that same day to drive to Tennessee to attend the funeral.
I only remember the long drive to Murfreesboro and the long drive in the funeral procession from the funeral home to Powell Hollow and the Powell family cemetery. The line of cars seemed to go on forever.
As the funeral procession proceeded down the highway cars coming the other way pulled over and stopped. People along the highway stopped what they were doing and turned to watch the procession, some even bowed their heads as the hearse passed in front of them. The sight of strangers paying respect along the highway has stayed with me some sixty plus years.
Traditionally, the Brinkman men have hunted deer and bear for two weeks in October. Last year my grand nephew shot a massive 12 point buck in his first year of hunting. It has also been a tradition that the 16 year olds received the prize hunting spots and deer were driven to them. This provided the new hunters the joy and pride of their first hunt. It was not just sport the men hunted for. It was meat for the winter for the larger family. The deer provided sustenance for those who had little enough to eat.
In late October, Dad went hunting with his friends away from the farm in other areas of Keweenaw County where they had spotted deer and bear. I mention away from the farm because I have a memory of being in the back seat of the car when Dad drove into the farmyard. There, under the apple tree, was a huge buck standing and looking directly at us.
Dad did not move the car. As we sat there, the deer picked another apple from the ground and started walking off into the potato patch disappearing into the darkness of the night.
At home on the farm on a warm October afternoon we had just finished lunch when we heard the chickens in the two chicken coops begin to make a commotion and our beagle dog named Girl began to growl at the door. Mom told Girl to stop and asked, "What was wrong?"
She went to the door to look out and in the front yard a black bear was walking away from the chicken coops and crossing the road toward the side of our house. Mom locked the front door and closed the front windows. She gathered us into the living room away from the windows. We could hear the bear sniffing and snuffling around the front door.
Then, we heard the bear scratch at the front door. He stood up and scratched at the door to open it. Mom ran and got a 12-gauge shotgun. We waited. And after what seemed to be the whole afternoon, the bear meandered off into the woods.
We stayed in the living room until we heard Dad's car drive up the lane. We ran out to tell him the events of the afternoon. Then we went around to the front of the house to look at the front door. The hungry black bear had left scratches 5 feet up on the door with both claws as well as along the bottom door sill.
Dad had recently slaughtered and smoked our hogs and planned to sell some of the meat to the local Ahmeek Village store. And Dad determined the bear must have smelled the smoked hams which had hung in a back bedroom that was used for cold storage and wanted to fill his belly before he hibernated for the winter.
Mom said this was the last straw and demanded Dad sell the farm so we could move into the village. And before winter had fully come to the farm, Dad had arranged to trade the farm for a house in town.
There we lived in peace for several years, but that is another story. You now know some of the family secrets. The demon who unsuccessfully came to us to collect our souls, the ghost of my Grandmother Rosa visiting my mother after she was dead, and the hungry bear making a joke out of going hunting.
I could go on to tell you of a wife to whom you cannot tell a lie or on whom you can cheat…who has an uncanny knack of knowing what is to come…or of daughters that are strong and yet retain a sense of a larger world. They have inherited the touch of "knowing" from their mother.
Again, I ask for the boon I mentioned. Do not repeat this story to strangers. I would protect the family from intrusion. I humbly thank you for your kindness.
10/5/10
I See Dead People (A True Story)
By Pierre Le Roux
(RBU Join Date 02/02/2010)
When hubby and I bought our new home we got more than we had bargained for. You see, apart from minor (that later turned into major) renovations, we also inherited a tenant that lurks around our property and enjoys playing tricks on us. Whether you believe it or not, we have a ghost in the house! The spirit of the previous owner‘s late husband still roams around and whenever we criticize any of his former DIY projects - that we now have to fix - or do anything he disapproves off, he loses his temper with poltergeist-like flair.
