Happy Halloween!

JENN McKINLAY: I was going to write a post about the world's scariest places in keeping with the Halloween vibe, but then I went to Las Vegas, which to my mind was not known for being haunted. But I was wrong!

A large group of us journeyed to Lost Wages, er, I mean Las Vegas to support our friends the Gin Blossoms, who were playing the Freemont Street Experience and celebrate some life moments among our group. All good fun. 

Except two of our party ended up in a haunted room. Yes, haunted. While one person was sleeping and the other was reading, a dresser drawer opened all by itself! Our friend didn't panic, thinking these things happen, buildings settle and all that. But while she was in the shower, and her partner was still sleeping, the hot water tap in the sink turned on - again - all by itself! 

The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall, one of the most famous ghost photographs of all time, originally taken for Country Life and first published in December 1936.

Being mature grown-ups, we naturally determined that the room was haunted and the speculation about who was haunting it, what would happen next and whatnot, ran rampant within the group. 

This reminded me of another time when the Hub and I checked into a hotel in Jerome, Arizona. We went out to dinner and came back and to get ready for his gig. While we were changing, the door to the closet opened by itself and a stack of blankets were hurled out of it as if they had been thrown. We exchanged a look and without saying a word, grabbed our stuff and checked out. 

Do I believe in ghosts? Maybe. I'm still not sure. But there was definitely something otherly about our room in Jerome and our friends' room in Vegas. 

How about you, Reds and Readers? Do you believe in ghosts? Have you ever felt an otherly presence?

Not All Ghosts Are Bad

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Know what I absolutely love? The days when we have to think–wow, there’s so much we simply don’t know. 

And more about the absolutely wonderfully talented Meredith Lyons below. And about her brand new book GHOST TAMER.

But first…yeah, what can I say. There's so much we simply don’t know.  This is such a heartbreakingly haunting story.

Not All Ghosts Are Bad

   By Meredith R. Lyons

I can’t point to an exact age, but I know I was young. I remember how my bedroom was arranged—and I remember exactly how old I was when I decided to take charge of my own feng shui and shove the furniture into a new position—so I’m going to guess between ten and twelve. 

Often enough that it was unremarkable, I woke up during the night to find a girl pacing near the foot of my bed. Talking. She was always talking. As if I was waking up halfway through her monologue. In full flow, as if she was trying to work out a problem or vent about something irritating. If I ever tried to comment on anything she said, if I tried to enter the conversation at all, she stopped. She stopped walking, stopped talking, looked directly at me, and vanished.

I didn’t ever think much of it. I was tired, I went back to sleep, and forgot about it in the morning. I never remembered these visits, and to this day I can remember nothing that she said.

Except the last thing.

One night I opened my eyes to find she wasn’t talking. She wasn’t walking. And what’s more, she wasn’t by the foot of my bed. She was standing right beside my pillow, gazing down at me with a huge smile on her face. As if something marvelous had happened to her and she was bursting to share the news.

I didn’t feel afraid. 

As soon as I met her eyes she said, “Goodbye!” And slowly faded away.

“Where ya going?” I asked. But she was gone.

The next morning, for the first time, I remembered her. I remembered all the other times, too. But I never saw her again.

At first, I tried to tell people about her, but no one believed me. Adults said I was dreaming. Kids were either skeptical or tried to fabricate their own ghost stories to top mine. Eventually, I just kept it to myself.

One night in my twenties, drunk after a night out in Chicago, I found myself beside my friend Gillian while the rest of our group walked on ahead. I’m not sure why, but I told her the story. 

“Did she look like you?” she asked in her Dublin accent.

“Yeah, I guess she kind of did.” I was ready for her to tell me I was dreaming.

“Did your mum have a miscarriage before you?” 

I was surprised. How would she have guessed that? “She did.” 

“It was your sister checking up on you.”

I can’t describe the feeling that went through me then, but it was a rightness. A joy. Not only had my story not been dismissed as the diaphanous dreams of a sleepy child, but a new possibility had been introduced. 

I still kept this story mostly to myself. It was rare that anyone connected to it in that way and it was a special memory to me. A nice thought that I didn’t care to tarnish with too much outside scoffing.

