After wanting to go ever since I was a kid and first discovered the strange tale about the grave of a woman known only as the Female Stranger in Alexandria, VA, I've wanted to go. A man and a sick woman, presumably his wife, get off a ship and find lodging above Gadsby's Tavern. She dies and is buried, the gravestone carved into a table marking her final resting place, and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. See my earlier blog entry about the subject for more details.

Finally, this year as a late birthday present for us both, my long-time friend Penny took us on 22 August 2018. It was a gray day. Foggy with a drizzling rain. Penny's GPS took us into the cemetery, along a grassy path, and right to the easily recognizable grave marker.

As an offering, we both placed some change on top the table, as so many others before have done and as so many after us will most likely do. In the concrete surrounding the grave, you can see the remnants of the wrought iron fence that used to surround the grave; it was sawed off, scavenged during World War I.

The cemetery was eerily quiet this rainy day. In fact, other than Penny and myself, there was only one other person in the entire cemetery--a single caretaker who was cutting grass in the rain. Every once in a while, there would be a strike of lightning and a clap of thunder. Creepy. Like I was supposed to be there on that day.

Having waited nearly my whole life to visit, it was well worth the trip, even in the weather.

We had a moment of silence for the woman whose identity no one knew, except for the man with whom she'd gotten off the shop, and then spent some time wandering through the huge, old cemetery in the rain, discovering a lot of other pretty cool gravestones.

Penny decided, instead of heading straight back home after visiting Gadsby's Tavern, we should have lunch there and then visit the old hotel part and see the room where the Female Stranger lay ill and ultimately died. Lunch was tasty. They made me a huge salad with mixed greens, peanuts, grapes, onions, tomatoes, and fresh cut fries that were as crispy as I like them, and also made me a dressing. And then Penny and I went over to the hotel part where they took us on a tour, all the way up to the mysterious and infamous room! I've heard stories where people have claimed to see the spirit of the Female Stranger looking out the window upstairs, but I have to tell you, I didn't feel her presence at all. I like to think she found peace and moved Beyond the Veil.

Our waiter asked if we wanted him to take a picture of us in the dining room of the historic tavern.

Finally, we were shown to Room 8 and the tour guide left us alone to take pictures and just hang out for awhile.

We had a great time, on par with our visit to Point Pleasant, WV, to see Mothman a few years back. We want to make a return visit either next summer or the following.

Greetings, Salutations, and other words of Welcome.

I've been compiling many of my old short stories, ones I wrote over a decade ago before I began working on my first book Into the Mirror Black, when I was creating a universe of my own. While I never intended for anyone other than myself to ever read these stories, I wrote them as a means of fleshing out this world I was creating--so I had an entire canvas from which to draw inspiration, if you will.

And then I realized: I enjoy reading collections of older stories from my favorite authors, so why shouldn't I put together one of my own?

That's how I came up with the idea of the Evangelium Scarabae, although instead of one volume I wanted to slice it into three slender volumes, the first of which is entitled By Gaslight. These are the edits I'm working on as we speak and my hope it to have the book ready in time for my birthday in early June.

But that's all I will say about it for now.

Let's talk about the little black kitty.

Just over a month ago, this tiny black kitty showed up at my house, barely big enough to be away from mama and completely feral--not aggressive but skittish to the point I knew he hadn't wandered away from home but was indeed born outside. Of course, I put out food and water and the kitty stayed close by, making a bed in the leaves beneath a tomato cage on its side. The weather was still warm enough but it was getting damp, so I put a towel down so the kitten didn't have to sleep in the leaves.

I attempted for two weeks to catch the kitten--it would sometimes let me touch it with the tip of my finger, but would be gone in a flash if I attempted more than that--because the weather was getting colder and colder and I knew the forecast was calling for temperatures well below freezing. No matter how I cajoled or what treat I tried to use as temptation, the kitten wouldn't come to me. Neither would it go into the trap--I dislike that word--I borrowed. The kitten was a good little baby and was always in its tomato cage bed curled up on the towel. As the temperature continued to drop, I worried I would find the little baby frozen.

My thought was if I couldn't catch it and bring it into the house, I could make a feral cat house for it so it wouldn't freeze in the extreme cold.

