An Old Short Story

Back in the heady days of yore, ghost hunting shows were pretty popular. Filmed largely in glorious green night-vision, they usually featured people running around, pointing weird-looking things at shadows, and rattling off inane ghost-babble about spirits and the unknown rules that guided them. Knock on some tables, shout out some names, beg the invisible spirit to talk to you. It was like a Zoom conference before Zoom conferences were cool.

In the end, there was never any definitive proof. But there was a lot of cool-looking chicanery going on, so they were usually fun to watch. I gather the real paranormal investigation and elimination experts are much more down to Earth and far less likely to wear too-tight polo shirts and an overabundance of jewelry.

The one thing I always thought would be fun to see is if one of those shows actually did find something terrifyingly tangible and it bit ’em on the ass. Imagine the serious-looking beefcake prattling on about this, that, or the other thing and whatever they were searching for just flat-out mopped the floor with them.

Ratings gold, Jerry. Ratings gold.

Anyway, that thought turned into a short story about a guy who kills his wife and then uses her spirit as a kind of home security system because he’s a right bastard and the kind of guy who does stuff like that. Years later, a television ghost-hunting team shows up to his mansion and finds out the hard way she’s still kicking around. This story was originally published in Kyanite Press’s Halloween Spooktacular a few years ago. Kyanite, unfortunately, has gone the way of the dodo and a sane Republican party, so the story has been lost to ages. Since it’s already been published, most ‘zines won’t touch it. Also, I realized recently that I think I’m the only writer on the planet who hasn’t posted any his own fiction on his blog. Bad jokes, grammatical errors, and random babblings, sure. But never a short story.

Here’s a fun fact about Security System: It was the prototype for what ultimately became Roadside Attractions. People who’ve read both will recognize a few names here and there. Even though the short story is different from the book, this is Roadside’s DNA.

Security System – by Eric Lahti

“I command you to show yourself!” he said in his best serious voice. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened to make you stay.”

Vincent Kindig wore a too tight polo shirt with the collar popped up and the buttons undone to show off his necklace collection. He closed his eyes and raised his hands up as if beseeching the dark room to talk to him. “Please,” he cried out. “Show yourself.”

A faint humming sound slowly filled the room. Vincent clenched his fists. A hint of a smile flashed across his lips before he remembered where he was and his serious face dropped back into place. “Hello, Lindy,” he said. “Tell us why you’re here.”

The light, already low in the old mansion, flicked off. The silver light pouring through the window, illuminated Vincent’s angular features. He held his stance, but frowned. One eye opened and looked around. His hands dropped like rocks and he growled under his breath.

“We’re working on it, Vincent,” a voice said from the darkness.

Vincent closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and slowly let it out. He counted to ten, skipping seven because he felt the number seven was unlucky. When he opened his eyes, the lights were still out.

“Guys!” he said. “Come on!”

“Sorry, Vincent,” a woman replied. “We still trying to figure out what happened.”

“Get the lights back on,” Vincent said. “We are on the clock and the studio is already pissed off that we haven’t found a ghost.”

“There was that thing in Tulsa,” a man said. “I’ve got footage of the chairs moving around. How was that not a ghost?”

“Fred, come on. Any idiot with a computer could have cobbled that footage together. The studio wants something tangible. They want something indisputable. They want a real ghost.”

“It was a real ghost,” Fred started. He looked around the room and rolled his eyes. “It was a real ghost. That’s all I’m saying. It was there.”

“I know it was there, Fred,” Vincent said. “I saw it, too. We’ve all been around paranormal activities and ghosts and the odd demon before, but guess what, kids; studying doesn’t pay the bills. We need the studio to be happy or we can all kiss it goodbye and go back to living in a van.”

“Down by the river,” the woman said in a sing-song voice.

“Charlotte, now is not the time,” Vincent said. “We need to get this going. Now. You’re the technical whiz, make this stuff work.”

Charlotte and Fred busied themselves crawling around, following the tangled mass of cables that ran in like piles of spaghetti along the floor. Vincent sighed and fingered the heavy necklaces around his neck. The rings on his fingers–a mixture of various occult symbols and skulls–were the studio’s idea, but each of the necklaces had significance to him. He found them in each town where things had…happened. Tulsa, Portales, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, Mesa. Each time he touched the spectral world, someone left him a gift on his nightstand.

The room they were set up in was a dilapidated mess at best. The wallpaper was curled on the edges, pulled away from the wall and yellowed like old leaves. If houses had seasons, this one was in the dead of winter. He wanted to yell at Fred and Charlotte, but they were the best in the business and the wiring in this house was a total wreck. The fact that they managed to make it work at all was a miracle.

The studio guys, hired hands from some union or another, put down their boom mics and walked out the door, smoking and laughing. Vincent recognized them as a necessary evil, even if they were total dicks.

“Found it, Vincent,” Charlotte called out. “A line burned out. Let me splice some things together and get a fuse on this line before the whole house goes up in flames. Give me five minutes.”

“Thanks, Char. Take your time. Those union guys are on one of their mandated thirty-minute breaks they have to take every hour. Might as well slow down and be sure.”

Charlotte shook her head slowly. “You got it, boss.”

She scampered out to the van to collect some magic from her big box of tricks. Vincent watched her go thoughtfully. It was so much easier when it was just the three of them living in the van and hunting down everything that went bump in the night. Sure, it was tedious and they often had to beg for food, but they didn’t have to worry about appeasing guys in suits; all they had to do was find the ghosts and document them.

“Think there’s something here, Vincent?” Fred asked from the shadows.

Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know. Some studio bigwig picked this place out because of its history and a connection to some rich old guy back in the early 1900s. It doesn’t feel like anything’s here, but who knows? Half this damned country is haunted. There’s no reason this place isn’t, too.”

Fred fumbled for his flashlight. When he turned it on and shone it around the room, Vincent had to admit the place looked like a classic haunted house. Everything was shot to hell, but it was obvious this mansion had been worth a pretty penny back in the days of robber barons and cars that went, “Ah oogah” when they honked. Now it was a mass of rot and broken furniture.

“Shithole,” Fred mumbled. “Just once I’d like to investigate a place with a big TV, a hot tub, and a bikini team.”

“No kidding,” Vincent agreed. “A haunted steak house with an expansive menu of whisky would be nice, too.”

“Why the hell didn’t they fix this place up?”

Vincent shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe no one thought it was worth the effort. Or maybe the ghost scared them off.”

The lights came back on with an audible pop a few moments before Charlotte bounced into the room. She took a look around, nodded, and struck a dance pose. “Ta da!”

Fred hugged her and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on the side of her face. “You’re a genius, my love.”

Vincent smiled, even as he felt empty inside. His team was happy and that was all that mattered, even if he did pine away for someone to care for. “Call the studio guys back and let’s get this rolling. All this talk of steaks has made me hungry.”

*****

“It amazes me that in the Year of Our Lord, 1917, there are still people out there who feel the law should be applied equally to all. Obviously, there are those of us who must do what we must do to ensure the smooth running of this fine country of ours. War or no war, this is the modern age and antiquated notions such as justice and freedom must be weighed on a spectrum. The only important trait that could – and should – influence that spectrum is success. By that weight alone, we can determine a fellow’s worth. Everything else is shoddy bookkeeping.”

“Yes, sir,” Ernest Fodor said. “I agree wholeheartedly. The mere idea that a pauper on the streets should have the same rights as myself – or worse, yourself – is antithetical to functioning of Democracy.”

Mr. Oldenfold, Kurt to his mother and only his mother, leaned forward and tapped an ivory-handled cane gently on the floor. He wasn’t an old man, but five decades of relentless hunting and hoarding of wealth had left him desiccated and soulless. “Quite right,” he said, waving one hand around the room, “This paranormal, supernatural mumbo-jumbo is quite outside my realm of expertise, but I have been known to consult with a psychic from time to time. She has proven correct more times than science can account for and I, therefore, trust her skills. Your first advice to my problem was accurate, so it would seem money must change hands and it will be time for phase two.”

Ernest Fodor paled. He looked around his office and took in the hastily scrawled notes and fuzzy pictures of spirits that obscured his walls. His was a working office and, while the images on the walls helped to seduce customers, all his work was out in the open for all to see.

It was all true, too. Every last note, every last picture, every last newspaper clipping. He had seen them all, but he lacked the funding for proper research. For that, he would need a wealthy patron. A patron like Mr. Kurt Oldenfold. The mining magnate was reputed to be worth millions. If he could solve Mr. Oldenfold’s problem, it might mean getting a grant to continue.

Unfortunately, the price was looking steeper and steeper with each passing moment.