Years later, I decided to write about a nightmare that I’d had where I was riding the el train and it flew off the rails. “This will be a nice, normal story with normal people,” I thought to myself, having done a lot of writing about aliens and unicorns. But as I was writing it, I thought, “What about a ghost or two?”

And not too far into the writing of it, I remembered my childhood ghost and decided that not all of the ghosts had to be bad.


Maybe some are indifferent. Maybe others actually care about us and want to make sure we’re doing well. Maybe some even protect us from the bad ones.

This story I didn’t hide away. I didn’t keep it quiet or private and it’s turned into a decent book. As I’ve rolled through the different stages of bringing it to life, I’ve thought more about my little ghost visitor than ever before. I hope she’s doing well wherever she ended up. I hope it was as fantastic as she seemed to think it would be. And I thank her for the inspiration.

HANK: I’m so touched that this gives you peace, Meredith. And may it do the same for all of us.

You all, Meredith is an absolute powerhouse, lookit that bio! And her book is terrific–I loved it.

In answer to the question posed by the title, though–I’m not sure I ever thought all ghosts were bad. How about you, Reds and Readers?

GHOST TAMER

Death is one thing, it's what you do afterward that matters. 

Aspiring comedian Raely is the sole survivor of a disastrous train wreck. While faced with the intense grief of losing her best friend, she realizes that someone is following her—and has been following her all her life. Trouble is, no one else can see him. For a ghostly tag-along, Casper’s not so bad. He might even be the partner Raely needs to fight the evil spirit hell-bent on destroying her.

Raely and her friend must learn why this demonic spirit is haunting Raely and how she can stop him before he destroys her life—and her soul. Which, much to her chagrin, means she needs the help of a psychic (although she’s sure they are all charlatans) and must rid herself of the pesky ghost hunter who’s interested in exploiting her new abilities.

Meredith Lyons grew up in New Orleans, collecting two degrees from Louisiana State University before running away to Chicago to be an actor. In between plays, she got her black belt and made martial arts and yoga her full-time day job. She fought in the Chicago Golden Gloves, ran the Chicago Marathon, and competed for team U.S.A. in the savate world championships in Paris. In spite of doing each of these things twice, she couldn’t stay warm and relocated to Nashville. She owns several swords, but lives a non-violent life, saving all swashbuckling for the page, knitting scarves, gardening, visiting coffee shops, and cuddling with her husband and two panther-sized cats. She’s a member of International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime. Ghost Tamer is her first novel.

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost! by Paige Shelton

Jenn McKinlay: I am thrilled to have my plot group buddy and frequent lunch date in the before times, the fabulous Paige Shelton, here to celebrate her latest release Cold Wind, which is fabulous and releases TODAY! Seriously, it’s such a wonderful suspense story. Go get it. Right now! 

AVAILABLE NOW!

 

Paige Shelton: Some people aren’t tuned into the spectral world. I’m not one of those people. I haven’t ever seen a ghost – maybe at the corner of my vision, but nothing full-bodied. However, I do sense them; maybe it’s their essence taking up space behind me or next to me. The hair on my arms might stand on end, I might hear sounds a little differently. It’s nothing big, but in small but noticeable ways I can sense a disturbance around me. 

 

On the other hand, my husband Charlie doesn’t notice them. At all. He has an intuition that makes him a little psychic sometimes, but he cannot tell if there are ghosts in the room. Doesn’t even feel a chill. 

         

Back in the days when we could travel, he and I ventured north for a research trip for my Alaska Wild mysteries. I was the only one who could feel the ghosts in our forty-ninth state. They showed themselves in some familiar ways but also with something new and different. Though the entire trip was unforgettable, the ghosts and I had a connection like I’ve never felt before.

We were in Juneau when I first sensed them. There’s a tram that takes visitors up to the mountain top, where you’re greeted with hiking paths, gift shops, places to eat. The view out and over the inlet whereupon Juneau is situated is breathtaking. As we hiked the trails and looked around, the hair on my arms was standing straight up, indicating clearly, to me at least, that we weren’t alone. I recognized it for what I thought it was, but didn’t think about it much, until we stopped at a restaurant. The woman who greeted us started leading us toward one table, but then she slowed down. She sent us a confused look, and then took us a different direction. She handed us our menus, stating that she had a feeling that we needed to sit in Jessie’s section. We simply told her thank you, and then we thoroughly enjoyed Jessie. 