So I built one.

It wouldn't even go in it.

I thought maybe I would hedge my bets, and so I built a second feral cat house.

No dice.

The only thing I could think of was to take an old, heavy hunting coat out and drape it over the wire tomato cage to help provide some shelter for this little black cat. Still, that didn't help my worrying. Numbers on the thermometer kept getting lower and lower, and I just knew this kitten was not equipped--it was too tiny, for one thing.

After a couple weeks, I was standing outside late, late one night and the kitten dared to come up on the porch and start eating. I thought, "This is my one and only chance." Tentatively, I crouched down and reached out a finger to touch it on the head. Deep purrs erupted from it and it miraculously rolled over on its back--cat speak for "rub my belly." So I did.

Surreptitiously, I slipped in my other hand to rub its belly. Then I betrayed its trust, but for good reasons. I knew I was not going to get another shot. I grabbed it tightly and rushed into the house and upstairs to my bedroom, all the while this kitten struggling in my grasp and yowling.

But at least it was now inside and out of the terrible cold.

It hid under my bed, coming out only after I went to bed or to work, in order to eat and drink. It used the litter box right from the very beginning without any issues.

On the third week, it would venture out from under the bed--where it made its own bed in the box spring, like a hammock--and sat close to me, keeping a wary eye on me at all times. Once in awhile, it would let me rub its head, and even rolled over to let me rub its belly a time or two in the following weeks. I don't know yet if he's a he or she's a she, because I couldn't tell when it rolled over. My guess is it's too young to have been neutered--unless it's not old enough to see the boy bits yet--so it is probably a girl.

The kitty has more than doubled in size since it has been in the house the past three-four weeks. My goal is to get it comfy and situated, and then I will take it into the vet for a check up. The name will be either Morgan or Morgana de Montserrat-Montague, depending on what the vet tell me.

Last night, for the first time, the kitty got up on the bed and sat with me while I worked on some of the edits for By Gaslight. Progress bit by bit. He or she is a love bug, and loves pets and belly rubs, and purrs like a big rig engine. Talkative, too. Meows in response to everything I say.

I will keep you updated and post a picture as soon as he or she is more comfortable.

As for the chocolate chip cookies: I need to quit eating so many or I'll be so big I won't be able to fit in or out of the front door. I found a vegan brand I like and I think nothing of eating an entire box while reading a book or watching television. I'm trying to limit myself to one row--a box contains three rows of approximately six or seven cookies per row--but I'm not always successful. I readily admit I lack discipline.

Okay, before this becomes a novel, I shall say goodnight.

Nighty-nightmares...

By Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven is perhaps my favorite piece of poetry. It's very vivid in its imagery. First published in 1845, Poe made several revisions over the the years, small ones, and these revisions are evident in the various published forms of the poem. I read it to myself as I lay on his original resting spot in Baltimore, MD, on 19 September 2015 when I visited.

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore --
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door --
  Only this and nothing more.”


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
  Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
   This it is and nothing more.”


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; —--
    Darkness there and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” --
Merely this and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
 ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
   Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
   With such name as “Nevermore.”


But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
  Then the bird said “Nevermore.”


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
   Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”


But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
   Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
  Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore --
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting --
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!



If you would like to hear The Raven read by Sir Christopher Lee, please click here.
The words are included in the video, or you can play it in the background and follow along with the poem above.
Perhaps you would care to listen to Omnia's version instead.
They have altered a word here and there, but it's still a lovely version. Click here.
Enjoy, all you pretty people out there in the dark...

Almost three years ago to the day I wrote this entry. I've always found this fascinating and I think it warrants a share.

Art speaks to different people in different ways. There are a few pieces of art I like enough to have prints matted and framed so I can hang it in my house and enjoy it every time I look at it. (I'm sure that's a run-on sentence and not quite grammatically correct, but it is what it is.) I don't need my art to speak to me; I hear enough voices. Rather, if it visually appeals to me, then I like it. I realize that may make me sound like a Philistine, but at least I'm being honest. It's the same for me when I'm reading a book or watching a show or film: while learning is wonderful, I don't always have to be educated; it can simply be entertaining. One can like a work of art simply because it is appealing without having to worry whether or not one is learning anything from it. At least, I think so.

