Want to See A Ghost?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Look out  your window. Is it lovely and sunny and summery? Good thing. Because the amazing, talented and always hilarious Alice Loweecey is wondering today about something just a bit…darker. 

So let the sunshine in—then listen to this.

ALICE LOWEECEY: I have two questions for you this lovely summer day.

#1: Have you ever seen a ghost?

Not Charlie Brown in a sheet with eyeholes. The real thing.  The kind that breathes every so softly on the back of your neck and FREAKS YOU OUT.

The kind that likes to close doors in the house when there’s no one home but you.

 This is the Brown Lady of Raynham Hall, taken in 1936. The photographer was under the cloth hood when his assistant told him to take a picture NOW. He thought she’d wasted a plate until he developed it.

This is the Hampton Court Ghost, taken with a surveillance camera in 2003. Apparently he doesn’t like open doors. He slammed these a few times before leaving them closed.

  

Freddy Jackson, a member of the RAF, was killed in 1919. But he didn’t want to miss the squadron group photo. So he showed up anyway.

      Confession time: I’ve never seen a ghost. Of the three, I think I’d freak out more if Freddy breathed down my neck. The door-slamming ghost is kind of fun. The wispy lady, eh. (That “eh” is subject to revision if said wispy lady floats over my bed one night in the manner of the angry wife in Ju-On.)

     I may have shot myself in the foot over the whole ghost thing. For the new direction my Giulia Driscoll series is taking, I interviewed Joe Nickell, the well-known debunker. He’s pretty much the Jim Cantore of hauntings. You know how if Cantore (from The Weather Channel) shows up in your town it’s time to head for the storm cellar? If Joe Nickell is investigating your haunting, you don’t have a ghost. You’ve got a bored teenager or a rattling windowpane. I’m pretty jaded after sitting at his feet for a single afternoon.

      But even though I haven’t seen a ghost, my mind is open to the possibility. What if that flash of something I see out of the corner of my eye isn’t one of the cats hunting a ladybug? What if that 2 am creaking isn’t the cats heading downstairs for overlooked kibble? (It seems I am haunted—by my cats!)

Which brings me to #2:

Do you want to see a ghost?

I’ll start: Yes, I think so. (I know—be careful what you wish for!) I think it’d be fascinating and frightening and what a story I could write!

What about you?

 HANK: Well, sure!  But:  Can we stipulate that it won’t hurt me? And that it could talk? And would go away if I wanted it to? And that I wouldn’t be the only one who could see it?

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How about you, Reds and readers?

THE CLOCK STRIKES NUN

Giulia has a new job: Hunting ghosts. Maybe. If ghosts are real:

When terrified Elaine Patrick knocks on Driscoll Investigations’ door and insists her house is haunted, Giulia Driscoll’s first response is “we don’t handle ghosts.” When Elaine’s housekeeper and crackpot filthy rich cousin descend on Giulia and demand she find out who’s trying to steal sweet, fragile Elaine’s family business out from under her, that’s a different story.

They want DI to provide Tarot readings, ghost hunting sessions, and even an exorcism. Ghost hunting? There are apps for that. Tarot readings? Experts in the skill are right across the street. Exorcisms? Having a priest for a brother-in-law comes in handy. Giulia plunges into a crash course in all things supernatural, convinced everything happening to Elaine is stagecraft. Except when it isn’t. Giulia’s about to discover a new dimension to sleuthing, if she can survive attempted murder long enough to see through the web of lies around her client.

Alice Loweecey is a former nun who went from the convent to playing prostitutes on stage to accepting her husband’s marriage proposal on the second date. Her mysteries feature an ex-nun PI in an on-again/off-again romance with her boss. She also writes horror, paranormal, and dystopian YA, and is very glad the Internet wasn’t around during her high-school years for her to inflict her angsty teenage poetry on the world. She promises that she no longer whacks errant knuckles with a ruler. Her mascot is a handmade nun doll that will only creep you out if you have a guilty conscience.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  From the Department of Good Friends. From the Dept. of Hilarious Writers. From the Dept of That's Why It's Always Good to Come To Jungle Red on Friday. 

