Grave Dancer

It was dark in the chapel, a new moon shed no light in the old abandoned building He sat on a pew moved under a window he watched and waited. Tonight he was prepared with camera, recorder, extra batteries, and a thermos of hot coffee to combat the chill of the night.

His hands wrapped around the tin cup absorbing the heat as he took a long sip. It was almost time, almost. He was afraid they wouldn’t come, he wouldn’t see her again. That it had been all a figment of his drunken mind.

Every night since that first one he had waited to see her again. He glanced back out the window he saw a glow fill the ancient graveyard. 

The glow was a soft bluish green like the ocean. The air felt damp heavy as he tossed aside the half full cup to get up on his knees for a better view out the broken window. His camera was in hand as he searched the worn headstones for her. 

The earth below a few of the stones shifted as a mist formed above them, taking shape. Arms stretched toward the sky as feet touched the ground. The figures yawned and moved as if waking from slumber.

He watched from his perch in the window holding up his camera to get the proof he wasn’t mad. They were real. The women there were like wisps of wind, ethereal. He could see them clearly in their ivory burial gowns, their skin fair as fine porcelain. But there was a touch of dream about them as they moved. Shifts in the misty glow would show them transparent.

His interest focused on one as she turned her skirt swirling the brittle leaves over her grave. She seemed to dance to some silent tune, perhaps only her kind could hear. Suddenly she stopped and walked back to her tombstone.

A cream colored rose lay on the aged marble. A soft smile of wonder slowly spread across  her pinked lips. She touched the petals gently as if it would fade away. When it didn’t she picked it up and brushed her cheek against the silken petals before she inhaled the sweet scent. 

  

A few of the other spirits began to gather to see the flower. Some searched their own stones. She smiled and held it out for them to sniff and touch lightly it had been so very long since anything but decay grew here.

The wind blew leaves around them, though their delicate forms. One jealous spiteful spirit marched over. Around her, the mist seemed darker, and aura of her cruel days in flesh perhaps.

Her hand closed over the petals and crushed the flower leaving only the stem in the sweet spirits hands.

The others began to walk away to play on their night of freedom.  The dark soul raised her chin and moved as far from them as her existence would allow. 

He watched wanting in that moment to run out and tell her not to be sad. The expression of loss on her sweet face was almost too much for his own heart to bare. How was he to know something as simple as a rose would cause so much.

Out the window, he saw her chest rise and fall in a ghostly sigh. The spirit knelt on the dead grass and picked up every petal, caressing it lightly in her hand. When they were all gathered she sat on a cracked marble bench and marveled.

She could still smell the sweet fragrance; the petals were still soft like her favorite velvet gown. She held them to her face and smiled. A petal escaped, slipped through her fingers to float into her lap.

She stood and watched it float gently to the worn earth. Suddenly she raised her hands and spun around tossing the petals in the air. As they fell around her catching on her hair and dress she danced in them.

When they had all fallen she gathered them to dance again in the glow of the mist. Her gown flowed around her, arms gracefully moved through the air, her dark hair flowed free around her shoulders lifting as she turned.

There was no sound but a soft rustle of leaves but he could imagine her joyous laughter. Something made her pause and look up. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. She gathered up her petals and carried them lovingly back to her grave.

She held her hands over it then slowly turned her palms letting petals fall like soft rain over her stone. With a gentle smile, she yawned and stretched as the mist appeared to grow thicker. Soon the others were in their places as well the mist began to fade until a glimpse of the sun could be spotted over the trees.

There was no more dancing the only evidence of the night being the cream-colored rose petals strewn over the darkened marble stone.

Grave Dancer

It was dark in the chapel, a new moon shed no light in the old abandoned building He sat on a pew moved under a window he watched and waited. Tonight he was prepared with camera, recorder, extra batteries, and a thermos of hot coffee to combat the chill of the night.

His hands wrapped around the tin cup absorbing the heat as he took a long sip. It was almost time, almost. He was afraid they wouldn’t come, he wouldn’t see her again. That it had been all a figment of his drunken mind.

Every night since that first one he had waited to see her again. He glanced back out the window he saw a glow fill the ancient graveyard. 

The glow was a soft bluish green like the ocean. The air felt damp heavy as he tossed aside the half full cup to get up on his knees for a better view out the broken window. His camera was in hand as he searched the worn headstones for her. 