“Then…then it worked?” Fodor whispered.

“Quite well, my boy,” Oldenfold replied. The corner of his lip curled up slightly and Fodor hoped the man didn’t just sprain a facial muscle attempting to smile. “Your trap was fiendishly clever in its simplicity. It worked like a charm.”

“May I ask the details, sir?” Fodor asked, hoping against hope that this was all a joke.

Oldenfold snapped his fingers and a manservant in a severe black suit placed a case on Fodor’s desk. Inside the case, nestled in silk, was an empty crystal glass jar with a candle in it. Fodor stared at the jar. “May I?” he asked, motioning at the jar.

The smug look returned to Oldenfold’s face. “Of course.”

Fodor gently picked up the jar with hands slick with sweat. Inside was nothing more than melted wax and the dark remains of a wick. He prayed to a god he swore he’d never trust and peered closely. As he twisted the jar around, it hit a stray bit of sunlight and his heart stopped.

She was in there. Oldenfold had really done it. A tiny spark of light repeatedly threw itself at the wall of the jar. It was like watching a lightning bug bouncing off a window.

“My poor wife died last night from poison,” Oldenfold said with obviously fake sorrow. “I had the constabulary take in two of my servants. They never got along with my wife and, well, you know how the Irish can be. Needless to say, I am heartbroken.”

“Of course,” Fodor replied distantly. “She was the love of your life.”

“The very reason for me to go on living.”

It was all lies. Pretty lies, but lies nonetheless. There was no doubt in Fodor’s mind that Oldenfold had killed his wife last night, but it would be improper and possibly dangerous to discuss it. That the old man had killed his wife was bad enough, but that he managed to catch his dead wife’s spirit before it could escape was nothing short of malignant.

Fodor was in no position to turn down clients, even ones as despicable as Mr. Kurt Oldenfold. Even if had the wealth to turn down Oldenfold’s request, there were other issues at play that would ensure Fodor’s cooperation. He choked back the bile rising in his throat and gently set the jar back on the table. “Are you certain you want to continue, sir?” he asked.

Oldenfold sat ramrod straight in his seat and tapped his cane twice on the floor. He flashed an evil grin that would have been right at home on the face of Satan himself. “Mr. Fodor,” he said quietly, “I did not get to my position in life by quitting when I was ahead.”

Fodor shook his head. Words wouldn’t come to him. He watched the light dejectedly bouncing off the jar and wondered if his place in Hell would be similar. “Of course not, sir,” he replied.

“Excellent,” Oldenfold continued. “You shall ply your trade and I shall continue to ply mine. In other words, you work your magic and I continue to pay you. Now, what do you need from me?”

“Nothing more, sir,” Fodor replied. His eyes were locked on the jar.

“One more thing,” Oldenfold said. “I trust she will be miserable, yes?”

Fodor nodded sadly. “I imagine so, sir.”

“Good. She tends to cry when she’s miserable. It’s a terribly irritating sound. Will I be able to hear it or is there any way you can mute it? I need my rest and have no desire to hear my ex-wife complaining.”

“No, sir,” Fodor said, shaking his head sadly. “The living cannot hear the dead.”

“But she’ll be able to do what I require of her, right?”

“Of course. If they’ve got access to energy sources like candles, ghosts can be quite capable of causing a tremendous amount of damage.”

“Wonderful news,” Oldenfold replied.

Oldenfold stood and snapped his fingers. His manservant appeared silent as the night and draped a greatcoat over Oldenfold’s stooped shoulders. “Do your best work, Mr. Fodor and no one has to know about your indiscretions, least of all that pretty wife of yours. But, I do believe in paying for services, so if you can make phase two work, you will be rewarded generously. Good day, Mr. Fodor.”

Fodor watched the door close and listened for the tell-tale rumble of the elevator before putting his head in his arms and sobbing. Through tear-stained eyes, he watched the little light smash against her impenetrable jail. Her future home would be larger, but it would still be a jail for eternity.

Love, and the sudden, treasonous loss of it, can people to move mountains in their quest for revenge.

*****

Vincent closed his eyes and ignored the snickers from his team as he got himself back into character. When he opened his eyes, the light felt like someone poked him in the eye with a pencil. He muttered something to himself and blinked rapidly. When he was ready, he fixed the camera with his best serious stare.

For someone with no formal training in acting, Vincent was a natural, even as he felt ashamed. It wasn’t like paranormal investigators had the best reputation in the world and by acting out a role on T.V., he felt like he was hurting his brethren. But the show had to go on and his team had to eat.

“In this house, a little over a hundred years ago, a woman was poisoned by her husband, the odious Mr. Kurt Oldenfold.”

He paused briefly to give the post production guys a chance to splice in a picture of a young woman in her wedding dress. Her back was perfectly straight – whether due to her corset or the nature of people in the early 1900s, Vincent couldn’t say. She had medium brown hair that fell over her shoulders in a wave and a mischievous glint in her eyes. When he first saw the pictures of Lindy Oldenfold, Vincent’s first thought was she’d have been a handful for any guy in the 1910s. She looked free and self-determined; two traits that were frowned upon by the men of the time.

“Rumors around the town said that Lindy had an affair,” Vincent continued. “No one knew who with or, at least, they weren’t talking about it. That tight-lipped secrecy must have infuriated Kurt Oldenfold to no end. Infuriated him so much that he poisoned his wife and blamed the deed on a pair of servants. To their dying day, they pleaded their innocence to no avail.

“Everyone already knew Kurt Oldenfold had her killed, but he had the money and the power to avoid prison. Kurt lived to a ripe old age of eighty-five and passed away peacefully in his slumber.”

Vincent fixed the camera with his serious gaze. “Lindy Oldenfold is said to haunt this very house.”

A door creaked open and Vincent almost looked before he caught himself and kept focused on the camera. It was probably just a draft or the house settling after being abandoned for so long. He focused on the task at hand and the promise of dinner when the shoot was through.

He walked around the room, pointing at things and improvising stories about them. Most of the footage wouldn’t make it into the final cut, but it was nice to have choices during editing. The furniture was barely worth mentioning, but a massive bookcase held the promise of all manner of spooky stories.

“In 1917, a library like this was the purview of the extremely wealthy. Books were common, but leather-bound editions like these were a rarity. Legend has it that Lindy herself picked out this bookcase and all the books on it.”

He motioned to the tattered remains of an old chaise lounge and, just for an instant, saw a young woman stretched out reading a book. She looked directly at him and winked. Vincent shook his head and blinked his eyes.

“You alright, J?” Charlotte called from the darkness.

“Yeah,” Fred added, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

When Vincent looked back at the chaise lounge, it was empty. “Just getting hungry,” he called out. “We need to wrap this up so we can chow down.”

He took a moment to get back into character and continued. “If the bookcase was Lindy’s, and most people agree Kurt Oldenfold wasn’t a reader, it would explain why the rest of the house is trashed, but the books are still in remarkable condition.”

His fingers brushed the redwood case as he pretended to look at the titles. There was nothing there worth worrying about, save for a broken jar and a picture of Lindy reading a book in the chaise lounge right next to him. That had to be it, he subconsciously saw the picture and projected her image.

“If Lindy does still haunt this mansion, she obviously still has a fondness for her books,” Vincent told the camera, “But what of Kurt Oldenfold? While it’s true that he died in his sleep, Oldenfold spent the remainder of his life complaining about the Irish and trying to convince people his wife’s death wasn’t his fault. He eventually became a recluse.”

Vincent started to wrap up his opening monologue, anxious to get down to the part where he and his team set up their tools and engaged in witty banter about ghosts and ghost hunting. Most of the audience would think it was fake, but every story they told was real. Humans have an amazing capacity to ignore evidence that runs contrary to their world view.

Charlotte was desperately signaling him to go on, to keep talking. Normally, Vincent didn’t have any problem talking about a haunted place or a ghost, but the vision of Lindy smiling and winking at him had rattled his nerves. He’d run into ghosts before, but nothing that seemed as real as her.

He reached into his mind, trying to remember the little factoids about the house that he’d read even before they set foot in Oldenfold Manor. Vincent shook his head to dislodge the vision of Lindy.

“The house itself has a grisly history,” Vincent continued. “It was built in the late 1800s by an eccentric architect by the name Niko Grosser. Grosser had a fascination with the esoteric and the paranormal. It was his dream to build a house that no ghost could enter. To that end, he lined the walls with copper mesh and crystals. The mansion has eleven bedrooms, four bathrooms – plus one for the staff – two dining rooms, this library, and a kitchen.

