The Fox Sisters - Part 1

The rappings and strange noises seemed to be completely mysterious in nature. It was especially unnerving to Mrs. Fox, who had moved into the little house in Hydesville, New York with her previously estranged husband and three children only weeks prior – it was the winter of 1848.

The rappings continued, with more frequency. First at night, then, spilling over into the waking hours, from the floor, the walls, the furniture – or anywhere the Fox girls happened to be.

14 year old Margaret and her sister, 11 year old Kate began to engage in a discourse...with the dead.

One night in March, Kate called out “Here Mr. Splitfoot, do as I do,” and knocked a number of times on the floor. Mr. Splitfoot obliged by responding with the same number of raps. It wasn’t long before the Fox’s had devised a method of communication with the “spirits.” And soon, a horrible story was revealed – that of a salesman who was murdered by having his throat cut with a knife then, buried in the cellar of the house.

Neighbors were invited in, people fishing at the nearby creek and all of them heard the same series of questions and answers. Many more came throughout the night, for word spread fast in the little town.

Mrs Fox composed an affidavit recounting the story of the rappings, saying: ” I am not a believer in haunted houses or supernatural appearances. I am very sorry that there has been so much excitement about it. It has been a great deal of trouble to us. It was our misfortune to live here at this time; but I am will and anxious that the truth should be known, and that a true statement be made. I cannot account for these noises; all that I know is that they have been heard repeatedly, as I have stated. I have heard this rapping again this morning, April 4th. My children also hear it.”

Mr. and Mrs Fox were frightened. They and the people who witnessed these rappings and exchanges were all convinced the Fox girls possessed an incredible power – they were also convinced there was a ghost in their house. So, Margaret and Kate were sent to live with their older sister, Leah, a 33 year old single mother who lived in Rochester, New York. Leah had just read The Divine Principles Of Nature – a book wherein the author claimed the dead were in daily contact with the living and predicted that someday the truth would be known to us through a living demonstration. Leah had just found her “living demonstration.”

Under Leah’s management, Margaret and Kate were soon in high demand to conduct séances. Once guests arrived they would seat themselves around a table, recite a prayer, sing a bit then, either Margaret or Kate would fall into a trance.


On November 14th, Rochester’s largest Hall, seating 400, was rented out. The local paper, the Daily Democrat, reported that those in attendance were in the best possible humor, ready to be entertained and watch Fox sisters be exposed for perpetrating a fraud. This was not the case and, in fact, the paper later reported that the “ghost” was indeed there.

There was some who refused to let it go and demanded an investigation. In result, Over the next few nights at the live demonstrations, the girls were subjected to being placed on glass, on pillows, their feet placed in shackles and probed by a subcommittee of ladies to search their bodies for concealed machinery. Of course, nothing even remotely suspicious was ever discovered. On the final night of performances a barrel of hot tar that had been hidden was discovered and removed, the non- believers lit fireworks inside and attempted to storm the stage – the Foxes were taken to safety by the police.

All this publicity ensured that theaters showcasing the Fox sisters were sold out. They began receiving invitations from some of New York’s most illustrious citizens to hold these – “conversations through the veil” for them. The girls were bone fide celebrities – there was even Fox Sisters merchandise! People would wait in line for hours for a chance to see these two young mediums. For a chance to hear something, anything from a loved one who had left them behind.

Venice's House Of Horrors

If I said my bedtime prayers, I'd surely be thanking the Powers That Be for Kim Cooper, curator of all things incredible in Hell A. Listen to Kim tell a horrible tale of two old ladies, their menagerie and the poor, poor orphans on KVB.FM -

http://kvb.fm/podcasts.html


To sate that insatiable appetite for more stories like that, take a ride with Esotouric http://www.esotouric.com/

The Phantom Coach

Thanks to friend, Kathryn Wilson, for sharing this with me.
http://web.me.com/ufojoe/psychickathryn/Kathryn_Wilson.html

LIving Dangerously...With Grandma

Visits with my grandmother, either in person or telephonically, eventually lead to the subject of death. Yours or hers, it doesn't matter, either one will do.

Pretty much since I can remember, she's been planning her own funeral. She even has the music picked out, she wants some Tom Jones song played. She seems to have trouble deciding exactly where she wants to be buried though, and in result, has purchased numerous plots/graves which she keeps offering to me like she's offering a stick of gum or something equally as trivial, "You know, I have these extra graves, do you want one?"

Last week, she added to her funeral playlist. After trying to choke down some coffee made in something that looked like a tin can, (seriously, the stuff at my Grandma's house is ancient). The sewing machine is operated by a pedal, the phone is still rotary, as for the washing machine you have to get buckets of water to fill it up and when you're done you have to feed the clothes through a hand crank ringer to get the excess water out. What about the dryer, you ask? Ha! Just don't... Anyway, during the aforementioned coffee choking, the grave plots subject was faithfully revisited. I declined the offer again. This led to a conversation about her memorial services:

Grandma: Oh! I know what I wanted to tell you. I decided I want this other song played at the funeral now.