The earth below a few of the stones shifted as a mist formed above them, taking shape. Arms stretched toward the sky as feet touched the ground. The figures yawned and moved as if waking from slumber.

He watched from his perch in the window holding up his camera to get the proof he wasn’t mad. They were real. The women there were like wisps of wind, ethereal. He could see them clearly in their ivory burial gowns, their skin fair as fine porcelain. But there was a touch of dream about them as they moved. Shifts in the misty glow would show them transparent.

His interest focused on one as she turned her skirt swirling the brittle leaves over her grave. She seemed to dance to some silent tune, perhaps only her kind could hear. Suddenly she stopped and walked back to her tombstone.

A cream colored rose lay on the aged marble. A soft smile of wonder slowly spread across  her pinked lips. She touched the petals gently as if it would fade away. When it didn’t she picked it up and brushed her cheek against the silken petals before she inhaled the sweet scent. 

  

A few of the other spirits began to gather to see the flower. Some searched their own stones. She smiled and held it out for them to sniff and touch lightly it had been so very long since anything but decay grew here.

The wind blew leaves around them, though their delicate forms. One jealous spiteful spirit marched over. Around her, the mist seemed darker, and aura of her cruel days in flesh perhaps.

Her hand closed over the petals and crushed the flower leaving only the stem in the sweet spirits hands.

The others began to walk away to play on their night of freedom.  The dark soul raised her chin and moved as far from them as her existence would allow. 

He watched wanting in that moment to run out and tell her not to be sad. The expression of loss on her sweet face was almost too much for his own heart to bare. How was he to know something as simple as a rose would cause so much.

Out the window, he saw her chest rise and fall in a ghostly sigh. The spirit knelt on the dead grass and picked up every petal, caressing it lightly in her hand. When they were all gathered she sat on a cracked marble bench and marveled.

She could still smell the sweet fragrance; the petals were still soft like her favorite velvet gown. She held them to her face and smiled. A petal escaped, slipped through her fingers to float into her lap.

She stood and watched it float gently to the worn earth. Suddenly she raised her hands and spun around tossing the petals in the air. As they fell around her catching on her hair and dress she danced in them.

When they had all fallen she gathered them to dance again in the glow of the mist. Her gown flowed around her, arms gracefully moved through the air, her dark hair flowed free around her shoulders lifting as she turned.

There was no sound but a soft rustle of leaves but he could imagine her joyous laughter. Something made her pause and look up. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. She gathered up her petals and carried them lovingly back to her grave.

She held her hands over it then slowly turned her palms letting petals fall like soft rain over her stone. With a gentle smile, she yawned and stretched as the mist appeared to grow thicker. Soon the others were in their places as well the mist began to fade until a glimpse of the sun could be spotted over the trees.

There was no more dancing the only evidence of the night being the cream-colored rose petals strewn over the darkened marble stone.

Part of the Blogging from A to Z Challenge for the letter G. Be sure to visit the linky list on the site by clicking on the badge below for more great blogs to follow and read all through April!

Eleanor T. Beaty talks about Seeing Spirits on Gladiator's Pen

Gladiator's Pen welcomes Elanor T. Beaty to the Ludis. She's guest posting with an interesting topic seeing spirits, in celebration of the release of her book Souls of Darkness. For an extra treat there are is a rafflecopter drawing below the post. So refill your cuppa and enjoy today's guest. Don't forget to leave some comment love :) Have you ever seen a spirit?

Seeing Spirits – A Gift?

Guest Post by Eleanor T. Beaty

There will always be the question or doubt whether being able to see, communicate and interact with spirits is a gift. When I began to study spiritualism (and I am still a beginner no matter how much I study) I came across the explanation that we choose to have or not have this gift before we are born and we choose how much it will impact our lives and destiny. For some reason you asked for it, and I’m not meaning this in a bad way, because God is not so unkind to throw such a burden on someone without previous preparation or permission. That is what I learned. I’m sure there will be people who don’t agree and they have a right to their opinion.

Truth is we all have the ability to be mediums if we want to develop it through practice and study, but it won’t be as strong as those who come with the gift from birth.