“It’s also the scene, or suspected scene, of half a dozen unsolved murders. After Oldenfold became a recluse, some criminals tried to break in. None of them were ever heard from again and the house’s reputation as a Death House made.

“A murderous ghost. That’s what we’re here to look for tonight.”

*****

“He never loved her, he only wanted to possess her. Now he wants to punish her for all eternity. But I’m going to turn the tables,” Fodor told his assistant.

The assistant, a young man by the name of Felix, adjusted his round spectacles and nodded slowly. “Do you think it’s wise to double cross a man like Mr. Oldenfold?”

“Kurt, Felix,” Fodor said. “Call him Kurt. He hates it, but it makes him more human. He’s not a god, he’s just a man with far too much money.”

“Kurt,” Felix whispered to himself, as if by saying the name out loud he’d call down the wrath of the dreaded Mr. Oldenfold.

“Out loud, Felix. Just try it out.”

“Kurt,” Felix said again, this time a little louder. He nervously looked around the room while Fodor chuckled.

“Waiting for the lightning to strike or the constables to break down the door?”

Felix looked around again and said, “No, sir. It’s just. Well, I’ve never heard anyone say Mr. Oldenfold’s first name. I didn’t even know he had one. When I was a little boy, I assumed his first name was Mister.”

Fodor laughed out loud and Felix shrunk in his seat. “I’m sorry, Felix. I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing at all of us. We give these guys too much power and they think money makes them immune to retribution. Kurt thinks he can get away with murder and pin the death of his wife on two innocent men. The system lets that happen because the men are Irish. Kurt didn’t just kill his wife, he destroyed two other lives to cover up his crime.”

“And that…light in the jar is her, isn’t it?” Felix asked. He peered closely at the jar on the work table. “I can sometimes make out her shape. I expected her to be bigger, though. Aren’t ghosts supposed to be the same size as people?”

A sad look crossed Fodor’s face. “That was a trick I taught him. If I’d known he intended to trap his own wife’s spirit, I never would have agreed to it. I would have taught him some phony trick from India or China. She’d still be dead, but she’d be free.”

“How does it work?” Felix asked.

Fodor didn’t want to talk about it, but the young man deserved an explanation if he was going to continue investigating the paranormal. People didn’t like to admit it, but a large amount of science went into ghost hunting.

“Ghosts are pure energy. I haven’t been able to conclusively prove that they’re souls, but I do know they’re nothing more than energy and they need to find ways to regenerate that energy, just like we eat food to keep ourselves alive. One way is to not do much. An idle ghost can go years without replenishing their energy. Another way, and the one they usually resort to, is to suck energy out of the air around them. That’s why it gets so cold when a ghost is nearby; they’re pulling the energy out of the air. Usually when that happens, they’re about to do something terrible.”

Felix flipped open his notebook and rapidly started writing. “I’m sorry, sir, I really am paying attention to you; I just don’t want to forget this information. It’s not like…well, there are no schools or quality books for what we do.”

“It’s okay, Felix. You’re correct, we do need to compile this information for the future. Now, where was I?”

“Pulling energy out of the air.”

“Right!” Fodor said, snapping his fingers. “Ghosts need energy to manifest and they have to get it from somewhere. It’s been my experience that they’re inextricably drawn to most forms of energy. A simple candle, Felix. Fire gives off energy and ghosts soak it up. Put a candle in a crystal jar and your ghost will not be able to resist the flame. All that energy. All that warmth. They have trouble moving through crystal, though, so it’s the perfect trap. Did you know that Felix?”

“About the crystal, sir. No, sir, I did not.”

Fodor smiled to himself, pleased with his protégé’s desire to absorb information. In his business, Fodor had found an insatiable appetite for knowledge was necessary to not only thrive, but sometimes just to survive. “It’s true. I discovered that secret in a chamber in China. They had rows of crystal jars, each with its own tiny ball of energy flitting back and forth. But, I digress. All Oldenfold would have to do was find any piece of sealable crystal and place a candle in it. His wife’s spirit would head straight for the flame. Then, put the lid on and the ghost is secure.”

Felix reached a hand out to touch the crystal jar with the spirit of Oldenfold’s wife in it, but pulled his hands back at the last moment. “She’s really in there?”

“She’s really in there,” Fodor replied. “And when she gets out she is going to be none too happy.”

“Why would Mr. Oldenfold even want to capture his wife’s ghost? It seems despicable, if you ask me.”

“Despicable,” Fodor replied. “That’s an excellent word for describing Kurt Oldenfold. Despicable. He is a loathsome, offensive being and he has performed the most odious action I have ever heard of for the most selfish of reasons.”

Felix waited for Fodor to continue, finally resorting to motioning with his hand that the story could go on.

“Kurt Oldenfold wants to use her to guard his house and he wants me to make sure it happens correctly,” Fodor said with a sigh. “And I will do it for him.”

“Why?” Felix pleaded. “Why go on with this? Why not refuse to do the work or simply knock the jar over and let her go? Surely jars get knocked over all the time.”

Ernest Fodor’s shoulders slumped. He sank in on himself in pity and shame. “I have done a terrible thing, Felix. If you want to learn from me, learn this: never do terrible things where those with power can see. People with power will use any advantage they have to get more power. I am Kurt Oldenfold’s tool.”

“What did you do?” Felix asked, mesmerized.

“Nothing much,” Fodor replied breezily. “Just consigned my soul to Hell and created a special Hell for Lindy to exist in forever.”

Felix shook his head. “No, before that. Why does Mister, er, Kurt Oldenfold have power over you?”

“I am but a man, Felix. With a man’s needs and a man’s desires. You should learn that, too. All men are slaves to their desires.”

“You were caught with another man’s wife, weren’t you?”

Fodor nodded and put his head in his hands. “The Senator’s wife. He’s a good man, she’s a good woman. Oldenfold threatened to go to the papers. The scandal would destroy the Senator’s career and his wife’s life.”

Felix slumped back in his chair whistling softly.

“Indeed,” Fodor replied. “She was quite taken with my research. Her station in life means she can never pursue it herself, which is a pity; she’d make an amazing researcher. I tried to let her live vicariously through mine, give her some measure of the life she wanted.”

“Things lead to each other,” Felix said quietly.

“More than once,” Fodor said with a sad smile. “And now dear Lindy Oldenfold is paying the price for my sins.”

Felix listened attentively, soaking in this side of his boss that he’d never seen before. “It’s not your fault,” he said.

“Oh, but it is, dear Felix,” Fodor replied. “But I have a plan. A wonderful, terrible plan. Oldenfold wants his wife to be a security system for his house and I can make that happen. It will be forever, unfortunately, but Kurt Oldenfold won’t get away completely clean like he always does.”

“Are you going to the police?”

Fodor reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a gem necklace. “This is a ward I found in Bombay. It keeps the spirit world from seeing you. Ghosts are notoriously territorial and can be fiercely violent beings when their territory is threatened or when they find something they want. Lindy will likely be even more so due to the nature of her demise. She’ll make a truly terrifying security system; one that has no qualms about killing. As long as Oldenfold is wearing or holding this necklace, she won’t be able to see him. It will be even worse for her, knowing something is out there, but not being able to see it, but that little trick won’t work forever.”

“How do you mean?”

Fodor grinned and all the powers of Hell flashed through his eyes. “The necklace will protect him while he’s wearing it, but he won’t be wearing it when he’s dead. Whatever you’re holding when you die comes across with you. There’s no way Oldenfold will be gripping that necklace when he dies, he’ll think wearing it is enough, but it has to be in your hands when you die or it gets left behind. Once he dies, the necklace stays behind and Lindy finds his spirit, she’ll pounce on him and hold him with her forever. Kurt Oldenfold might have gotten away with murder, but he’ll never get away from Lindy.”

*****

The lights went out again, suddenly bathing the room in darkness. Vincent swore under his breath before forcing himself to calm down. “Charlotte, can you check the lines again?”

“Already on it, boss,” came the fading reply.

“Next time, we’re bringing our own power supply,” Fred said. “This is ridiculous.”

Vincent snorted. “Remember that time in Santa Fe? That ghost that always turned out the lights?”

“You think we’ve got one of those?” Fred asked.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Vincent picked out Fred’s form. The man was tinkering with some equipment, probably replacing a motherboard by touch alone. Fred could be caustic, but he knew his electronics better than almost anyone else.

“Dunno,” Vincent mumbled. “These old places had terrible wiring. They were meant to run desk lamps and AM radios.”

Vincent looked back to find Fred’s shadow standing perfectly still. “What’s wrong?”

Fred held up a hand and quietly shushed him. “I heard a thump.