The first piece of my favorite art is an oil on canvas work by an unknown 17th Century Flemish artist entitled Plague: Dance of the Rats. Now, being as the artist is unknown, I don't know if that is the title he or she truly bestowed upon it, but it fits it rather well. I love this painting so much I wrote it into one of the books I'm currently writing. I shan't tell you the title of the book; you'll just have to read all of them to find out.
I'm not exactly sure what attracts me to this specific piece. Admittedly, I heart rats in a major way--having adopted several who were in need of homes--but there's something about them standing and holding hands--paws?--as if they're secretly plotting something sinister that appeals to me.
Or, they could simply be dancing. Possibly practicing for the May pole festivities. One would presume they are in the midst of a rousing game of "Ring Around the Roses," which according to widespread belief about the Plague, describing the symptoms and ending with all falling down--or dying. However, the idea the rhyme is associated with the Plague only came into being in the early 1900s so it is highly suspect.
Rats are wrongly branded scapegoats when it comes to the spreading of the plague, when in fact the plague was caused by the Yersinia pestis bacterium, which is usually spread through the bite of an infected flea. The Great Plague of London killed nearly one-quarter of the city's population, an estimated 100,000 people.

The next piece of art is by Edvard Munch. Or should I say pieces? Because the title The Scream has actually been given to four versions of this iconic masterpiece. Well, technically five, because Munch created a stone in 1895 in order for lithograph prints to be made--of which approximately 40-50 were printed and some were colored by Munch--before the stone was resurfaced without Munch's consent and I bet he was not happy.

Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes’s, better known to the world by the mononym Goya, The Great He-Goat is certainly on my list and I would love a life-size version in a great ornate carved wood frame to be hung above my fireplace. Also known as Witches’ Sabbath, but not to be confused with another painting of the same name done by Goya earlier in 1798 and which is also on my list, it was one of the fourteen Black Paintings Goya created on the plaster walls of his home in the latter years of his life and discovered about fifty years after his death; it is not known to have been named by him and if it was, the original name was never spoken or written down.

I love this work by Goya. Sure, it can be construed as being of dark subject matter, but it is enthralling and I can stare at it for hours on end. Completed around 1821-1823, it was cut down from the wall to be preserved. Unfortunately, about fifty-five inches were cut off from the right-hand side, however the painting is still the biggest of the Black Paintings--measuring fifty-six inches high by one hundred seventy-two inches wide. It has been described as "spectral" and "haunting."

I'm a big fan of the work created by Dutch artist Maurits Cornelis Escher, perhaps better known as M.C. Escher. His mathematically-inspired works draw me in visually, especially when impossible buildings are the subject. I used to have an oversize book of his creations I bought during a field trip to Washington, D.C. while i was at university. Unfortunately, it was lost, as so much was, in the fire. While it is difficult for me to choose favorites from his artwork, I have managed to narrow it down to a handful of those which endlessly enchant and captivate me.

I hope you've enjoyed me sharing some of my favorite works of art with you. There are so many others I could have added to this list--such as Salvador Dali's The Sacrament of the Last Supper, 1955, and Swans Reflecting Elephants, 1937--but I shall save them for perhaps another blog entry.
On second thought, take a look at these two glorious works of art and see what you think!

This Dali painting puts me in the mind of an ambigram--I am a big fan of ambigrams and have always wanted to have one of my book titles done as one--and I've always wanted to get a print of this and frame it. It's just a cool work of art.

If I remember correctly, I was enthralled by this painting in a college art history class. The instructor said it was the first time, hopefully I am recalling this information correctly, Jesus Christ had been portrayed as a blond man. Still, I like how Dali had played with the solidity of the scene, or should I say the lack of solidity?