Me: You mean you don't want that Tom Jones song anymore?

G: Yes, but now I want this one, too: *sings* There's a place for usssssss…..you know that one?

Me: Oh, yes Grandma, that song was written by my favorite composer.

G: Good. Than you won't go forgetting it.

Me: No, I will be sure they play it Grandma.

G: Oh! Also, I decided I want to get you a limo.

Me: For what?

G: So you can all drive over from the church to the cemetery together! Oh, won't that be nice?!!

Me: *blank stare*

G: Now, I need you to help me count how many people will be riding in the limo.

(we make a count - it will be ten)

Ok, then I will make a reservation for a limo that holds ten. You can have drinks in there. Oh, that will be so nice!

I am sure you'll have a lot of fun all together in that limo!

(long pause)

Damn! I'm going to miss it!

Of course, to her, the Grim Reaper is waiting around every corner. This is a woman who travelled to Paris for New Years Eve, stayed ten days and only left her room once, as she was terrified of getting sick. After all, The Cold is totally her nemesis and can be found lurking anywhere.

Grandma: Oh, I feel so bad today!

Me : Why? What's wrong Grandma?

Grandma: My throat hurts. Can't you hear it? (followed by some agony appropriate sounds)

Me : Aww, I'm really sorry

Grandma: Well, you know what it was? Yesterday, I was at a mixer and I was sitting next to a man who had ice in his drink and the cold from the ice jumped out of his glass and into my throat and now I'm sick!

You know how Carrie could move things with her mind and Mr. Blackwood can turn off street lights? Well, my grandma causes accidents. Not on the road, thank goodness...although, driving in a car with my grandmother is pure entertainment. Everyone and everything makes her angry.

We stop at a stoplight and someone is walking across the crosswalk, the WALK sign is illuminated.
"Hurry up stupid! You walk too slow! What's the matter with them? Get out of my way!"

This basic sentence formula is repeated with different pronouns and verbs at just about every juncture of the journey.

An example of her superpower is evident during this recent shopping trip to the market, (in the worst part of East LA, right by where The Night Stalker was caught), to get tuna, which she insists on buying me because it's fifty cents a can. I saw a man accidentally ram his shopping cart into a ten foot high display of tortilla chips, causing the entire thing to tumble to the ground. He actually started laughing and then slunk away. In line, two distracted mothers pushing babies in strollers crashed the strollers into one another and one of the babies fell out. There was a man on the top of a ladder, (maybe fifteen feet high), who almost fell off. Also, ghetto groceries are totally cheap. I got a big bag of Doritos for $1.88!

Anyone who eats at her house is knowingly flirting with death. Mr. Blackwood asked for catsup. After digging around in her fridge for awhile, she handed me a bottle of the stuff that expired in 2006. There's a can of guacamole in there from pre-millenium times, some Coors under the bed from the '80's. We ate the tacos she made yesterday...I guess its time to ask for one of those grave plots.

The Spook House

About five years ago Mr. Blackwood and I sublet a little studio in a San Diego neighborhood so we could prep for Comic Con that year. I was delighted by our little section of the neighborhood which had row after row of lovely examples of Victorian-esque architecture. However, none were more compelling than the curious house on the corner.

It was another year before we learned the story behind what locals call "The Spook House."

Built in 1887 for Jesse Shepard, who described himself as "...a world famous, mystic, seer, inspirational musician, and authority on prophecies, visions and cosmic consciousness." Shepard supposedly had no musical training and could not read music. Yet, he was considered a master of improvisation and could reportedly , "...play any opera selected by the audience without music."

After traveling to Russia in the 1870's and becoming interested in spiritualism, he claimed to have been a silent co-founder of the Theosophical Society with Madame Blavatsky. It was then that he began his initial instructions in holding seances.

When Shepard took up residence in the house, named Villa Montezuma, he held fantastical seance performances in the house, summoning great composers like Chopin and Mozart and commanded them to play through him. He would then amaze the audience further by playing pieces and having other invisible, ghostly musicians play along, or to sing with a voice that sounded like an entire choir. Of course, the house has built into it all the tricks a performance medium of the era could want, complete with secret rooms and panels for the "ghostly" musicians to hide in.

These are rumors that San Diego's high society shunned Shepard, causing him to relocate to Europe and focus on his literary carer under the name Francis Grierson. He returned to San Diego in 1889 and arranged to play a final performance in The Villa Montezuma.Appropriately, Shepard's long-time companion and confidante, Lawrence Tonner, described this occasion.

It was Sunday evening... We had a number of people invited for a musical recital at our home — about thirty. A collection was to be taken up. Mr. Grierson had played a number of his marvelous instantaneous compositions on the piano and had given the company a talk on his experiences and impressions of France and Italy.