“Wow, a thump,” Vincent said. “I hope you got it on tape.”

“Shhh,” Fred hissed. “Someone’s coming and it doesn’t sound like Char.”

Vincent tip-toed across the room and stood directly in front of Fred. Together, they strained their ears for any sign of Charlotte. There it was, a faint shuffling step coming closer to the library. “See,” Vincent said, “It’s just Charlotte.”

The faint step resolved into a cacophony of louder, faster steps. Vincent tensed. Ghosts didn’t charge often – it took too much energy – so when they did bad things tended to follow. “Remember Flagstaff?” Vincent whispered.

“How could I forget?” Fred whispered back, barely audible over the pounding steps. “I thought we were going to finally have conclusive evidence that we’d never be able to share with the living.”

A light bobbed and danced in the hallway, growing brighter as the footsteps got closer. The light looked…off…somehow, as if it was coming from everywhere and nowhere. Vincent took a step back and saw Fred take a hesitant step forward. He cursed himself for being a coward. After everything he’d seen and done, it wasn’t like him to worry like this. Fred was doing the right thing, trying to protect Charlotte as Vincent tried to protect his own skin.

Vincent absently rubbed the goosebumps forming on his skin. No matter how many ghosts he’d been around, there was something inherently terrifying about them. All around them the air felt electrified. It crackled and popped like a switching station after a rain storm, as if all the energy in the room wanted to go home and it didn’t care who it had to go through to get there.

“Char?” Fred called out. He looked at Vincent pleadingly.

Vincent shrugged. His stomach clenched and rumbled. He wanted to run far away from this place and bury himself in tightly tucked-in blankets until the world died down.

He choked down his sense of doom and said, “It’s almost here.”

The thundering echo of footfalls reverberated around the dilapidated house. The air grew colder, raising goosebumps on Vincent’s arms. They set out to look for a ghost and one found them, something the likes of which Vincent had never felt before.

The light grew to blinding levels. Vincent covered his eyes and looked away, wondering if this was going to be his last moment. Ghosts that could kill were rare, but not unheard of.

“Lot of mirrors in that hallway. The power’s fixable,” Charlotte said, “but that’s not the cool thing. She’s here! She’s really here!”

“Char?” Fred asked.

Charlotte flicked off the light on her head and mumbled, “Sorry, guys, forgot about the light. But we need to get a camera downstairs. I just saw her clear as day. Lindy’s here! She’s here. She’s…”

She stopped and pointed. “Char, are you okay?” Fred asked.

“Oh, shit,” Charlotte mumbled. “Vincent, she’s right behind you and she looks pissed.”

******

Kurt Oldenfold’s fingers gripped the ruby-red amulet around his neck. Whatever magic that Fodor fellow had created had worked. Lindy couldn’t see him, but he’d seen her plenty of times. She prowled the house scowling and looking for a way out. But the doors and windows wouldn’t open to her touch and she couldn’t push through the walls of the house.

Oldenfold went about his life as if nothing had happened. He accepted the flowers and letters and condolences from people he barely tolerated with a sad smile and nod of his head. Never the most popular of people to begin with, no one noticed his slow retreat from the world. His wealth grew, his power grew, and his disdain for the world grew along with them. As far as most people were concerned, Kurt Oldenfold carried on just like someone who had lost his wife.

The truth was, though, that no one cared one whit about Kurt Oldenfold’s feelings. They were sad for Lindy. She was the one thing about him that made his presence tolerable. Everyone knew she had cheated on him and no one could blame her. Just like everyone knew the Irish servants were innocent, but no one could prove it.

Wealth and power had once again conspired to get away with murder and Kurt Oldenfold couldn’t be happier. He had proven his might once again by not only killing his wife, but by continuing to punish her forever.

Lindy was far from happy. Oldenfold sometimes watched her ghost throw itself repeatedly against the walls and doors before it collapsed in a silently sobbing heap on the floor. Her sorrow gave way to frustration, which eventually evolved into full-on anger.

Over time, her rage became palpable. Her inability to interact with the house caused her no end of grief. For a time, Oldenfold thought it was poetic justice. She had no right to cheat on him, let alone with a commoner, and an eternity stuck in a house that he’d had built for her seemed appropriate. Lindy always loved her little library, even if all she ever wanted to read was poetry or some such drivel. Books and poems were more interesting to her than he was and Oldenfold chuckled to himself when he saw her ghost desperately trying and failing to pull a book from the shelves.

Her mind, whatever that meant for a ghost, was cracking bit by bit. She would vanish for weeks on end, only to appear at the foot of his bed at three o’clock in the morning. A sad smile played on her lips while rage burned in her eyes. Ghosts, it would seem, could maintain multiple emotions at the same time. Or maybe they were just better at showing them.

For decades Oldenfold and Lindy’s ghost were the only people in the mansion. His naturally caustic personality drove people away and he wasn’t given to throwing elaborate parties. So, it was twenty years after her death that Lindy finally saw another person.

Crime’s dirty eyes had finally landed on the Oldenfold Estate. A pair of young men, driven to desperate acts by poverty, had watched Kurt Oldenfold’s comings and goings with interest for weeks. It was just the old man in there. Easy pickings and a mansion probably full of gold.

Oldenfold was drifting in his reading chair when he heard glass break on the front door. His heart pounded in his chest. He reached for a fire poker and rose on shaky legs. No matter who had dared to enter his sanctum, they would pay dearly for the trespass. What was his was his. He had earned it and no one had the right to take it away from him.

Lindy found them first. Oldenfold found her ghost standing over their corpses. He couldn’t tell how she did it, but their faces were frozen in terror and pain. With a flick of her head, she disappeared through a wall, leaving Oldenfold to deal with the two men. Anyone else would have had trouble dealing with two bodies, but all he had to do was grease the right palms and point out the intruders were Hispanic and everything was taken care of.

*****

Vincent spun in place and found Lindy’s ghost glaring at him. She wasn’t that different from her photo, but something in her eyes made her look like a changed woman, like she’d been alone too long and had realized something terrible about herself. He held up both his hands and said, “Hello.”

Lindy wavered in place, flickering like a neon light that was running out of gas. She slowly drifted toward him, eyes locked on his. Vincent wanted desperately to back up, but he didn’t want to seem afraid even though his heart was pounding in his chest.

“Lindy,” Vincent said, “a terrible wrong was done to you. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to make it right, but I’m willing to try.”

Her angry face wavered. She cocked her head to the side like a dog that didn’t understand. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Her glowing, flickering image looked like a hologram from a bad science fiction movie.

“I can’t hear you, Lindy,” Vincent said. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

Lindy’s face darkened. She clenched her fists and screamed silently. Her ethereal body shook with rage, flickering and wavering. The temperature in the room plummeted as she sucked all the energy out of the air. When her rage passed, she looked at Vincent and licked her lips.

He’d seen the same look on the living before, usually just before someone broke a beer bottle and tried to stab someone with it. For decades Lindy had been all alone in a house that was crumbling around her and it had pushed her to the brink. With a final sly look, she disappeared.

“What just happened?” Char asked.

Vincent shook his head like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He spun and pointed a finger at Fred. “Tell me we had a camera running for that.”

Fred’s grin was enough of an answer. “The power was out for the mains, but you know me; I always have a backup handy.” He patted an aging, boxy camera and grinned. “I always keep this baby’s batteries charged. After Flagstaff, it just seems safer.”

*****

People like Kurt Oldenfold didn’t die. Dying was for poor people, commoners, those on whom no newspaper would waste ink on. They entered the world, passed through without making a mark, and left without a trace, forever forgotten by all but a tenacious few.

Important people “passed on” or “shuffled off the mortal coil”. They did not do anything so plebeian as dying.

The night Oldenfold slipped free the boundaries of mortality was, appropriately, dark and stormy. Rain pelted the windows and wind shook the trees. In his mind, the rain was the tears of the world crying about his passing and the wind was a mournful wail.

He’d been sick for weeks, slowly wasting away as some rare and important disease ravaged his body. The doctor gave him laudanum. Even though the stuff made Oldenfold hallucinate, it took the pain away and replaced it with a warm sense of well-being.

Wasting away, all alone in the house that Lindy wanted, would have been torture were it not for the laudanum. With it, he saw things and experienced thoughts so profound he wanted to tell them to someone. Anyone would do. He told Lindy the things he thought about, but she never responded. Her ghost stood and stared at the bed with a sly grin on her face.

“I forgive you,” he said in a voice slurred by opium and degradation.

Lindy stared at the bed like she knew something was about to happen.