Thank you for taking the time to stroll with me through some of my favorite works of art. I hope i have educated as well as entertained you.
Check out my art, my books on Amazon.com and feel free to spread the word about them. Word of mouth is the most effective form of publicity!
Into the Mirror Black
Angels of the Seventh Dawn
Angels of the Mourning Light
A Christmas Canticle
and
Rhayven House

And don't forget the animals. Donations of time, money, and supplies are always appreciated by shelters, rescues, and sanctuaries. You would be surprised if you knew how many lives a jar of change will save. A few dollars here and there—skip a couple coffees a month or a pack of cigarettes—help save lives of animals people threw away.
            Keep your donations local and you will be able to see first-hand exactly how they are used.
            If you can't donate money or supplies, how about  giving of some of your time? An hour or two a week to play with kittens and cats or to walk a dog keeps the animals socialized, friendly, so they don't cower away from potential adoptive parents.
            Maybe you could volunteer a couple hours here and there to be part of a transport to help an animal reach his or her forever home. If not, how about offering a transporter and an animal a place to stay for the night before they set out on the journey once more?
            There are so many and different ways to help.
            We can make a difference.
            We can do some good.
            We can save lives.

In addition to my novella A Christmas Canticle--my homage to Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol--being rereleased this season in both Kindle and paperback on Amazon, I've also written a little song for you as a gift.

It's called The Days of Christmas.
 
On the first day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
an alien anal probing!
 
On the second day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
2 ativan and an alien anal probing!
 
On the third day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
10 saucer sightings, 9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
11 inch-tall figures, 10 saucer sightings, 9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
12 fresh-baked cookies, 11 inch-tall figures, 10 saucer sightings, 9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the thirteenth day of Christmas because twelve were not enough:
I moved without a forwarding address!


Did you enjoy my song?
You're so very welcome! And remember, tell everyone you know about my novella A Christmas Canticle available on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon, please and thank you!

My holiday novella has just been re-released in a new edition. To set this second edition apart from the first, because I love the cover so much I decided to use it again, I've chosen a matte finish as opposed to the glossy of the previous edition and this time around the pages are cream rather than white. Instead of 1.5 spacing, I did single spacing and that allowed me to add some additional details to the story and keep A Christmas Canticle at a slender 102 pages, and that allowed the price to be reduced to $5.99--perfect for jingle gifts or as stocking stuffers!

Many thanks to my friend and designer Laura Meese for working with me to alter the cover for my novella. !

This is the review for my holiday tale A Christmas Canticle from A Grave Interest website.

A Christmas Canticle is available on Amazon.com in both kindle and paperback.

Book Review: A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger

For those of us who love a good ghost story, no matter what time of year it is, Frank E. Bittinger provides a fun holiday read with A Christmas Canticle.

Channeling Charles Dickens' novella A Christmas Carol for inspiration, Bittinger gives us his version of Ebenezer Scrooge - Bronson Ghostley, a demanding gothic horror author, paranormal television star, and all-around media personality who has no time for sentiment or holidays.

This twist on the familiar holiday tale has been up-dated to the 21st century complete with cell phones, DVDs and the internet. Although the story is predictable as to the purpose of the visiting spirits (And how could it not be?), Bittinger leads us along with enough interesting details that we accept Ghostley as a modern-day Scrooge.

His spin on Marley’s ghost is unique and interesting, especially when you begin to understand the backstory of Ghostley’s childhood. The Ghost of Christmas Past has a unique vision, offering Ghostley “two sides of the same coin.”

The Spirit of Christmas Present provides more illumination into what makes Ghostley tick, reminding him, and us, that “even when we can see, sometimes we are still blind.”

The final spirit, the dreaded Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, is a “real bite in the ass” according to Ghostley. But the death coach that propels Ghostley into the future does seem pretty cool!

All in all, A Christmas Canticle is an enjoyable holiday read offering a message that transcends religious ideology and simply asks that we treat our fellow man, woman, and the animals, with respect and caring.

[The Youngblood’s 1960s song Get Together kept running through my mind as the perfect soundtrack for this book:
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now]

The Author and A Friend
Bittinger originally wrote his book as a Kindle exclusive to raise money for animals in need.  Now available in paperback, a portion of the royalties from A Christmas Canticle are used to assist in rescuing and caring for animals that have been abused and neglected. So go ahead, order the book and enjoy the guilty pleasure of reading a rejuvenated Christmas novella by the fire knowing that you're helping to save lives, too.

A Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good read!