He turned to the instrument and announced that the next and last piece of the evening would be an Oriental improvisation, Egyptian in character.

The piece was long, and when it seemed to be finished he sat perfectly still as if resting after the ordeal of this tremendous composition. He often did that, but it lasted too long and I went up to him — he was gone!

His head was only slightly bent forward, as usual in playing, and his hands rested on the keys of the last chord he had touched.

There had not been the slightest warning. He had seemed in usual health...and he had been smiling and laughing with the company even a few moments before he passed away.

Jesse Shepard was dead at 79.

People now say a curse is laid upon the house and it's owners. It is no wonder after delving into the Villa Montezuma's history following the death of Shepard and beginning with his sale of the house to what would be the next owner, David Dare. Soon after purchasing the house, he was forced to flee town. His business partner apparently had committed suicide before he left town and Dare was accused of looting the firm. Dare sells the house for $30,000 to H. P. Palmerston who was unable to make the payments on it, and the house was foreclosed upon in 1893 and auctioned off for $18,000. The house then goes to Dr. George Calmus for the sum of $10,000. He goes bankrupt, and leaves town, deserting his wife and leaving her with two unpaid mortgages on the house.

Later, Villa Montezuma is taken full advantage of again by a Mrs. George Montgomery, who holds seances in the house. Then, incredibly, in the late 1940's a treasure seeker purchases the house, convinced there is buried treasure to be found within it's walls.

The last resident of the house is a married couple. He, an engineer and she, a retired silent film actress. The husband dies and the house falls into disrepair. His wife, so distraught by his death, begins standing on the street outside the house asking passers by where her husband is. She is even rumored to have occasionally carried a gun, threatening people in her attempts to find out where her husband is.

Of course, other odd tales are attached to the house. An unexplained fire burned the second floor in the mid 1980's. Passerby report hearing orchestral music at night, the ghost of a man who hung himself in a tower can be seen from outside, much to the wonderment of past gardeners nothing will grow on a certain portion of land near a corner of the house, and a six toed cat named Psyche has lived on the grounds for far longer than any regular cat's life span.

The house still stands, but sadly, the public is not allowed inside...for now. At the end of last year a good deal of money was allotted for renovations on the Villa Montezuma. Hopefully, the doors of this unusual house will reopen in the next few years.

http://www.villamontezuma.org/

Haunted Homework - Part II

I got to Chris' house around seven. We needed to drive out to an area in the Mojave Desert, a two and a half hour drive away, to handle an investigation invloving a mother and her kids that were being plagued by...well, something.

After begging Chris for Starbucks and asking if we could please get dinner, we started our road trip.

Fast forward to approximately 9:30 P.M. We're driving down a highway in the middle of the dessert and theres nothing around save for kamikazie dessert bunnies. We've been having a rather involved conversation when I notice Chris grip the steering wheel firmly and apply pressure to the brakes. He starts to loose control of the car a little and I wonder why he's trying to stop. My eyes search the ground, seeking out the aforementioned bunnies for some suspicious Night Of The Lepus action, but see none. A flash of movement and white, pulls my gaze upwards and I see a man, early twenties, wearing a white tank, jeans with a chain dangling off them. His head is shaven and his left arm adorned with tattoos. When I see his face I forget all of that and can just focus on the face. He looks utterly mad. So mad he makes the Hatter look sane.

He's running full speed at us, like a train. Chris, thankfully, gets the car to a full stop approximately five seconds before the guy hits the front of the Beetle, wheels around to pass the driver's side and continues racing head on into the path of the next oncoming car.

HolyF***ingS***

I call 911. Let me just say thank goodness no one was dying or about to be serial killed because it took them forever to answer. Then, the dispatcher was a moron.

Me: ...yeah a man, running down the center of the highway into oncoming traffic.

Dispatcher: Uh, huh...and what sort of vehicle was he driving?

Me: No, he wasn't driving he was running down the center of the one lane here on HWY 14 into oncoming traffic.

Dispatcher: Uh huh, and he was running along the shoulder of the road there?

Me: *eyeroll of desperation and facepalm* Nooooooo...I said HE WAS RUNNING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC.

Chris: *giggle*

Dispatcher: Uh huh...and what kind of vehicle was he driving again?

Miss Blackwood's Neighborhood Tales

Everything has a story. Of this I am quite certain. Los Angeles' neighborhoods have some of the best. By "best" I mean grim and macabre and disquieting.

A couple years ago, when I lived on the West side of town, I set out to find to some of the stories that could be had along my everyday routes to work or to the store.

Los Angeles has the best stories.

Driving Miss Josephine

In Playa Del Rey, there is a small lagoon near a park where people play soccer, couples fight, tweens pledge undying love and children celebrate the passing of their birthdays. Over one hundred years ago, a grand pavilion and a hotel resort stood here, enticing tourists and the more financially endowed. They dined, they danced, they raced their boats.