Our haunting started out like most do: We moved in! At first it began with small annoyances for which there could have been any number of scientific explanations. A light bulb exploding would hardly raise any suspicion of paranormal activity, but when it happens frequently and when a pattern emerges that has nothing to do with faulty electrical wiring, one starts to think twice. The same holds true for our elaborate alarm system that goes off at the most inconvenient times for no earthly reason. Even after being inspected by a technician no fault with the system can be identified.
And it’s not just interfering with our electrical systems through which he likes to make his presence known; our ghost also has a sense of humor which I personally don’t find very amusing. He likes hiding sunglasses, keys and mobile phones - and he especially enjoys doing this when you’re late for work. The punch line being that once you return home the item would be placed neatly back at the same spot where you looked for it that morning.
Perhaps the strangest event took place when friends of ours came to visit with their kids. We had only been living in the house for two weeks but had already removed the majority of the knick knacks scattered around the garden; including flower pots, broken water features and hideous sculptures.
Our friend, her daughter and son ventured into our back garden and later mentioned that they had seen a sculpture of a monkey; the same sculpture that we had removed the week before and was certainly no longer there! After their visit, the little girl told her mother that she didn’t like our house, and the father concurred; later telling us that he ‘sensed’ a spirit in and around our home.
The previous owners popped by our house a week later to bring the last set of keys that we were owed. Knowing that the wife and daughter of our ghost are pretty open-minded I recounted what had been happening in the house. Not exactly sure what their reaction would be, I was flabbergasted by the response. They confirmed that yes, the former man of the house – who had died just over a year and a half ago – was still in our home and, in fact, was sitting right then on our bed in the bedroom.
After briefly hyperventilating (remembering that hubby and I had sex on that very bed where the ghost was sitting), I tried to compose myself. And before I could prevent the words from spewing out of my mouth, I said: “Well then, tell him to leave, God damn it!” They responded calmly that he would leave when he was ready to go. Not at all the answer I was hoping for (I instead wished they’d leave him with a new spiritual address and accompanying taxi fare).
The old man’s favorite spot on the property is a workshop in which he used to build model trains. This, I suspect, was also his hiding place when he wanted peace and quiet to get away from his wife and daughter. When we moved in, this workshop seemed the perfect place for an outside entertainment area. It was promptly demolished and we began to revamp it into a covered Moroccan-style patio. Interestingly, we noticed that this was the one place on the property our cats refused to go near.
As work progressed, the trouble started around the house. First there was a wasp infestation that took weeks to get rid of. Then the one automated garage door refused to work properly and would open by itself whenever it apparently felt like it. The final straw was at our housewarming.
We decided to have the party under the new patio and everything was going well up until around 11:30 pm; our ghost’s bedtime, we were told. He decided that we had partied quite enough and the electricity to the patio area was promptly cut off. Several trips to the main power board inside the house were pointless and the power kept tripping. So we finished off the party by candlelight under the moon. The next morning, in denial about our haunting yet again, I tried to find the electrical fault. And, again, there was none; everything was back to normal and working perfectly.
We’ve now come to accept that we live in a haunted house with an old man that does not like being criticized. I suspect he also disapproves of our lifestyle, friends, pets, taste in furniture and art. Despite this, it doesn’t appear as if he wants to leave. It may seem strange but I’m not scared. It’s kind of comforting knowing I am not alone on the property when “no-one else” is around.
The old man may stay for as long as he wishes - on condition that he doesn’t break anything else, accepts the fact that the queers have well and truly moved in and that, due to the fact that he’s dead, he forfeits any voting rights or opinions regarding future alterations or decor on the property. He should also stay away from our bedroom – or he may get much more than he bargained for.
Till next time.
10/2/10
Voices
By Antony Waller,
Submissions Editor-RBU: The Group Blog
(RBU Join Date: 01/21/2010)
She was lying quite still, a thin linen sheet pulled up to her shoulders exposing her long hair which flowed across the pillow. She was tired and the events of the past few days were running through her mind going over the list of tasks left her by the mistress of the house. It had been a hectic time getting all in order the house being closed and empty for so long. She sighed and tried to drift into the arms of sleep. All was quiet now as the big house rested, waiting for the new day when all the family and guests would arrive for their annual escape from the summer heat, smell and rigours of the city.