So back to the – you were given a choice- POV. Why would one choose such a gift? One of the reasons would be to help both the living and the dead. For those that don’t believe in past lives this might not make sense, but accepting such a burden is a way of repaying a past debt. There are many different reasons why, but the most common is that, at another time, you may have hurt people through your actions. So think of this not as a burden but as an opportunity to give back and grow, move forward and settle past debts. It is not an easy gift to deal with, as not all spirits that cross your path are easy on the eyes, or good, but there are plenty of tools at hand to teach you how to handle this gift and dominate it so that it doesn’t dominate your life.

I know plenty of people that think that if they ignore it, it will go away. Denial doesn’t work. I have someone close to me who will turn on all the light in the house when alone and sleep with the TV on loud, just so he can’t hear those invisible friends. One day he’ll give in and probably find an amazing fulfillment with helping people, from both sides.

I don’t have that type of gift. I don’t see, nor do I hear. I always wished I’d had it, but I guess that wasn’t part of my life-plan. However, I have always been around people who have, so I’ve seen close up what it’s like to live with such a gift and use it to help others. The person I learned the most from was an assistant I had a long time ago. Her gift began in her early childhood, and as expected, the first time she told her mother, right after her grandfather died, that he had come to say goodbye, she was dragged off to the psychiatrist. A few years later her mother came to understand and accept her gift and gave her full support.

My assistant was what is called an unconscious medium, meaning when she’s incorporated by a spirit she will have no recollection, nor control. During her first years, her gift took over her life and it was hell. She received visitors at all times. She would wake up in the strangest places. Through studies she managed to stop that; she learned to sense their approach and block the spirits from taking over. She came to dominate her gift. Sometimes, while we were in a meeting, she would start looking behind me and I would know there was someone there. It could get weird. She did pay a price for such a gift in her personal life, as in she didn’t have much of one, but she helped so many people her sacrifice was rewarded. She never used it to make money, but what if one does? Is it allowed?

In my opinion, the true spiritualist will never charge because they are only the transmitter and those who are actually doing the work, the spirits, are doing it out of kindness and they don’t get paid. However, there are exceptions, and making a humble living when sacrificing your life to help others is allowed. But if you try to use it to exploit people in their hour of need, or to glorify yourself, there will be a price to pay. I saw an amazing tarot reader go from getting everything right to everything wrong when she began to think she could charge a fortune for a service provided by others. She made the mistake of thinking she was the one who could see the future all on her own. Besides losing her high paying clients, she went through a tough time in her personal life.

Seeing and communicating with spirits is a gift and an opportunity to grow. This gift comes accompanied by friends to guide us, our mentors. Our character and our intentions will determine what kind of friends and mentors will surround us. And just like the gift is given, it can be taken away if misused, or it can even hurt us the same way we used it to hurt others.

Souls of Darkness:

Alex's life is turned upside down after his father's sudden death. An old pamphlet found in his father's belongings leads Alex and his mother, Charlotte, to a remote Polynesian island. His mother longs for a place untouched by past memories, and Alex hopes the trip will help her to heal. Their arrival on the island elicits an eerie episode of déjà vu for Alex, and he begins to wonder about the pamphlet and his father's past. Why did he have it? Had he been there before? Alex senses something is off with the island. Progress is unwelcome by the inhabitants. A local girl reveals the history of the island and its dark spirits. She warns him to never be caught outside after dark, but Alex finds it all hard to believe... Until inexplicable and terrifying events begin to unfold. While digging for information, Alex finds his presence on the haunted island is not by chance. Rangur, the most evil of souls, aims to use him to acquire great power. There's only one way Alex can stop him and for that he must uncover his father's past connection to the island.

Purchase Links:

Amazon eBook 

Amazon Paperback

About Eleanor

Eleanor T. Beaty is a Young Adult Paranormal author. A worldly person born in beautiful Brazil and spent much of her childhood in several places (Argentina, Switzerland, and the US to name a few). She holds a BA in English Literature and is published in both Brazil and Turkey.

Eleanor loves spirituality and magic - both have allowed her to gain a strong grip on life and enjoy what it has to offer. She believes that everything has a reason and understanding those reasons help us deal with the difficult moments. Eleanor currently enjoys life with her husband in Brazil.

Follow her at http://eleanortbeaty.com/

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Monsters

Part of the Blogging from A to Z challenge 2012 for the letter M

I love monsters vampires, werewolves, ghosts, zombies, big foot, loch ness monster. Anything creepy or frightening I’m so there. Why? I blame my dad for this fascination. Yes, it’s all his fault.