By 1917, the hotel was nothing more than a brothel. The city, hoping to clean up this messy situation, handed the property over to a Mary E. Jacobs, who, along with another woman, opened the Hope Development School for "retarded" children. The school was home to some forty girls, ranging in age from four to twenty three years old.

Mrs. Jacobs started locking the girls in at night, barring the windows and the doors to the outside world, because the outside world, in the guise of men, repeatedly broke in and violated the girls.

On June 1st, 1924, fourteen year old Josephine Bertholme really wanted to go for a car ride. The girl's requests were denied...but Josepine really wanted that ride. She decided to start a small fire in the basement of the building with some oily rags, figuring that would at least get them outside.

It was about 9 O'clock at night. Most, if not all of the girls were asleep in their beds. Locked in.

Twenty three girls died, eighteen others hospitalized. They say the only thing left by the time help arrived from Venice, (the nearest town), was a brick chimney and some twisted iron bars.

A newspaper article from the Nevada Steve Journal, Reno edition ran a story. The title reads;

23 GIRLS DEAD, MANY INJURED AS BLAZE SWEEPS INSTITUTION.

TRAPPED INMATES HELPLESS, DIE IN HOME HOLOCAUST.

Witness Walter Curtis gives us a " graphic word picture" of the tragedy.

According to witnesses to blaze, the children were trapped by barred doors and locked windows and many of the inmates made their escape by jumping from the second story of the three-story building after the windows had been broken.
Other children were thrown bodily from the windows by the rescuers.
A graphic word picture of rescue work was given by WALTER CURTIS, Los Angeles, who with members of his family were on the beach 200 yards from the building when the fire broke out.
His story follows:
"The first I knew about it was when I heard a man at an oil station blowing a small police whistle. I looked up and saw a big crowd around the building. I ran toward the building and toward a big heavy door on the first floor. It was closed and locked. Together with another man I threw my weight against it. We couldn't budge it. Then we tried some windows. They were locked. We couldn't get any of them open. I broke in the first window I came to. I looked in the room but could see nothing. I ran to another window and broke it in. There was nothing there. I broke in several other windows the same way. There was not a sound of any one in the building."
"I called out but received no reply. I broke into another window where I heard children screaming at the far end of the hall. I climbed through the window by my hands and knees into a dense cloud of smoke. It was dark and I couldn't see a thing. I stumbled over a child. I grabbed her by the leg and carried her to the window where someone took her and I went back for others."
"I could hear them screaming frightfully now. They seemed dazed and apparently didn't know what they were doing. They seemed to be fighting among themselves."

***

Poor, dear girls.

Come June 1st 2010, you can find me, digital voice recorder in hand, at the edge of the lagoon.

Home Is Where I Want To Be...But I Guess I'm Already There

A few places I have lived and the stories they hold.

Echo Park

My father lived in an apartment here for awhile. I remember my father's girlfriend lighting the gas oven in this little apartment. I remember the oven exploding. In her face. There is something else that happened, (but that is a long story and one of Hollywood's dirtiest).

There was a large hill at the end of the street and at the foot of the hill, a stairway. The hill was barren and open and you could see the top of it from a living room window of the little apartment. Some nights, if you looked out the window, in the darkness of the hill, you could see a large bonfire and people cavorting around it, many of them without clothing. I longed to climb the stairs of the hill on those nights for the witches would welcome me, I knew. I might even get invited to some other realm if I behaved well enough. My father agreed but did not permit me to find out. *sigh*

Atwater Village/Los Feliz

There is no one home to play with today and I do not care to play indoors so I strap on my skates and traverse back and forth along the horse shoe of the cul de sac my house is in, over and over again. The houses on this side of the horse shoe overlook the LA River. Some sound and a vibration catch my attention. I lift my face skyward to see a small airplane plummeting, rapidly, it's nose faces down and it is spiraling, a tail of smoke following behind, all of it so close, not only am I filled with fear but I wonder, momentarily, if I can touch it. When it hits the earth the ground moved, hard, under the wheels of my skates and I fall to the sidewalk. It lands about 150 feet from where I have fallen. The only casualty is the plane itself.

Green Valley (a suburb of Las Vegas)

It's Vegas. Of course, I have many stories. This one vies for the creepiest. I live in an apartment complex on the second floor. Vegas is a transient town. A new phone book is issued every three months to keep up with the influx of new residents. My apartment building is no different. Two girls have moved into the apartment that is on the other side of my bedroom walls. They have been there for a few months now and are quiet. Of everyone I talk to, no one has seen them more than once, if at all. Their downstairs neighbor, announces one day that the girls came down to see her. They will be leaving for the long weekend, could the neighbors keep an eye out, as there have been plenty of attempted break ins.