She closed her eyes and the voices started. Soft laughter, merry chatter, indistinct conversation, close yet too far away to pick out precise words or understand what was being said. They seemed to come from down the hall again. It was not the first time she had heard voices in recent days but she had dismissed the other occasions as exuberant servants noisily going about their allotted tasks unsupervised, and no one else had heard them. Now, tonight, she was alone in the house and the voices seemed different, getting stronger. She was tired and dismissed it as the wind, breeze whispering through the trees. She did not want to give the matter further thought, not now, she wanted to sleep.
The crash of a bottle, a man’s shouted curse woke her. It seemed to come from that same room in the hall. She sat up and a shiver of fear tickled her spine. A shaft of moonlight shining through the shutters picked out the oil lamp on the stool next to her bed. She lit it and the flame guttered then took hold casting a pale wavy shadow across the room almost making the wall paintings come to life. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and her feet touched the cold floor. She had to go and see who had shouted. She should not be on her own. One of the other servants had gone to the village when the wheel of the cart had broken. He had obviously succumbed to a jug of the local ale and she did not think he would risk the lonely walk back alone in the dark.
“You clumsy oaf, red wine too. That’s the carpet ruined.” A woman’s shrill voice this time.
She walked to the doorway, and peered along the hallway. Nothing, no tell tale flickering lights. Then she saw the stain oozing out from under a door, spreading out over the smooth marble floor, growing larger. Suddenly the noise was louder, much louder and it hurt her ears. Strident voices, harsh laughter, and music completely foreign to her ears. She would get the blame for this. There would be trouble. Anger overcame her fear and she grasped the handle and threw the door open. Dazzled by the sudden brightness of the lights she stared into the room her eyes drawn to a strange window in the corner and reflections of people dressed in bright coloured costumes and dancing in a jerky yet choreographed way she had not seen the like of before. Her feet now felt strangely warm and she noticed too the vibrant scenes of the mosaic floor had disappeared and were now covered in a thick soft wool material.
A voice cried out. “Hey, it’s someone in a Roman toga. Come in, join the party. You needn’t have bothered with the fancy dress though, unless you’ve come for the coins and broken pottery I found the other day!”
10/1/10
A Message From the Founder's Keyboard...
Greetings once again and welcome to Real Bloggers United: The Group Blog.
It’s October and for most of our readers that means…Halloween with all its tricks and treats which is why we at RBU decided that the general theme for October would be “Hauntingly good tales and other things that go bump in the night”. We put out a call to our members to submit their best creepy campfire stories, Poe-esque poems, and ‘wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t seen it’ photos. However, we at RBU realized that some of our members might have no such tales/verses/pics to submit. Likewise we also are cognizant of the fact that there are many people who do not celebrate Halloween for various reasons which is why we also encouraged people to submit prose/poetry/photos about what the month of October means to them.
And as for me October is truly one of my favorite months it always has been. To me October is a month that brings about profound changes regardless of where you may be here on this little beautiful blue marble of ours. For those of us north of the equator the cool, sweeping hand of Mother Nature has touched the once deep emerald colored leaves on the maples, oaks, elms, and all their deciduous kin leaving behind rich, jewel toned colors. And she tucks everything our simple human eyes can see beneath this magnificent counterpane to keep all God’s creatures warm and safe from the biting winds of winter that will soon be upon us so that she can turn her attention to the waking land of the Southern Cross and kiss the ground with all the colors of spring.
Now as far as October goes for our group blog, we didn’t get a bounty of submissions this month BUT that doesn’t mean we didn’t get some GREAT submissions! And I do hope that you’ll drop by tomorrow to read the first of our little gems because I think you’re going to be impressed and maybe even feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and maybe even have a nifty bit of a laugh as you read what we’ve got for you.
Cordially,
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