Oldenfold’s fingers slipped off his amulet as the world flickered around him. His psychic had told him the world would seem to stop when he died and not to worry about it, it was perfectly normal. It took time for his spirit to sync up with the real world. The world wasn’t what worried Oldenfold, though. Nor did the threat of judgment at the end. What worried Oldenfold was Lindy. He knew though, that as long as he had the amulet he’d be fine. Whatever world lay beyond life, it would be just another place to take over. He’d leave her behind, but that was okay; he’d grown tired of his cheating wife and could rest easy knowing she’d be stuck in this Hell for all eternity.

He took a deep breath and the world stopped. Oldenfold felt the pain of the world slip away and he sat up in bed. Lindy’s eye locked on his. He reached for the amulet around his neck and found nothing. He turned in the bed and found his mortal body wrapped in silk sheets and slowly growing colder. The amulet was still on his chest. He reached for the amulet but his spectral fingers passed through empty air.

Lindy’s chuckle brought him back to the here and now. Where was the portal? There was supposed to be a portal to the other side. Where was it? He looked back at Lindy’s ghost and found malice in her eyes. If he still had a spine, her expression would have sent chills through it.

“Hello, husband,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

*****

“Guys,” Char said. “Is it just me or is it getting colder in here?”

Vincent was elated, almost bouncing-off-the-walls level excited. “She probably used up all the energy in the room to appear to us like that. Keep that camera running.”

Fred nodded and watched the world through the viewfinder of his old camera as Vincent paced around the room muttering to himself. Finally, Vincent stopped and walked purposefully to the bookshelf. Most of the books were in sad shape, but they’d been neatly stored and safe from water. His fingers traced the top row until he found what he wanted.

Vincent glanced at the camera. Still running. He gathered his thoughts, closed his eyes, and focused. In many ways, he was just an actor playing a part, but Vincent didn’t do anything by halves. He held the book out in front of him and stepped back into his role as host.

“Lindy Oldenfold was here not five minutes ago. She floated right there, right in front of her precious books. I’ve seen a lot of ghosts in my time, but hers was the brightest, the one that felt most solid. She’s not a happy spirit, but she won’t leave.” He flipped open the book of poetry and scanned a page with his finger. “Lindy, I hope you’re listening.”

As he read the temperature dipped until goosebumps rose on Vincent’s skin, but he hoped reading her favorite poetry would call Lindy back. The lights flicked out again. Vincent stood still with his finger on the book and sighed. “Char, is there anything you can do to keep the lights going?”

No one answered. A sense of dread fell over the room and Vincent wondered if the stories of the vengeful spirit were true. Sometimes ghosts turned malignant and hauntings turned violent.

“Char?” he called again. “Fred?”

The room was totally silent. When the power went out it took all the whirring gears and flickering lights with it. Someone back there should be turning on a flashlight or at least fumbling around in the dark for one. There should be some noise, even if it was just someone breathing.

“Anyone?” Vincent called out. “Come on, guys. This isn’t funny. We’ve got to finish filming this episode or the network’s gonna have our hides. We’ve got a winner here, let’s get it done and in the can.”

No one answered. There wasn’t even the faint creak of wood from someone shifting or the tell-tale sounds of fabric rustling. The room felt empty, even the air felt dead.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark room, Vincent peered at the back of the room where his crew was supposed to be. He could see their silhouettes, still as the air in the room. He took a cautious step toward them. Instinct told him to be silent, to move slowly and not draw attention to himself lest the predators that lurk in the night find him.

“Hello,” Vincent whispered. “Not funny, guys.”

A dim blue glow faded in so slowly Vincent barely noticed it. As it glowed brighter and brighter, he knew Lindy was back, but morbid curiosity kept him focused on his team. They should be pointing cameras at the source of the glow. Microphones should be adjusting to capture every bit of noise in the room. Char’s gadgets should be pinging away, happily recording the world around them.

But there was nothing. The team was still there. They stood motionless as statues, each captured in a singular moment. Char was leaning over one of her creations, peering at some signal only she understood. Fred had a hand on his camera, but was pointing with the other, a look of horror on his face. The network guys were holding boom mics and staring off into space.

Behind Vincent, the glow got brighter. A spectral hand rested on his shoulder. He could feel it, it had weight and presence. He turned to find Lindy staring at him. A broken shell of a man stood behind her, collared and leashed.

Lindy pointed at the book in Vincent’s hands. “Keep reading,” she said.

#WATWB – Your Monthly Shot of News That Doesn’t Suck

About this time last year, I was sitting in my office, drinking coffee and checking the news – wait, scratch that. I was drinking coffee and working hard when someone showed up at my cubicle entrance unannounced. Now, a man’s cubicle is his tiny, fabric-covered castle and when a stranger shows up there’s only one thing to do. After I popped him in the jaw for interrupting my very, very important work, I helped him up off the ground and he told me to go home. Not because I’d just punched him – he respected both the power and accuracy of my snake-like strike to his beak – but because of COVID.

Of course, I’m mostly joking. He didn’t feel the sting of my lightning fist, but he did send me, along with everyone else in the office, home. My son’s school had shut down the previous night and later that day my wife would also be sent home. The office, along with everything else in New Mexico, was for mission-critical folks only. At the time, we’d figured it would be a couple of weeks to a month and things would normalize. That time dragged on. And on. And on. Meanwhile, a rube in a bad suit kept telling us it was fine while actual disease experts said he was an idiot for saying that. Mania took hold and, in true American tradition, we diverged into two extremist camps and hurled insults at each other. Businesses were shuttered, some permanently, and everyone got to adapt to being home an awful lot more than we ever had before. And now we’re celebrating the first year anniversary of our two-week lockdown.

I’ve often said the one thing that would make humans work together would be an external threat. I always figured it would be aliens, but a brand new virus turned to work pretty well, too. Aside from the knuckleheads who still claim it was made up, most of the world put their heads together and figured out how to stop the damned thing. It turned out to be easier than saving us from ourselves. There are still people denying the virus exists even as they’re dying from it. Reports indicate our rube in the bad suit came perilously close to dying from it and only an entire team of top-notch people managed to save his dumb ass from something he told everyone wasn’t a big deal.

A little over a year in and we’ve got multiple vaccines getting distributed. We’ve also got fake vaccines and vaccination records being sold on Darknet, proving yet again that there’s no low some folks won’t stoop to. But the good news is there are legit vaccines being passed around, most people have decided wearing a mask in public wasn’t going to turn them into communists, and it looks like the worst might be abating. Slowly, but surely. Businesses are opening back up, kids will be going back to school, and I got to stand in line to let someone inject me with an edited virus. Twice. Yes, I’m fully vaccinated. And aside from a lust for human blood and constantly hearing Bill Gates’s voice telling me to buy more copies of Windows and Office, I didn’t have much in the way of side effects. For about 1/2 an hour, I couldn’t decide if I was hot or cold, but that was about it. Others have reported Covid-like symptoms that last for a few hours to a day and disappear. Pretty impressive considering this time last year, we didn’t even know what the damned thing looked like, let alone how to get microchips small enough that we could inject them through tiny needles in an effort to control the world’s population.

When Joe Biden took office, one of his promises was 100 million vaccines in 100 days. We managed to pull it off in 58 days. There’s still a long way to go and you still need to wear a mask, but there’s a light on the edge of the horizon and someday we’ll look back on this time in world history and, well, probably not laugh, but at least breathe a sigh of relief that it’s over and try to find ways to make sure the next global pandemic is handled better than this one.

Check out the original story here.

If you’d like to connect your blog and help spread a little joy (or snark, like I do), it’s easy to sign up. Just ask and ye shall receive. Or go check it out here: here.