I don't know what time it is, but it's night. Bedtime. After having been asleep for perhaps, three hours I awake to sounds of animals. Chickens, maybe dogs or cats too…something that growls, that is for certain, and there are more than one of them. They are also angry…really angry. The noises emanate from just behind my bedroom wall and I know what's on the other side…the girl's apartment. This can't possibly be what I am hearing. I don't strain to listen but I do strain to comprehend. I can hear occasional thuds against the wall, followed by howls or odd guttural noises.. The action, the sounds, they grow and intensify until…I know it's insane but it sounds like they are literally tearing one another to pieces in there. I open my window and look to my immediate left where I can get a limited view of their windows. There are no lights on. The sounds stop. They don't die out, they just end. I go back to bed wondering what the heck happened and am soon asleep again.

By the end of the week the girls have moved out. The apartments have a small crew of three guys who handle maintenance. One of them is Alan, an older man probably in his late fifties. I visit him sometimes in the maintenance office. He's funny and tells good stories. He teaches me how to make locks and sneaks cookie dough out of the freezer for me on summer days. I do not think he can read. I miss him. Alan informs me that the girls left, giving no notice or word. He opened the apartment earlier today. The walls in the room that share a wall with my bedroom wall has odd things painted on it, in black. Shapes and symbols he says. There is red stuff on the walls and the carpet. "Looks like blood," he laughs. There were feathers around too.

Once the place is fixed up, new people move in. They have lived there for a few months by now. I am sitting across the way, on the lawn in front of my friend Jan's apartment with some other friends. Me being, well, me , I see one of the guys coming down the stairs of the apartment and call out to him , "Hey! Does anything weird ever happen in your apartment?!!" He is surprised at the odd lawn girl, yelling at him with familiarity and no doubt finds the question especially interesting. He approaches me/us and asks…"Why?" I reply by asking him again, "Does anything weird ever happen in your apartment?" He tells me yes. Things disappear only to reappear in places they are not meant to be. He sometimes comes home to find things broken or cracked when it is seemingly impossible. He has wondered if the apartment is haunted.

I tell him a story.

The Vile Vial

No ghosts here, but macabre in it's own right.

My father had this girlfriend named Kathy for about thirteen years. Suffice it to say, she's a whole story herself. Kathy moved in with my father when I was about seven and stayed around until I was eighteen. For a few years she was Bob Hope's assistant and I spent a large porton of my afterschool hours at his home in Toluca Lake.

There was a smaller "front" house, with the main house in back. This front was comprised of an office for Kathy, her two assistants and a room for the security guards. There was also Mr.Hope's main office and a huge, walk in vault, the kind you see in movies. There were only two things in the vault; Mr.Hope's entire collection of jokes, all filed away by type of joke and writer. The other thing in the vault was a dusty, unimpressive, little tray. On the tray were some sort of shot glasses and a vial of amber colored liquid.

Mr.Hope's office was usually locked but I had been in many times. If I was there, Mr.Hope let me play gopher girl and run things back and forth between him and the secretaries or up to the main house. He was always very kind and funny, of course, and he was especially fond of my red shoes. The office was massive. You had to walk through some sort of alcove first, which led into the main, large room. All the walls, even those of the alcove, were covered with large glass showcases with lighting and shelves, full of his various mementos.

As time went on, Kathy and the two secretaries began to wonder about the little tray with the vial and glasses. If it was valuable enough to keep in the vault, they wondered, why wasn't it put away or displayed in one of the showcases in his office? As does so often happen with curiosities, the wondering began to eat away at them little by little until they became quite fixated on it. As this fixation reached it's climax one day and whilst the security guys were distracted by their lunch, the three decided to each take up one of those dusty glasses, fill it with the amber liquid and drink it. This action somehow sated them for awhile, and for the next few months the little set was forgotten.

These some months later, I believe Mrs.Hope came to the office and entered the vault. She came out carrying the little tray and it's contents. While the three women looked at her she stopped to explain to them that she hated these things and how upset she was with Mr.Hope for having them in the first place. No one should even have to be near them, so she was taking it away. Just before she turned to exit she said, "This was Adolf Hitler's, you know."

Ghost Story

Just a good, old fashioned "ghost" story this time.

It was told to me at my initial interview with a PI team at that American culinary icon, Denny's, by a team member who was a historian and a card carrying member of the skeptics society.

Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

John and Malcolm were young boys, about eleven or twelve, and had been best friends for years in this small, quiet town. They were outside playing one summer night, around the hour of midnight. No, I do not know why such young boys were out playing at midnight. As you can imagine, in such a small town, at such a late hour the surrounding air was silent, save for the boys hushed voices. The silence was broken by a loud crack , which startled them. (a wizard apparating, perhaps?) The crack was described as being very loud and faithfully copied that of a bat hitting a baseball, when it is hit perfectly square and with due force, usually resulting in a home run. The sound repeated, again and again. The boys rose to investigate.