 

After we were done, we took the tram back down the mountainside. Our plan was to head back to the hotel, but we changed our minds and took a drive instead, deciding to stop at a mining museum. As we approached the entrance to an old mine, I was overcome by the ghosts all around. I felt the chill, the air move, the flashes in the corner of my vision. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck was at full attention. All cylinders were firing. 

 

“Feel that?” I said to Charlie.

“Feel what?” he said. 

“The ghosts?” 

“No, not at all. It’s cloudy outside. It’s a little eerie.” 

“It’s more than that.” 

         

He didn’t argue. 

 

We heard voices. A few seconds later, two people came around a curve in a hiking path. 

         

“Hi!” I said, surprised.  

 

The couple stopped. One of them was Jessie, our waitress from the restaurant. 

 

We all greeted each other, noting how uncanny it was that we’d all ended up in the same spot, and at the restaurant the excursion hadn’t been anyone’s plan. But we just laughed it off. As they turned to continue on, however, Jessie rubbed her arms and said, “How about all these ghosts out here? They’re something, aren’t they?”

 

It took me a second to recompose myself. “Yes, they are.” 

 

“What do you think they want?” 

 

I shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

 

Jessie laughed. “Maybe they just want us to know they’re here.” 

 

Maybe.

 

I have no idea what the spirits were trying to tell me, or us, or why it was important for Jessie and I to sense them together, but whatever the reason, it was certainly one of my more spooky ghostly encounters. It doesn’t do much good to dwell on those experiences, but those moments stayed fresh in my mind for a long time.

The rest of our visit in Juneau as well as in Gustavus was infused otherworldly sensations and coincidences. We kept running into another couple – at a diner, at the Mendenhall glacier, and on the ferry to Gustavus. Stuff like that happens though, so I didn’t give it much thought, but even out on Glacier Bay, I sensed the ghosts. My husband kept wondering what in the world – this one or the other one – was going on. I did too. 

Maybe Alaska is just a perfect place for ghosts. There’s a lot of wide openness. Many people go to Alaska to find or lose themselves, others just get lost, swallowed up by the unfriendly terrain and weather. Maybe it’s a place where ghosts get trapped, or maybe they feel comfortable there. It’s a real mystery to me. I might never understand it, but I will also never, ever forget it.

Thanks for letting me stop by today, and happy holidays! 

Jenn: I love this post so much! I've definitely had some encounters in my life that were "otherly". So, Reds and Readers, any ghostly encounters to share? 

Paige Shelton is the New York Times Bestselling author of the Farmers' Market, Country Cooking School, Dangerous Type, and Scottish Bookshop mysteries. She also pens the Alaska Wild mystery-suspense novels, Thin Ice, book and Cold Wind, featuring thriller writer Beth Rivers. Paige has lived in lots of places but currently resides in Arizona. Find out more at www.paigeshelton.com

The Ghosts in the Layers?

-->

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: It's tempting, isn't it? To think of who has been the same places you've been, in the past, and waaaaay in the past? It crosses my mind whenever I walk on Boston Common, or go to Lexington and Concord,  or stroll down the street in Salem. You cannot tell me the present is all that's--present.

Our dear friend of the Reds Jeannette DeBeauvoir has been thinking just the same thing. 

The Ghosts in the Layers
By Jeannette deBeauvoir

I walk down Commercial Street—which here in Provincetown is our Main Street—and I think about what I’m seeing. I pass Lewis Brothers’ Ice Cream, and smile at the memory of my stepdaughter working there when she still lived with me. 

I stop in to East End Books for a lively conversation with my friend Jeff. I might go to the Portuguese Bakery for a decadent pastry—bittersweet memories, those, of breakfasts with my ex-husband. I have to go see Chomo at her Himalayan shop and find out what’s on sale. I’ll check out what Nan or Deborah put in the window at the venerable Provincetown Bookshop. If it’s a nice day, I might treat myself to a Bulgarian salad that I’ll take out on the pier and eat while watching the harbor. I’ll end up at the post office and have at least two conversations and three dog-petting sessions there. As I walk, I say hello to a lot of people; those of us who live year-round in this tourist destination pretty much know each other, at least by sight. 