Our lovely and talented hosts this month are: Roshan Radhakrishnan , Shilpa GargBelinda Witzenhausen, Sylvia McGrath, and yours truly.

~~~GUIDELINES~~~
1. Keep your post to below 500 words, as much as possible. (Wow, I totally missed that mark this time around).
2. All we ask is you link to a human news story on your blog on the last Friday of each month, one that shows love, humanity and brotherhood.
3. Join us on the last Friday of each month in sharing news that warms the cockles of our heart. No story is too big or small, as long as it goes beyond religion and politics, into the core of humanity.
4. Place the WE ARE THE WORLD Badge on your sidebar, and help us spread the word on social media. Tweets, Facebook shares, G+ shares using the #WATWB hashtag through the month most welcome. More Blogfest signups mean more friends, love and light for all of us.
5. We’ll read and comment on each others’ posts, get to know each other better, and hopefully, make or renew some friendships with everyone who signs on as participants in the coming months.
6. To sign up, add your link in WE ARE THE WORLD Linky List below.
This is a Blog Hop!
Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…

And now, your moment of Zen

#WATWB – Your Monthly Shot Of News That Doesn’t Suck

For those who hadn’t noticed, the United States underwent a bit of a cold spell last week. NM got a lot of wind, cold temperatures, and some snow. Overall, it wasn’t that bad although it was weird seeing snow on the ground for more than a few hours. Normally, we get a snow storm and the white stuff takes a hike by late afternoon. When the ground was still covered a couple of days later it kind of freaked us out.

We got off pretty light. Power and gas stayed on and we stayed inside and ate hearty green chile chicken soup and drank thick beer. Don’t judge; it’s our way of handling adversity. The central part of the country didn’t fare quite as well with temps dropping toward 0 K. Most of the midwest shrugged itself into a parka and went about its business. Texas, on the other hand, turned into a frozen hellscape.

The problem was multifold. Partially, Texas just doesn’t see those kinds of temperatures very often and so they didn’t entirely know how to deal with all the weird solid water or the fact that the air was like breathing daggers. It’s a southern US state, more known being temperate than Arctic. As a result, most Texans don’t have the experience of dressing in layers, bundling up, and generally using the tricks that the northerners use to stay warm. Some people in parts of Texas don’t even own winter coats.

Now, when the temperature gets that cold and you don’t have a jacket, the best bet is to stay inside where it’s warm. Unfortunately, Texas had problems besides just the extremely cold weather outside. What started as rolling blackouts due to high demand rapidly turned into a Texas-sized clusterfuck with some homes losing heat and power entirely. The blame for that debacle is still being sorted out but despite some of the propaganda coming out it wasn’t caused by windmills. Natural gas supply appears to be the main culprit, but time will tell.

So, subzero temperatures plus no heat equals bathtubs filled with water were frozen solid. Pipes exploded. People resorting to setting up tents in their living rooms and huddling together to keep warm. In other words, it was a disaster. And no disaster would be complete without salt in the wounds in the form of massively overpriced energy bills, in some cases as high as $17,000. So, not only could you not get your lights to stay on, when they were on they cost a fortune.

So, yeah, total disaster. The final fallout from the winter storm will likely be in the billions plus the cost of lives lost.

In the midst of all this, Texans kept going. It’s one of the things they’re really good at. But in the face of a natural disaster, everyone could use some help. Lots of people have set up funds to assist those in need and some politicians even stayed in the country to help however they could instead of fleeing to Mexico. Even an Austin bakery got in on the action and gave away thousands of dollars in groceries. In other words, people came together. Just not the people who stood to make a massive profit off the problem. For those scavengers of human misery, one can only hope the federal government will issue a pride-obliterating smackdown.

Read the original story here

If you’d like to connect your blog and help spread a little joy (or snark, like I do), it’s easy to sign up. Just ask and ye shall receive. Or go check it out here: here.

Our lovely and talented hosts this month are: Roshan Radhakrishnan , Shilpa GargSusan Scott, Sylvia McGrath, and yours truly.

~~~GUIDELINES~~~

1. Keep your post to below 500 words, as much as possible. (Wow, I totally missed that mark this time around).

2. All we ask is you link to a human news story on your blog on the last Friday of each month, one that shows love, humanity and brotherhood.

3. Join us on the last Friday of each month in sharing news that warms the cockles of our heart. No story is too big or small, as long as it goes beyond religion and politics, into the core of humanity.

4. Place the WE ARE THE WORLD Badge on your sidebar, and help us spread the word on social media. Tweets, Facebook shares, G+ shares using the #WATWB hashtag through the month most welcome. More Blogfest signups mean more friends, love and light for all of us.

5. We’ll read and comment on each others’ posts, get to know each other better, and hopefully, make or renew some friendships with everyone who signs on as participants in the coming months.

6. To sign up, add your link in WE ARE THE WORLD Linky List below.

This is a Blog Hop!

Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…

And now your moment of Zen.

Book Review – The Heron Kings by Eric Lewis

I haven’t read much fantasy since I was in high school. Somehow or another, sci-fi knocked it off my reading list and then urban fantasy knocked sci-fi off the reading list. Eventually something will come along that will knock urban fantasy off. Probably crime-based horror erotica or something equally disturbing.

Anyway, back when I was reading fantasy, it was a different world. It was very much good guys in shining armor taking on the bleakest bastards the author could think up in fight to determine the fate of the whole planet. The good guys were really good and the bad guys were excruciatingly bad, so throughout the whole book – or series, those guys were big on series – you knew exactly who you were supposed to root for.

Those were fun books in their own way, but the meat in them was closer to supermarket bologna slices than a good slab of steak. Not to say they were bad, and I’m definitely not knocking the fantasy genre. Remember, I also spent a lot of my formative years reading Mack Bolan books, so I’m not exactly in a position to complain about someone’s literary choices.

Anyway, fantasy stories seemed like they were all about the good kingdom versus the bad kingdom and all the characters had high-minded ideals like “preserving love and freedom” or “making sure only good magic is used” or “slaughtering those insipid fools while they sleep”. Mighty armies march on each other, good is almost defeated but at the last minute someone who’s really, really good saves the day. Then it’s mimosas and brunch for everyone!

Meanwhile, there are a bunch of dead guys on the battle field and probably a whole host of folks on the bad guy’s side got roped into a bad situation and now they’re dying, too. The production capabilities of the countries in question were converted to wartime footing since arming and feeding the armies was of paramount importance and that left a lot of people with decaying infrastructure and no food. Even though the good guys won the day, they left a trail of wrecked lives behind them on their march.

That’s the fundamental reality of warfare: It wreaks havoc civilian populations who really couldn’t give a rat’s ass that Evil King Rottenbastard was insulted by Good Queen Gorgeouscheeks. Or that Good Queen Gorgeouscheeks repeated called King Rottenbastard a lard ass on the more than one occasion even though he repeatedly and politely asked her to knock it the hell off.

Good guys and bad guys. Kinda boring if you stick to the formula.

Eric Lewis understands this. He understands the toll war takes and he understands that the best stories aren’t the ones about Good Queen Gorgeouscheeks fretting away from her ivory tower. The best stories are the ones on the ground. Move a few pieces around on a map, worry about the outcome, and then retire for brandy by the fire. Way less interesting than the poor schmuck who’s sleeping in the mud because Good Queen Gorgeouscheeks’s army set fire to his house when they needed to stay warm.

The Heron Kings is a tale about royal courts going to war, but it’s less about the courts and more about the boots on the ground. Or, more specifically, the folks who not only weren’t soldiers but actively didn’t care who won. This is the story of the forgotten people of war, the ones pressed into corner and doing anything that can to survive another day so they’ll have the opportunity to survive another day. It’s the story of how far down the rabbit hole they go and the decisions they choose to make. And let me just say, that is way more interesting than which dress the queen chose for the ball.

Lewis threw me a curveball. I was basically expecting another gleaming armies bashing each other story. What I got was not only an exciting change of pace, but a well-thought pondering of the human condition in times of extreme stress. He doesn’t pull punches, either. And to make things even better, Lewis takes human nature into account. There aren’t many high-minded ideals in this book nor are there any people you can point to and say, “That’s the good guy.” This book is a shot of whiskey and a punch in the gut and it is worth every damned minute I spent reading it.

After a warlord slaughters her patients, Sister Alessia quits the cloister and strikes out on her own to heal the victims of a brutal dynastic conflict. Her roaming forest camp unwittingly becomes the center of a vengeful peasant insurgency, raiding the forces of both sides to survive. Alessia struggles to temper their fury as well as tend wounds, consenting to ever greater violence to keep her new charges safe. When they uncover proof of a foreign conspiracy prolonging the bloodshed, Alessia risks the very lives she’s saved to expose the truth and bring the war to an end.

Get your copy on Amazon

Follow Eric on Twitter

Check out his website

#WATWB – Your Monthly Shot Of News That Doesn’t Suck

New year, new you and all that.

It’s December 60, 2020 and things are slowly converging toward normalcy. Our politicians are back to quibbling over funding, hopefully leaving violent attempted insurrection in the past, vaccines are rolling out quickly enough that everyone should be fully vaccinated sometime in 2025, and a group of peasants took to the Internet with digital pitchforks and torches to burn the American oligarchy at their own game.

In other words, still pretty much the same old world. It’s just that it’s trending back to a less bonkers version of itself. Kind of like someone released a patch – World 2.1 – and it bricked the planet so we had to roll it back. Don’t worry, we promise we’ll get the code working this time.