From the Dept. of “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up”

                               by Alice Loweecey 

For this to be the Most Bizarre Story Ever Destined To Go Into A Book, I first have to establish that this used to be me:

Yes, I really was that innocent and ethereal once. Go ahead and laugh.

A few years ago, I sang in an a cappella Early Music Chorale. We traveled to various churches and other venues singing works by Monteverdi, Bach, and various anonymous composers long since turned to dust. One of our favorite performances was nicknamed “The Sex and Shepherds” concert. The program consisted of all madrigals, and yepper, that’s what those darling pastoral lyrics were REALLY about.

They even made my nun doll clutch her pearls.

One February night, we were scheduled to rehearse at a church I’d never been to. One of the baritones gave us directions. This was long before the days of cell phones with GPS. I live in Buffalo. It snows. A lot. You may have heard about it. I wrap myself up and hit the road. When I reach the exit in the directions, a little voice in my head whispered, “Don’t take the first exit; take the second one.”

Never ignore the little voice, people.

I did that night, and took the exit listed in the directions. I should have reached the church in five minutes. Fifteen minutes later, as the snow starts coming down harder and I leave civilization for the industrial area, I realize I’m quite lost. Streetlights are few and far between. It’s pitch black out.  I’m wishing several unpleasant curses on the baritone who wrote the directions.

But, lo! In the distance I see a small building with a parking lot and a few lights. Oh frabjous day! It has to be a 7-11 or other convenience store. I can get directions!

I drive into the parking lot.

It’s a strip club.

I hesitate only a moment. I’m over 21. I only want directions. I’m sure the bouncer will be able to help.

To help you visualize the impact I was about to make on the unsuspecting employees of the strip club, this is what I was wearing:

I walk to the door. No bouncer. I walk inside. The bar stage is empty. (Yes, I looked. Wouldn’t you have looked?) To my left is a cubbyhole with a window, and a middle-aged man is playing the CDs I hear broadcasting in the bar.

I knocked on the wall. He looked up at this Vision in snow, raincoat, and Doctor Who scarf. “Nonplussed” would describe his expression until I delivered this bombshell:

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Sts. Peter and Paul Catholic Church.”

Then “stunned” would describe it better. It took him a second to reply: “Lady, you are in the wrong place.”

He then gave me directions to the nearest convenience store and I booked it out of there. The counter clerk at the convenience store said I was the second person that night asking for the same directions. I finally got to rehearsal half an hour late and told the story at break. The baritone who caused all the trouble laughed the loudest.  

My favorite scene to imagine is the deejay at the strip club going home in the wee hours and waking up his significant other: “Honey, you’ll never believe what happened at work tonight.” I kinds of wish I had told the poor man I was a former nun. It would have made his story so much better.

This story must and will go into a Giulia Driscoll mystery. I only have to make her forget a car charger and have her cell phone die.

So, writers and readers, try and top this! What is your most surreal “You can’t make this stuff up” adventure?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  ((Speechless.))

Baker of brownies and tormenter of characters, Alice Loweecey recently celebrated her thirtieth year outside the convent. She grew up watching Hammer horror films and Scooby-Doo mysteries, which explains a whole lot. When she's not creating trouble for her sleuth Giulia Driscoll or inspiring nightmares as her alter-ego Kate Morgan, she can be found growing her own vegetables (in summer) and cooking with them (the rest of the year).

Best Photos Ever

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Usually, here's where I introduce our guest (and today we have a terrific one) and then there's a cool essay on a topic that none of us would have thought of, which is why we invite guests to Jungle Red.

But I have to fast forward. When I read this blog by the fabulous Alice Loweecey  (if you don't already know her, you will in a minute) I laughed, I felt empathy, I admired her, I laughed some more--and then I thought: WHOA. Who is THAT?

I wish I had Stephen King's phone number.  Never in my life have I ever--well, see what you think.

Of Koi, Cats, and Plot Bunnies

   by Alice Loweecey

We have a water garden in half of a plastic whiskey barrel. It has a water lily, cattails, and two koi. It used to have three koi, but we also have cats.

When the weather turned for good in November, we hauled the garden into the basement. Koi and the plants can’t survive a northeastern winter. I don’t want fishsicles for lunch. 