And as I do all this, I realize that what I’m seeing is just a small slice of this street. I’m seeing what’s relevant to my life.

Which means I’m missing rather a lot.

I’ve talked a lot about the importance, to me, of using place when writing fiction, of populating one’s books with real shops and restaurants and streets and people. But it’s only recently that I’ve begun to think about the layers that exist everywhere, layers certain people see and others don’t. 

Commercial Street also has smoke shops, leather shops, bars, clothing stores, sex shops, antiques and home décor… I know they’re there, but they don’t really register. I don’t have a reason to go in, or a memory to attach to them. And what that means is readers of my Provincetown mystery series aren’t really experiencing Provincetown, are they? They’re experiencing my experience of Provincetown, and everybody’s mileage varies.

When I start thinking like that, I feel my head might explode.

To complicate things even more, there are ghosts that live in those layers, faces and voices and memories of people and things that are no more. I already mentioned two of my own: the ghost of my former marriage, the ghost of my stepdaughter handing out ice cream cones. There’s the memory of the old gatehouse at the Murchison estate, now replaced by something modern and forgettable; the real soda/malt shop with a long shiny counter that used to be part of Adams’ Drugstore; the horse farm over on Nelson that’s now condos.

Provincetown has more than its share of real ghosts, too, as we remember a time when men came here to die of an alienating plague; back then, there was a new funeral every week. Or we can listen to the wind that whispers over the dunes, reminding us of all the shipwrecked victims who died on our shores when the Cape was still the Atlantic’s favorite graveyard. 

Marc Cohn might have seen the ghost of Elvis when he was walking in Memphis; I strive to see the ghosts of my literary predecessors here, of Edna St. Vincent Millay scratching away in a cold attic room, of Eugene O’Neill staging plays on Lewis Wharf, Tennessee Williams at the Little Bar of the Atlantic House, Norman Mailer roaringly drunk and brawling with fishermen, John Dos Passos decrying war in three volumes of work. I don’t even expect most people are looking for the same ghosts as I am!

These thoughts could rapidly become paralyzing, as you can well imagine.

Of course, realistically, my perspective is valid. It’s the perspective I’ve given to my protagonist, Sydney Riley, who is actually quite a lot like me in ways both comfortable and distressing. But I also wonder if I have a responsibility toward those other layers, those other ghosts. Am I being honest in not including them? Yet how can I access things I don’t know about?

I don’t know the answer to those questions. Do you?

The one thing I know I can do is keep some of it alive. Honor some of the people who lived and died here and whose lives were so meaningful to the town. Ellie, the transgender woman who used to—at age 78—belt out Frank Sinatra in front of town hall.

 Richard Olson, the historian, who for decades sat at the bar at Napi’s and dispensed amazing wisdom. Tim McCarthy, activist, who was never without his video camera, documenting life. Names that in another ten years will have disappeared from memory, because they weren’t famous anywhere but here. But they were part of here, and so in my latest mystery, A Killer Carnival, Ellie is remembered; it’ll be Richard’s turn for my November release, The Christmas Corpses. And perhaps someone will pick up the book and muse, “yeah, right, I remember Richard! Gosh, I’d forgotten all about him.”

And maybe somewhere Richard will be smiling.

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I'm sure that's true! And lovely to think about. And yes, we can honor them through our writing ,and our reading, as well. 

I know we've talked about "ghosts" before. But even if you haven't encountered them personally, where are places you've gone where you think they might still be?

-->

Jeannette de Beauvoir writes mysteries and historical fiction, sometimes intersecting the two. A Killer Carnival, Book Four of the Sydney Riley Provincetown mystery series, is just out, as Ptown’s Carnival parade starts with a bang—literally. More about her at jeannettedebeauvoir.com.

(PS from Jeannette: Just as a postscript, as I was writing this article, Atlas Obscura popped up in my inbox inviting readers to share a real place they’d discovered through a work of fiction. Timing is everything! You can see them all here.)