That’s not to say good things haven’t happened. I mean, a vaccine rollout is a great thing and I’m happy with the results of the recent election even if it did feel like we had to move Heaven and Earth to get January 20th.

Normally, these posts are supposed to be about some treacly feel-good story to prove that the world isn’t a giant ball of suck, but I think anyone who just looks around can feel that the dawn of a new day is slowly rising. You can dig through the news these days without feeling that knot in your gut that spells apocalypse and that’s good enough for me.

If you’d like to connect your blog and help spread a little joy (or snark, like I do), it’s easy to sign up. Just ask and ye shall receive. Or go check it out here: here.

Our lovely and talented hosts this month are: Sylvia McGrath , Simon FalkShilpa Garg, Mary Giese, and Belinda Witzenhausen.

~~~GUIDELINES~~~

1. Keep your post to below 500 words, as much as possible. (Wow, I totally missed that mark this time around).

2. All we ask is you link to a human news story on your blog on the last Friday of each month, one that shows love, humanity and brotherhood.

3. Join us on the last Friday of each month in sharing news that warms the cockles of our heart. No story is too big or small, as long as it goes beyond religion and politics, into the core of humanity.

4. Place the WE ARE THE WORLD Badge on your sidebar, and help us spread the word on social media. Tweets, Facebook shares, G+ shares using the #WATWB hashtag through the month most welcome. More Blogfest signups mean more friends, love and light for all of us.

5. We’ll read and comment on each others’ posts, get to know each other better, and hopefully, make or renew some friendships with everyone who signs on as participants in the coming months.

6. To sign up, add your link in WE ARE THE WORLD Linky List below.

This is a Blog Hop!

Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…

And now your moment of Zen.

It Didn’t Have To End This Way

Unless you’ve been living on Mars, under a rock, with your fingers in your ears, you probably know the US has a new president. While I, for one, am extremely happy about that, there are millions out there who are less than pleased and hundreds of thousands who feel like they just got punched in the gut. The millions are the regular Republican voters who like conservative ideals. While I disagree with them, I don’t bode them any ill will. The hundreds of thousands are a somewhat different story. And there’s one person to blame for it all.

QAnon, those lovable conspiracy theorists, who believed the country was run by Satan-worshiping cannibal pedophiles suddenly found themselves on the wrong end of a stick Wednesday morning at about 12n eastern time. Yes, that is the moment Joe Biden became the current president of the United States. While many of the QAnon adherents probably have philosophical differences about the role of government, taxation levels, immigration and so-on, their underlying fever for revolution was primarily built on Q’s message that before Biden could be sworn in, the military would swoop in, arrest the Satan-worshiping cannibal pedos and usher in a new age of peace and prosperity.

As the minutes ticked down to zero hour, they got more agitated. Jittery with need. Where was the revolution they were promised? What was going on? Why was Trump on a plane to Florida when he was supposed to be lurking in the DC shadows managing the Storm?

Noon came. Biden got sworn in. The Storm never materialized. And the ranks of QAnon were thrown into chaos.

Now, I was never a Q adherent; the whole thing seemed far too silly for my tastes. Cannibals and pedophiles? Satan-worshiping. It all seemed a little too desperate for my tastes, like over-talking the villain in a bad novel. “He hates freedom. He wants to enslave you. He worships evil. And, and, and, he also eats babies and wants to ban any kind of fun whatsoever. And he hates dogs and kittens.” But to the QAnons, it was all real and they believed with the fervency of the devout. And it had to come as a gut punch when Biden got sworn in and none of what they believed came to pass. It would be liking coming home early one day and finding Jesus banging your wife. Or husband. Whatever. Ugly scene no matter who’s involved in it.

Through it all, the QAnons had stuck to their guns. They lost friends, they lost family, and in some cases – like the riot at the capitol – they lost their freedom. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were suicides coming down the pipe. Yes, it’s that bad.

But it didn’t have to be that way. The one person the whole thing revolved around, the one guy who knew with absolute certainty it was all bullshit, could have ended the madness before it left a trail of broken lives in its wake. All it would have taken was for Donald J. Trump to say, “Sorry, none of this QAnon stuff is true.”

The fact that he didn’t speaks volumes about just how much he cares about his most devoted followers.

Book Review – Fate by Ryen Lesli

About a year and some change ago Ryen’s first book, River, found its way onto this site. River was the opening salvo in a series about a young woman plucked from normalcy and dropped into a fantasy setting where she finds out she’s a princess. Some people would say this kind of thing happens with alarming regularity, but I’m still waiting for my tiara. All I’ve got is this lousy paper crown I fished out of the dumpster behind Burger King and my subjects are a bunch of drunks and meth-heads. But, yes, it’s a commonplace story in YA fiction because I think almost everyone looks around and asks, “What is that beautiful house? Where is my large automobile?” It’s a universal thing but, let’s face it, just because something’s been done before doesn’t mean it can’t be good. “A Fistful of Dollars” was an excellent take on “Yojimbo”, even if Akira Kurosawa was less than impressed.

So, put all that aside and focus on the story itself and how it plays out.

Fate, like River before it, is a coming-of-age story set in a world where magic is a thing and our would-be princess absolutely does not get along with her mom. Lesli’s tales do not paint a pretty picture of ballgowns and easy life in the castle where the main conflict of the story is which china to use for the big gala. They’re grittier and Lesli has no qualms about getting into the muck with her characters. And that’s another thing – traditional princess stories focus on the princess and maybe her interactions with royalty and that one cute boy who sells potatoes and is secretly a foreign prince only he didn’t know it because his evil grandmother sold him into potato farming to cover her gambling debts. Lesli’s River – the character, not the book – spends most of her time with warriors and running from demons. It’s a YA romance at its heart, but the story and the character could easily be pushed into the adult world like some kind of awesome new Princess Punk genre. And River would probably be right at home hanging out with the spud-slinging prince of Potatostan, even if he wasn’t a prince. She’s that down-to-Earth.

Fate’s tale picks up almost where the events of River took off. She’s beginning to come to grips her new reality, even as that reality spirals out of control as the main plotline of the series takes off. We’re talking pairing, demons, trapped mermaids, and a whole lot of folk shuffling off the mortal coil. Frankly, as an action writer myself, I was more drawn in by the intrigue and fight scenes, but I understand some people get into that whole “romance” thing and there’s plenty of that to go around, too. All this in addition to River’s fun, snarky character.

So, if you like the idea of a hidden world that you secretly belong in but loathe the idea of glass slippers and chastising the help for minor infractions, check out Fate.

Secrets always lie…It’s only been a month since River’s world was destroyed and she was forced home to the ebb. Held prisoner by her uncontrollable power, River struggles with the long buried secrets of her forgotten past. When the Demon twins sneak into the Banyans clan, hunting for a sacrifice, Cat and Wolf must fight to keep River safe. After one of them falls to the deadly blade of fate, River spirals into darkness, one that brings her face-to-face with the Reaper. River must make a choice. Either drown in her pain or claw her way back to the light.

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Dumpster Fires & Shitshows

For the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to a history lesson. Not of times I never saw, but of times I lived through. History is the final judge of the character of an era. It’s what will stick in the heads of people from the future as gospel truth and forever taint their views of the time in question. It is when lies and mistruths are carved in stone and we close the book on the era in question with a disappointed sigh and wonder how could people live like that?

2020 has, in most important ways, been a shitshow. Interestingly enough, “shitshow” is in the dictionary which I think technically makes it a real word. It’s defined as “a situation or event marked by chaos or controversy.” Based on the definition and the general crass nature of the word, I’d like to nominate it as 2020’s official word of the year. It’s perfect.

In addition to massive unemployment, corrupt and incompetent national leadership, and generally selfish behavior, we got murder hornets, wild fires, drought, QAnon, and endless lies about election fraud. In a way, it’s a perfect ending; a wonderful, pride-obliterating karmic bitch-slap for our choices. Oh, and there’s still a pandemic going on with a new and exciting strain of virus that appears to be easier to spread.

Yay, us.

Looking at the world through those eyes, shitshow is the only accurate descriptor of the year even though dumpster fire comes in a close second. But, here’s the thing: We’ve been through worse and pulled through. There are scars and torn muscles, but as a species we’ve survived. As of this writing, the worldwide death toll for Covid is about 1.79 million. Now, granted, that’s 1.79 million people that should still be with us, but after a couple of years of running roughshod over the world, the Spanish Flu had whacked 50 million. We learned from it. Well, most of us did, anyway. Some dumbass motherfuckers still think Covid’s a hoax and their religious freedoms trump your right to stay alive. Worse, apparently it’s illegal to punch those jackasses.