As they followed the sound they passed an eighty year old neighbor gentleman's house. He was standing on his porch looking toward the area that the noise was emanating from. "What is that, do you think?" he asked the boys. They said they didn't know but were on their way to find out.

They arrived at the back of an abandoned catholic school. There was a large, open field, the grass overgrown so much it reached an adult man's knees. There were two trees in the field and standing next to one of them was a man. He was so thin it looked as though pale skin had been draped over bones and nothing more. He wore dark, ragged pants and a white tank top, you know, the ones they used to call "wife beaters?" He was bald on the top of his head, but had long, straggly hair that brushed his shoulders. He was filthy as well. John said you could even see the grime around his fingernails. The tall grass around him was pushed down, as it is when someone treads upon such things. The man was also holding an axe, which he rose to heave into the tree.

The boys started at the man, silent, then looked at one another with that "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?," silent shock hovering between them. They continued to watch the man swing the axe, making an effort to cut down the tree. His aim was terrible as the axe rarely hit the same place twice. It was bright enough outside that they could see where the bark of the tree had been cut away, the lighter, inside of the trunk showing though.

After standing there, watching the man for an undetermined time, he finally lowered the axe and looked straight at them and smiled. It was not a friendly smile said John, it was downright creepy . Malcolm turned and ran and John, like a sheep, ran after him.

The next morning, first thing, the boys returned to the tree. The grass that had been flattened was standing straight up and the tree itself bore no marks whatsoever. The ground was examined, the tree as well, the boys running their hands over the trunk, revealing nothing.

The Confessional

Being invited into a stranger's home is a fascinating and often disturbing experience. It forces you into a place of intimacy with people you don't know. Some clients love to use investigators as a dumping ground for all manner of information we'd rather not know, like this guy on a follow up investigation we did at his family's residence.

As we are getting ready to breakdown and pack up our equipment for the night, Charles, the homeowner, came up to Matthew and I and said, about the "ghosts;"

"You know, sex stuff gets them all riled up! When we're taking sex photos, I get tons of orbs! You should see this one I got, it's right between Melinda's (his wife) ...."

Matthew, mercifully, interrupted him. Thank DOG and bless my victorian sensiblities.

The Black Eyed Kids

This story evokes a sort of unexplainable, primal fear in me. Its been around for some years now, but no one I've spoken to seems familiar with it.

A best friend of mine for many years now, Gabriel, was friends with Brian Bethel, who I had spoken to on a number of occasions. I remember him well as a stickler for facts and honesty, always using his words in a very deliberate manner. In result, this story of Brian's holds even more weight. His original telling was posted, by him, on an old newsgroup. It now, no longer exists. You can find retellings of it, but nothing compares to "hearing" it from Brian. Sure there could be plenty of explanations for it but...if I were you I'd watch out for the BEKs.

I don't really know what I'd call this story if I was submitting it
for publication in Fate or something of its ilk. "Brian vs. the Evil,
Black-eyed, Possibly Vampiric or Demonic But At Least Not Bloody
Normal Kids" doesn't have much of a ring to it. (Shrug.) :)

But that's at least an accurate title.

As so many things do, it all started out innocently.

My Internet Service Provider used to have offices in a shopping center
before they moved to their (comparatively) lush accommodations
elsewhere. There was a drop box at that original location. The monthly
bill was due, and thus, there but for the Grace of the Net I went.

It was about 9:30 p.m. when I left. From my relatively isolated
apartments, it's about 10-15 minutes or so to downtown (Abilene has a
population of about 110,000).

Right next to Camalott Communications' old location is a $1.50 movie
theater. At the time, the place was featuring that masterwork of
modern film, Mortal Kombat. I drove by the theater on the way into the
center proper and pulled into an empty parking space.

Using the glow of the marquee to write out my check, I was startled to
hear a knock on the driver's-side window of my car.

I looked over and saw two children staring at me from street. I need
to describe them, with the one feature (you can guess what it was)
that I didn't realize until about half-way through the conversation
cleverly omitted.

Both appeared to be in that semi-mystical stage of life children get
into where you can't exactly tell their age. Both were boys, and my
initial impression is that they were somewhere between 10-14.

Boy No. 1 was the spokesman. Boy No. 2 didn't speak during the entire
conversation -- at least not in words.

Boy No. 1 was slightly taller than his companion, wearing a pull-over,
hooded shirt with a sort of gray checked pattern and jeans. I couldn't
see his shoes. His skin was olive-colored and had curly, medium-length
brown hair. He exuded an air of quiet confidence.

Boy No. 2 had pale skin with a trace of freckles. His primary
characteristic seemed to be looking around nervously. He was dressed
in a similar manner to his companion, but his pull-over was a light
green color. His hair was a sort of pale orange.

They didn't appear to be related, at least directly.