The cats spent the summer endlessly fascinated with this fishy-smelling bubbling toy. They’re not happy with the metal grid on top of it now. Their favorite game used to be Terrorize Our Midnight Snacks. 

To achieve the indoor water garden we had to Clean Out the Basement. I am happy to report we found no mummified mice or other catlike surprises. 

We did find old photographs. Shoeboxes full, from our grandparents’ houses. Were any of them labeled?

(I’ll pause while you all laugh.)

Of course not. 

They begin at the early 1900s and stop at the 1990s. Some of earliest photos are wonderful. Small children in stiff collars and starched dresses, staring at the camera like it’s an alien probe. 

Earnest young men and women in the middle of a field. (Why? No clue.) 

Older men with bizarre grins that look more creepy than happy. 

The background in one of the photos—a tree, a fence, grass—is crisp and clear, but the young woman and baby in the foreground are faded and blurred. 

Another young woman by a hedge has her doppelganger facing her against the same hedge. (I know; it’s a double exposure. But if it wasn’t…)

My immediate thought upon going through this treasure: Plot Bunnies!

HANK: MY immediate thought, since you asked, is to drop everything and write a short story. Just saying. Holy moly. This photo is AMAZING.  Anyway. What's a plot bunny?

ALICE: If you’ve never heard the term, a Plot Bunny is a story idea that gnaws away at your brain, exactly like a bunny knowing on a carrot. Or the wallpaper. Or an electric cord. 

And just like a chewed-through electric cord, a plot bunny shorts out the connection to whatever you’re working on. If anyone remembers the Cadbury Bunny and the way its teeth kept moving and moving and moving as it said “Bak-bak-bak,” that’s the correct image for a good plot bunny.

My new Giulia Driscoll mystery, Nun Too Soon, released on January 13. My next one releases in the fall. I’m outlining the third one now. Deadlines, I has them, but I also have to make time for the proper care and feeding of my plot bunnies. 

When one of them sinks its teeth into my head, I save my current document and open up a new one. Then I make a bullet-point list of all the elements in my head: Characters, setting, plot points, MC, villain, conflict, magic or mystery or horror elements. Once I name the document and save it, it goes into the “Future” folder and the bunny quiets down so I can finish my current project.

I use sticky notes and voice messages on my phone for daily remembrances, but a good plot bunny deserves special treatment. 

Writers, how do you care for and feed your plot bunnies? 

HANK: Every book, I vow I will get a fabulous little notebook, and carry it around with me, and write brilliant and insightful and witty stuff in it. I DO get the notebook, and I DO carry it around. And then I write notes to myself on envelopes and yellow stickies.  How about you, Reds?  Bunnies? (Or--what do you think about the double girl?)

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Baker of brownies and tormenter of characters, Alice Loweecey recently celebrated her thirtieth year outside the convent. She grew up watching Hammer Horror and Scooby-Doo Mysteries, which might explain a whole lot. When she’s not creating trouble for Giulia Falcone-Driscoll, she can be found growing her own vegetables (in summer) and cooking with them (the rest of the year).

NUN TOO SOON

    Giulia Falcone-Driscoll has just taken on her first impossible client: The Silk Tie Killer. He’s hired Driscoll Investigations to prove his innocence and they have only thirteen days to accomplish it. Talk about being tried in the media. Everyone in town is sure Roger Fitch strangled his girlfriend with one of his silk neckties. And then there’s the local TMZ wannabes—The Scoop—stalking Giulia and her client for sleazy sound bites.

On top of all that, her assistant’s first baby is due any second, her scary smart admin still doesn’t relate well to humans, and her police detective husband insists her client is guilty. About this marriage thing—it’s unknown territory, but it sure beats ten years of living with 150 nuns.

Giulia’s ownership of Driscoll Investigations hasn’t changed her passion for justice from her convent years. But the more dirt she digs up, the more she’s worried her efforts will help a murderer escape. As the client accuses DI of dragging its heels on purpose, Giulia thinks The Silk Tie Killer might be choosing one of his ties for her own neck.

Author Links:

Website: www.aliceloweecey.net

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/alice.loweecey

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AliceLoweecey

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4166880.Alice_Loweecey

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