But we’ve seen economic collapses before. We’ve had natural disasters and incompetent leaders and wars and pandemics and general strife. At the end of the day, we survived. The sun goes down, the sun comes up. Gravity still works. There are still good people out there and the world still has a lot going for it. We may hear endless tales of the bastards and all their dirty dealings, but there are more good people quietly doing good things than there will ever be of the bastards.

To quote Colonel Bill Kilgore from Apocalypse Now, “Someday this war’s gonna end.” It’ll leave some scars, sure, but scars just mean you’ve lived. And, hey, if it means we get to keep working from home, that’s a good thing. After all, I’ve spent too much time in comfortable clothes to ever go back.

Right now, I have to believe there’s still magic in the world. This is just us living through history. Some day, the movie theaters and salad bars will come back. Some day we’ll put the masks safely away and do our best to make sure we never need them again. The world will likely never be the same normal as before, but we can make it a better normal because we’ve lived through it and now know how to deal with it. Go out there and write the history. Include all the blemishes and horrors. Tell the truth, no matter the cost.

Goodbye 2020. You were a vicious bastard but in the end, we beat your ass.

Read Me Shrugging

I’ve got a master’s degree in speech communication with an emphasis on rhetoric and persuasion. Basically, this means I spent a lot of time and money learning how to analyze you while you’re talking and figure out the best way to warp you into doing what I want. What can I say, my college offered a degree in functional supervillainy and I took ’em up on it. Although, if I were to be truthful, I’d have to admit I had no idea what to study and the communication department gave me a scholarship for speech and debate, so why not speech comm?

Oddly, it’s proven to be a useful degree, largely due to the supervillain-level tips and tactics for interaction and manipulation. So, if you’re still trying to figure out what you want to study, it’s a good degree to have because even though I’m a programmer and author, I still deal with people regularly and getting an understanding of how they communicate has been a nice tool to have.

It’s been said, “It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it”. People pay far more attention to the nonverbal cues than you’d think. The way a person stands or how much eye contact they give or whether they’re wringing their hands can tell you volumes more than what they’re actually saying. Those nonverbal cues can also completely override the verbal message or at least drastically change its meaning. I’ve told people no one likes them and since I had a smile on my face at the time, they thought I was joking and we were now best buddies. Narrator Voice: No one, in fact, liked that person.

That’s our good buddy nonverbal communication coming to visit. And the people who like point out how something was said are absolutely correct to make note of that. Estimates vary, but somewhere between 70% and 93% of communication is nonverbal. I’m not sure how anyone arrived at these numbers – especially the strangely precise 93% – but there are people who get paid to study these things and I don’t really have any good reason to doubt them. Maybe I could find a YouTube video put out by some huckster that supports my viewpoint, but I’m lazy and most of the hucksters on YouTube are busy putting out videos trying to prove Covid is a liberal hoax and Donald Trump won the election. When you’re working that hard to promote that level of complete bullshit, there’s very little time left to conquer nonverbal communication statistics. That and, frankly, no one cares that nonverbal communication is a Chinese hoax perpetrated by the liberals to, uh, do stuff. Bad stuff. Very, very bad stuff. Trust us, we have mountains of evidence.

So, non-existing propaganda aside, we send a huge amount of communication through our nonverbal channels. The cock of the head, a wink, a raised eyebrow, a subtle cough, a red face, a finger shaking with rage. These things color the verbal message and, in many cases, completely override the verbal message. Image a man, red faced and shaking, his right eye twitching and he stabs his finger in your face over and over while yelling, “YES! I AGREE WITH YOU! FRIED OREOS ARE GREAT!” Narrator Voice: Fried Oreos are, in fact, great.

The verbal message is one of total agreement: Fried Oreos are great. Taken on its own, this describes a person who you could probably hang out with, happily munching on fried Oreos until the saturated fats clogged your arteries and shut down your hearts. Maybe in the afterlife fried Oreos will be waiting for you. Unless you wind up the bad afterlife where all you have fried knock-off Oreos that are far inferior to the real thing and you have to enjoy them while discussing the finer points of international banking with doddering idiot who keeps stealing all the cookies for himself.

Put yourself in the position and think about what you’re seeing. That verbal message about the Oreos will be completely overridden by the angry guy stabbing his finger at you. The takeaway is he’s pissed as hell and is right on the edge of going physical with it. He could be shouting nonsense. “MAN! WOMAN! PERSON! TV! CAMERA!” and it wouldn’t matter one bit because the part you’re going to focus on is whether or not it’s a good idea to just drop that fool right then and there before things get out of hand.

Nonverbal communication is the ultimate representation of that age-old writing adage of “show, don’t tell” because no one is going to shout “I’m very angry right now” without getting laughed at. And, let’s face it, stating the obvious is major boring shit. For instance:

  • “I agree with you! Fried Oreos are great!” he shouted angrily.
  • He was angry. “I agree with you! Fried Oreos are great!”

Booorrring.

But let’s toss our good buddy nonverbal communication into the mix:

Jacob’s finger shook inches away from my nose. His eyes, beady under the best of circumstances, twitched and pirouetted above his beet-red face. Sunlight danced on the flecks of spittle erupting from his mouth. “I agree with you! Fried Oreos are great!”

The takeaway? Never once mentioned anger or rage, but it’s obvious from the context. Jacob agrees with me, but he hates himself for it. And let me just say, self-loathing is an apt feeling after a couple of deep-fried Oreos.

Nonverbal cues aren’t rocket surgery to write. Some things – cadence, for instance – can be tough to put into words, but describing what an angry person or lust-filled Medusa or even nervous people who’ve been tapped to have sex with lust-filled Medusas is easy. Watch people for a while. Next time you’re in a conversation pay close, conscious attention to what their body is doing while they talk to you. Some people have grandiose hand gestures that come out when they’re excited. Others scrunch into a little ball and mumble when called on in Zoom meetings. Some people pound tables, others click ballpoint pens frantically. Everyone has a tick, all you have to do is remember it and apply it to a character.

Or you could just, you know, state the obvious, he said, sad that no one paid attention.

Comments, as always, are welcome and appreciated. Especially if they come with fried Oreos. Narrator Voice: Please do not send fried Oreos.

This Symbol Does Not Belong To You

Last year, Nike planned on introducing their Betsy Ross shoes. They were basically a variety of fancy red, white, and blue sneakers with the original Betsy Ross flag on them. Kind of cool idea; the sneakerheads dug them. Since they were Nikes, they were probably going to cost a small fortune, but be good shoes. That came to halt because of, among other things, a comment from Colin Kaepernick about the unintentional message of slavery and racial divisions that had become linked to that original flag.

Kool in an “I need orthopedic shoes” kind of way.

Now, I won’t debate Kaepernick on that. He’s probably got a lot more first-hand experience with racism than I ever will. Being a white guy in America, the closest I ever came to being on the receiving end of racism was when a truck was backing up and someone said, “Better move, white boy.”

That was it.

So, for me to say I have some in-depth understanding of racial division in America after one off-handed comment would be a lie. That’s why I’m happy to listen to the guy who found a way to protest systematic racism in this country in a peaceful and respectful way and lost his career over it.

There’s been a growing movement in this country for racist fuck-wads to adopt traditional American symbols – such as our flag – and claim they’re the only ones entitled to it. To claim they’re the only “real Americans”. But, the country was supposedly founded on freedom and equality and, in my mind, that means knocking other people down to feel better about yourself is anathema to being an American.

And that’s a problem because at the end of the day, we’re all Americans and you don’t get to point at someone and say, “You’re not American enough”. And, yes, I am fully aware that right now I am pointing at people and saying, “You’re not American enough”. The difference is, I’m not pointing at people because of the color of their skin or their sexual preferences or what religion they belong to. I’m pointing at all the motherfuckers that have managed to turn the flag of my country into a manifesto of white nationalism. I’m pointing at every dipshit who thinks only people in his or her party love the country. Yes, I’m pointing my finger straight between your beady little eyes and reminding you that I’m a liberal and I was proud of my country before every two-bit, knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing pieces of double-smoked butt-jerky decided it was theirs.

So, no. You assholes don’t get to keep the flag. That flag belongs to everyone in this country whether you like them or not. And I think it’s time we took it back from the bastards who want to keep it from us.

Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to remember what our country is supposed to stand for and be able to wear its symbols without giving handouts to the Nazi swine. We’re not a perfect country and we have a long way to go before we get the “Liberty and justice for all” part of our nation’s story. Until then, I’m going to at least rip that flag out of the hands of the ones who’d use it to beat the rest of us down.