Dad loved the monsters too. His favorite film was Bug (1975), about roaches that ate flesh, made fire, and flew. *shivers* I’m cool with the rest but flying roaches creep me out. Anyone who has encountered Florida’s famous palmetto bugs gets that one.

We would stay up late at night with a half gallon of ice cream and two spoons propped between us and watch Elvira Mistress of the Dark and whatever horrific flick she had for us. Yes it could considered a form of child endangerment in allowing such gore filled and fright filled scenes to play over Rocky Road. Yet it was also very influential. 

I was introduced to some literary greats through these freak fests such as Edgar Allen Poe and HP Lovecraft. It wasn’t all blood bath some were classics. I remember my heart racing the first time I watched Boris Karloff come to life in The Mummy (1932).

Thanks to these monstrous marathons, I developed a fascination of paranormal and abnormal. Those factors touch a lot of my writing the mystery, the tingling down the spine, the search into the unknown.

Some of my favorites are the House on Haunted Hill, Séance, House, Wolfen, Ghost Ship, High Spirits (not really horror but a fun ghostie romp), Poltergeist and Stir of Echoes, The Gravedancers, The legend of Hell House, The Shining, The Ring, Cujo.

You know this list could go on and on I better stop there! :D

How do some of your favorite films influence you? 

The Coach NaNo Novel 2011

The wait is almost over for November first and the beginning of NaNoWrimo. Thank goodness! My Sis and writing partner Rose Wade and I have our novel plotted, cover mocked and our muses are psyched to get started. We even took a big step in choosing the nom de plume we'll co-author under. M.L.Brogan.

This year we're putting our own mythology into an old legend. I'm really excited about what we've got sketched out for these mysterious creatures of the night. Wanna lil peek?

The Coach
M.L. Brogan

Two centuries have passed. It is time for the Coachman of Death to allow his hooved beasts, the Keres, to find new souls to take their place and end their enslavement to the Coach. To the living, the Keres appear as feared creatures of legend. To the condemned, they are the beginning of an inescapable nightmare.

Cóiste Bodhar The Black Coach

A wail cuts through the night, a warning, the black coach is coming for him. The dying man pulled himself from his bed. He fought with his weakened body to reach the door and lock it tight. He called his wife to push the dresser over, blockade them in. Maybe it would stop him.

The banshee’s wail called the Dullahan from slumber. The large chest took a deep waking breath; he could feel the moon high in the darkened sky. It was time once again to ride. He walked out to the barn hidden deep in the black forest. The nightmares that would pull him through the night stamped impatient to run.

No ordinary horses were these. Their coats shone black as oil, red eyes shaped like almonds, they were evil souls cursed to live eternity as demon spirits in his service. He fastened them in their harnesses and led the beasts to the coach.

His half-rotted flesh began to work the straps and buckles. The nightmares screamed into the night anxious to be on their way. Hooves dug at the earth impatient and sparked flame. He stroked the beat’s neck, he felt it too, the call of the dying.

The  Dullahan climbed aboard and took the reins. The nightmares reared and screamed as they took to the unseen road.

The living did not see him but felt the cold chill down their backs as he passed. The night became darker, thicker with dread as he road toward his destination. His arm drew back to crack his bone whip, the spine snapped and spurred the beasts into a full run.

Men woke and cried out with terrifying dreams, women wept in their sleep. Death was coming.

The dark coachman pulled the beasts to a stop, their destination before them. He stepped down to earth once more and it trembled beneath his boot.

The slowing beats of his soon to be passenger’s heart pulsed in the Dullahan’s veins. He was the harbinger, nothing could stand in his way. The gate opened at his approach. The front door on the modest cottage swung inward.

The dying man cried out for mercy as the candles snuffed leaving him and his wife in darkness. A loud scrape echoed in the room as the dresser moved aside, pulled by an invisible force. The locks he was so sure were strong enough to hold tumbled and turned, the final door opened with a creak of bone on bone.

The dying screamed as he watched the dark creature walk toward him. The barrel-sized chest taking deep breaths, beneath the cloak’s hood there was nothing but darkness. The wife looked into it and felt the emptiness there, as though she stared into the pits of hell itself. She covered her own mouth to hold back her horror.