"Oh, great," I thought. "They're gonna hit me up for money." And then
the air changed.

Right before I experience something strange, there's a change in
perception that comes about which I describe in the above manner. It's
basically enough time to know it's too late. ;)

So, there I was, filling out a check in my car (which was still
running) and in a sudden panic over the appearance of two little boys.
I was confused, but an overwhelming sense of fear and unearthliness
rushed in nonetheless.

The spokesman smiled, and the sight for some inexplicable reason
chilled my blood. I could feel fight-or-flight responses kicking in.
Something, I knew instinctually, was not right, but I didn't know what
it could possibly be.

I rolled down the window very, very slightly and asked "Yes?"

The spokesman smiled again, broader this time. His teeth were very, very white.

"Hey, mister, what's up? We have a problem," he said. His voice was
that of a young man, but his diction, quiet calm and ... something I
still couldn't put my finger on ... made my desire to flee even
greater. "You see, my friend and I want to see the films, but we
forgot our money," he continued. "We need to go to our house to get
it. Want to help us out?"

Okay. Journalists are required to talk to lots of people, and that
includes children. I've seen and spoken to lots of them. Here's how
that usually goes:

"Uh ... M ... M ... Mister? Can I see that camera? I ... I won't break
it or anything. I promise. My dad has a camera, and he lets me hold it
sometimes, I guess, and I took a picture of my dog -- it wasn's very
good, 'cause I got my finger in the way and ..."

Add in some feet shuffling and/or body swaying and you've got a
typical kid talking to a stranger.

In short, they're usually apologetic. People generally teach children
that when they talk to adults, they're usually bothering them for one
reason or another and they should at least be polite.

This kid was in no way fitting the mold. His command of language was
incredible and he showed no signs of fear. He spoke as if my help was
a foregone conclusion. When he grinned, it was as if he was trying to
say, "I know something ... and you're NOT gonna like it. But the only
way you're going to find out what it is will be to do what I say ..."

"Uh, well ..." was the best reply I could offer.

Now here's where it starts to get strange.

The quiet companion looked at the spokesman with a mixture of
confusion and guilt on his face. He seemed in some ways shocked, not
with his friend's brusque manner but that I didn't just immediately
open the door.

He eyed me nervously.

The spokesman seemed a bit perturbed, too. I still was registering
something wrong with both.

"C'mon, mister," the spokesman said again, smooth as silk. Car
salesmen could learn something from this kid. "Now, we just want to go
to our house. And we're just two little boys."

That really scared me. Something in the tone and diction again sent
off alarm bells. My mind was frantically trying to process what it was
perceiving about the two figures that was "wrong."

"Eh. Um ...." was all I could manage. I felt myself digging my
fingernails into the steering wheel.

"What movie were you going to see?" I asked finally.

"Mortal Kombat, of course," the spokesman said. The silent one nodded
in affirmation, standing a few paces behind.

"Oh," I said. I stole a quick glance at the marquee and at the clock
in my car. Mortal Kombat had been playing for an hour, the last
showing of the evening.

The silent one looked increasingly nervous. I think he saw my glances
and suspected that I might be detecting something was not above-board.

"C'mon, mister. Let us in. We can't get in your car until you do, you
know," the spokesman said soothingly. "Just let us in, and we'll be
gone before you know it. We'll go to our mother's house."

We locked eyes.

To my horror, I realized my hand had strayed toward the door lock
(which was engaged) and was in the process of opening it. I pulled it
away, probably a bit too violently. But it did force me to look away
from the children.

I turned back. "Er ... Um ...," I offered weakly and then my mind
snapped into sharp focus.

For the first time, I noticed their eyes.

They were coal black. No pupil. No iris. Just two staring orbs
reflecting the red and white light of the marquee.

At that point, I know my expression betrayed me. The silent one had a
look of horror on his face in a combination that seemed to indicate:
A) The impossible had just happened and B) "We've been found out!"

The spokesman, on the other hand, wore a mask of anger. His eyes
glittered brightly in the half-light.

"Cmon, mister," he said. "We won't hurt you. You have to LET US IN. We
don't have a gun ..."

That last statement scared the living hell out of me, because at that
point by his tone he was plainly saying, "We don't NEED a gun."

He noticed my hand shooting down toward the gear shift. The
spokesman's final words contained an anger that was complete and
whole, and yet contained in some respects a tone of panic:

"WE CAN'T COME IN UNLESS YOU TELL US IT'S OKAY. LET ... US .... IN!"

I ripped the car into reverse (thank goodness no one was coming up
behind me) and tore out of the parking lot. I noticed the boys in my
peripheral vision, and I stole a quick glance back.

They were gone. The sidewalk by the theater was deserted.

I drove home in a heightened state of panic. Had anyone attempted to
stop me, I would have run on through and faced the consequences later.

I bolted into my house, scanning all around -- including the sky.