~ Joy


About the Author:
Over the centuries, Frank Bittinger has experienced many existences. In this incarnation, Mr. Bittinger is a vegan who lives and writes in Western Maryland, sharing his home with a menagerie of pets, several alternate personalities, and the occasional ghost. One of his favorite pastimes is taking walks in old cemeteries in the evening. Ancient Egypt holds a fascination for him; he has a scarab beetle tattoo between his shoulder blades as well as a collection of Egyptian items and books in his deep, dark red bedroom. Learn more about the author at his web site: http://www.frankebittinger.com


Book Details:
A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger
Published and available at  Amazon   (2014)

            This is Sker House.
            Welcome.
            Dale and Lucy come to the centuries-old, four-story mansion that has been converted into an inn in South Wales to investigate the rumors of paranormal happenings.
            Machen, the present owner, has forbidden Dale and Lucy from investigating the final floor, using the excuse the renovations were never completed.
            Things go bump in the night. Lucy senses things Champ, the old German shepherd, probably sees, and soon she is sleepwalking around upstairs on the fourth floor.
            Is it the Maid of Sker lurking about and staring out windows on the fourth floor?
            There is something about the fourth floor.
            And perhaps something else hidden away deeper within.
            Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.
            Welcome to Sker House, where even the ground is poisoned and nothing but the most stubborn of weeds will flourish. But there is a mysterious walled garden. Or is there? Perhaps that’s one of the secrets Sker House intends to keep.
            The key to everything is within reach.
            And then a storm blows in from the sea and the power goes out, and confessions are made, history revealed, and secrets unveiled inside the old mansion.
            Magic may be forgotten over time, but time does nothing to dilute it.
            The past will always come back to haunt you.
            The desolate, claustrophobic feel of Sker House is enjoyable to those of us who like our ghost stories full of cold drafts, shadows, and faces in windows. It’s a different but familiar tale, an homage to the classic ghost tales, and that’s a great thing.
            And it’s more.
            Sometimes what happened in the past has dire repercussions in the present.
            I enjoyed every eerie page.
            Consider this your invitation to Sker House. Come and experience it for yourself.

Welcome back, all you readers out there in the dark.
I've come to let you know about my latest offering. Rhayven House is available on Amazon.com!
You know how I love ghost stories and tales of haunted houses.

My fantastic friend and graphic designer Laura Meese created the wrap-around cover. I think it's awesome.
And the story could very well be my favorite so far!
Pass it along and tell everyone you know, please and thank you!

Rhayven House:
The old house literally captured his attention with a flash of light, almost as if it had intentionally signaled him.

Ian Harket knew he wanted it as soon as he laid his eyes upon it, regardless of how much work needed to be done.

Even before he actually moved into the house, some odd, unexplainable things happened.

After he moved in, he began to really experience the strangeness for himself, and he got the distinct feeling the presence in the house did not want him there.

For all those military and law enforcement personnel
—men, women, and animals--
—past, present, and future--
who work so hard to make the world safe
and to protect me.



 “If HGTV’s Fixer Upper merged with SyFy’s Ghost Hunters, it wouldn’t be nearly as good as Rhayven House! Readers will love the chills (including an inexplicably icy doorknob), the surprises, the uncovering of secrets, and the hero, Ian. It's a touch of Grand Guignol. To paraphrase Poe, 'Quoth the raven—buy this book!'”
                                                                                                    --Savannah Russe, USA Today Bestselling Author

By Edgar Allan Poe, this is perhaps my favorite piece of poetry. It's very vivid in its imagery. First published in 1845, Poe made several revisions over the the years, small ones, and these revisions are evident in the various published forms of the poem. I read it to myself as I lay on his original resting spot in Baltimore, MD, on 19 September 2015 when I visited.

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore --
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door --
  Only this and nothing more.”


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
  Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
   This it is and nothing more.”


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; —--
    Darkness there and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” --
Merely this and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
 ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
   Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
   With such name as “Nevermore.”


But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
  Then the bird said “Nevermore.”


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
   Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”


But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
   Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
  Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore --
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting --
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!



If you would like to hear The Raven read by Sir Christopher Lee, please click here.
The words are included in the video, or you can play it in the background and follow along with the poem above.
Perhaps you would care to listen to Omnia's version instead.
They have altered a word here and there, but it's still a lovely version. Click here.
Enjoy, all you pretty people out there in the dark...