The Dullahan reached into the dying man’s chest with its black hand and tore out his soul. The man’s corpse gave one last breath in life. The spirit struggled in the grip of death as he was escorted out to the black coach. The coach’s door opened beckoning the soul to enter and be taken to his fate. 

The wife cried out as her husband’s essence stepped inside. The dark coachmen growled low, her skin turned to gooseflesh, her hair stood on end. The Dullahan turned toward her, she screamed and begged him to not to take her.

The coachman dowsed the wife with the blood of the dead. A mark, she would live this night and maybe the next, but at the banshee’s next cry he would come for her first.

He mounted the coach and cracked his bone whip.  Cóiste Bodhar and its headless coachmen rode into the darkest part of night to carry their passenger to Death.

Not Real

She walked though the apartment counting her boxes making sure everything was there. Her first place out on her own. It had been a hard decision to make leaving home for a promotion in the big city.

Everything was there, now the fun part. The kitchen was the place to start. She walked in and opened the first box on the counter. After wiping out the drawers and the cabinets she began putting away dishes and silverware.

Reaching up to set the serving plate on the high shelf she felt a soft breeze though the back of her hair. The room was suddenly chilled. Rubbing her arms she looked at the windows, they were closed. “The air vents must be pointed this way.”

She checked the windows then went back to the counter to put the last stack of dishes up. They were already in the cabinet. She doesn’t remember doing it though. She didn’t, she set them down to check the windows.

After a moment she laughed, “I must be more tired than I thought from the drive up here.”

After closing the cabinet doors she made her way to the bedroom. The bright lights from the street below light up the room. “That won’t do, daylight isn’t supposed to be for another seven hours.”

She opened another box and pulled out a thick blanket then turned to put it over the window. She stopped and gasped as a man shaped shadow stepped away from the window.

The blanket fell to the floor as she ran from the apartment into the hall.

A male voice uttered a surprised, “whoa.” 

When she bumped into him she jumped back with a squeak of a scream.

The man held out his hands palms up showing he meant not harm. “Hey, I’m your neighbor, Jack. Are you okay, is something wrong?”

She isn’t sure of the stranger then sees the bag of groceries in his hand. It couldn’t have been him in her bedroom. She grabbed his sleeve. “There’s someone in my bedroom… ... I think. I saw a tall shadow he, he, he moved toward me.”

Jack gave a soft nod as he placed a comforting hand over hers. “Would you like me to go check it out?”

Before she could give a verbal answer to call the cops she felt her head nod.

Jack handed her the bag of groceries and grinned softly as he walked into the apartment with caution. He moved though the living room to between the kitchen and bedroom. He felt a chill in the air. A glance at the thermostat told him the air conditioning was turn off.

He shook his head. It was cold outside he could still be chilled from being out in the weather. He looks into the darkened bedroom and sees a darker shadow in the corner by the window.

“Hey! Who’s in there? Someone in there?” When there was no sound or movement he walked into the bedroom and looked around. An uneasy feeling as he moved around the bed to examine the corner. Jack plugged in the lamp and turned it on. The room was empty except for the boxes and bags.

He couldn’t help the glance to that one corner of the room that seemed dark even with the light on. He almost ran into her as he walked out into the kitchen. With a startled laugh he grinned.

“It’s okay. Might have been a shadow from the street, they can look pretty weird on the walls sometimes at night.”

She laughed at herself face blushed pink. “I’m so embarrassed, thank you for going to all the trouble. I’m Emily by the way.”

He grinned and took the hand she offered for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Emily. Don’t be embarrassed, new place and all can be kind of spooky.”

He sees her cell phone on the counter he programmed in his number then held it out to her. “If you need anything just call. I’m in number 34 two doors down. And I’m a chronic night owl so it doesn’t matter what time it is if you need to talk, or a hand with something heavy.”

She grinned and nodded. “Thanks, and thanks for coming to my rescue.”

After walking Jack out with his groceries, Emily went back to the bedroom. She covered the window and got ready for bed. When she turned out the light she saw the same shadow for a moment.

With a gasp she turned the light back on and shook her head. “Nothing there, it’s not real.”

Exhausted from the move and excitement she turned out the light and lay back. As her eyes drifted shut she saw a large shadow figure step away from the wall. Tightening her lids against the possibilities she hugged her pillow. “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

Or was it.

***Part of the A to Z Blog Challenge 2011... Letter N***