What did I see? Maybe nothing more than some kids looking for a ride.

And some really funky contacts. Yeah, right.

A friend suggested they were vampires, what with the old "let us in"
bit and my compelled response to open the door. That and the "we'll go
see our mother" thing.

I'm still not sure what they were, but here's an epilogue I find chilling:

I talk about Chad a lot. He's still my best friend, my best
ghost-hunting companion and an all-around cool guy. He recently moved
to Amarillo, but at the time this happened was still living in San
Angelo of Ram Page fame.

I called him and talked to him briefly. He had two female friends with
him at the time, both professing some type of psychic ability.

I started telling him the story, leaving out the part about the black
eyes for the kicker. One of the women (we were on a speakerphone)
stopped me.

"These children had black eyes, right?" she asked. "I mean, all-black eyes?"

"Er ... Yes." I said. I was a bit taken aback.

"Hmmm," she said. "One night last week, I had a dream about children
with black eyes. They were outside my house, wanting to be let in, but
there was something wrong with them. It took me a while to realize it
was the eyes."

I hadn't even gotten as far as them wanting to come in.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I kept the doors and windows locked," she said. "I knew if they came
in, they would kill me."

She paused.

"And they would have killed you, too, if you had let them into your car."

So, from this extra-long post, we have three unanswered questions:

A) What did I see?

B) What would have happened if I opened my car door?

C) Why does Chad always get the cool psychic chicks? ;)

Tell Me Something Strange

Thanks to my dear friend Tess, who finally motivated me to tell this creepy tale.

There was a period of about a year, when I worked at a restaurant. I used to eat my lunch with two women who worked doing some sort of accounting related stuff. I didnt care for their company but it would have been impolite to sit alone when I was always invited to eat with them. Soon after I started work, one of the women, Laura, began recounting to us odd things about the house she had just recently moved into.

Laura was in her late thirties or early forties. She was married and had a four year old daughter. From the first day of sleeping in the house, the daughter, who had her own room, kept telling her mother about The Indian. She said The Indian kept coming to play with her, and to show her things. Laura was puzzled and asked her daughter how she knew her new friend was an Indian. The daughter said it was because he had paint all over his face.

Laura and her husband had made friends with a homeless man the previous year. When they ran into him around town they would invite him for dinner and to spend the night at their house. This day, Laura saw the man while coming out of the market and offered to take him home with her, to the new house, and he could sleep over. He agreed. They had dinner and Laura made a bed for him on their couch. The following morning when the family awoke the man was nowhere to be found, no note, no nothing. This was highly unlike him and it unnerved Laura and her husband greatly.

A month or so went by. They spoke of wine and shoes and tv sitcoms and I ate my lunch and smiled and nodded in the appropriate places.


Sometime after that month passed into memory, Laura told us she had finally run into the homeless man. She inquired as to why he left that night and expressed their concern and alarm. The man told the following story:

He wasnt able to sleep well that night. It was an unfamiliar place and he kept having feelings of anxiety. While sitting, up on the couch, which was located just underneath a large picture window in the living room. The window had curtains on it, the kind that have the two panels that meet in the middle. They were a little small, and didnt actually meet in the middle though. He saw something move just between the space of the curtains. He parted them a bit more, and looked out, seeing nothing. Just as he was backing away from looking, a face appeared in the window. He recoiled in horror upon seeing it and described it as having the sort of face paint on that a clown would have, however, the face was filthy and looked, literally, part rotted. The colors werent as bright or tangible looking as a normal, real person's would have been, he remarked. The man said the owner of the face seemed to look at him, no eyes were sharply visible, then it vanished. The main waited for morning to come, then hastily left the house. He told Laura he would never go near the house again.

Meanwhile, the daughter kept talking about The Indian.

One day, before dinner, Laura had been out in the garden, and came in through the sliding glass door that was the entry/exit into the garden from the living room. Her daughter was outside playing on a tire swing in the yard. She left the door open all the way, as she was going to be returning momentarily and, wanted to be able to hear the daughter. When she returned to go though the door, perhaps two minutes later, not only had the glass door been shut completely, but it was locked and could only be done so from the interior of the house. She tried again and again to open it, to no avail. She left the door to find an object in the kitchen to try to pry the lock open with and, when she returned, the door was unlocked.

Almost one year later, from my first hearing of these accounts, which no one had really strung together as related, save for me which I kept to myself, Laura didnt come to work. At the end of the week I found out why. The family had been sleeping at night already for a few hours. Laura and her husband in their room and the daughter in hers. Laura awoke first, to the smell of smoke, her husband next. They both claimed something was forcibly holding them down, and neither of them could create any audible noise vocally. Firefighters finally axed down the door and pulled the family out. The fire started in the garage. The investigators never found a cause.

So, your turn...tell me something strange. I promise to sit quietly and not to fidget.