Showing posts with label book tour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book tour. Show all posts

Thursday, October 1, 2020

Haunted Halloween Spectacular Book Party

All month I'm participating in a Halloween Spectacular book party...similar to the book tour in August. This one includes multiple authors and multiple giveaways. Visit each spot for another chance to enter the giveaways.

Here's the list of tour stops:
October 1 JB's Bookworms with Brandy Mulder
https://jbbookworms.blogspot.com

October 2 Midnight Musings with Bertena
https://vocal.media/authors/midnight-...

October 5 T's Stuff
http://www.tsstuff.net

October 6 Supernatural Central
http://supernaturalcentral.blogspot.com

October 7 Lisa’s World of Books
http://www.lisasworldofbooks.net/

October 8 Bewitching Book Tours
https://bewitchingbooktours.tumblr.com/

October 9 Serena Synn
https://serenasynn.blogspot.com/

October 12 Gail’s Gory Details
https://gailsgorydetails.blogspot.com/

October 13 A Bewitching Guide to Halloween
https://www.abewitchingguidetohallowe...

October 14 Celia Breslin
http://www.celiabreslin.com/blog/

October 15 Fang-tastic Books
http://fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com

October 16 Paranormalists
https://paranormalists.blogspot.com/

October 19 Beauty in Ruins
https://femledfantasy.home.blog

October 20 Roxanne’s Realm
http://www.roxannerhoads.com/

October 21 The Creatively Green Write at Home Mom
http://creativelygreen.blogspot.com/

October 22 Jazzy Book Reviews
http://bookreviewsbyjasmine.blogspot....

October 23 Momma Says: To Read or Not to Read
http://mommasaystoreadornottoread.blo...

October 26 The Book Junkie Reads
https://thebookjunkiereadspromos.blog...

October 27

October 28 SImply Kelina
http://simplykelina.blogspot.com

October 29 Sapphyria's Books
https://saphsbooks.blogspot.com/

October 30 Books Beans and Botany
https://booksbeansandbotany.com/


Good luck! 

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Haunted Halloween Spooktacular Featured Author Today is Jamie K. Schmidt!

I love the title of Jamie K. Schmidt's novel, The Graveyard Shift. You see, I'm one of those folks who is a natural night owl so I've loved jobs where I worked graveyard shifts. I tend to be up late and do my best work while others sleep. I also love a bit of the supernatural and paranormal in my fiction so this book intrigued me. Hopefully it will interest you too!



The Graveyard Shift
By Jamie K. Schmidt

Genre: paranormal romance

ISBN: 1534805680
ASIN: B0177E5Z8S


Book Description:

Erotic, Sexy and Sweet tales of vampires, ghosts, mages, shifters and dreamers of dreams.

In this story collection, you will enter an adult bookstore run by two vampires and partake in the bloodletting and sex, see a witch accidentally summon a vampire who gains power through love making, and then go clubbing with an urban vampire.

However, vampires aren't the only supernatural beings in this compelling collection of stories. Ghosts jam with their favorite rock bands. A Grail Maiden helps protect Arthur's cup, and a paralyzed cyber mercenary finds love inside virtual reality.




 Excerpt:

Deirdre was a European princess whose lineage, no one dared question too closely.  She kept close companionship with Viola, a dark Countess of equal renown and deadly beauty.  In a time where the night was feared, they flourished and fed at all the best parties of the nobility. 
The Princess was as fair and fey as a moonbeam with silver hair and cerulean eyes.  She lived for excess and to play with her new found friends. 
The Countess was the opposite side of the coin.  With raven locks and soulless black eyes, she was a lithe viper who struck quickly and gleaned minions from the throngs of addled noblemen.
But good times always end, even for immortal royalty and when the church's mercenaries, The Prophecy of the Eye, became too interested in the beautiful thralls encircling the Princess and the Countess, the parties suddenly stopped.
This cycle continued for many centuries.  Deirdre and Viola graced Czarist Russia, continued on to Gay Paris and finally to the New World in gin joints and sleazy jazz dives of the Big Easy. 
While America lacked the polished old world charm and the distinct respect for one's betters, it also provided more of everything else, from money and thrills, to gambling and illegal liquor.
Its wide terrain allowed the Princess and the Countess to move from state to state until technology caught up with them and they learned the value of keeping a low profile.  They were able to exploit the innocence of the forties and fifties, but were swept away into a drunken frenzy of Free Love. 
By the late seventies, they reached a rhythm that was blown away by the "Me" generation of the eighties and the cynical creep of the 90's that exposed the world's monsters in vivid detail across television screens and eventually the Internet.
Now in the new millennia, there is nowhere to hide and no other frontiers to explore.  They found out the luxuries of the day could be gone in an instant.  Swiss bank accounts could be seized and the Princess and the Countess could be among the nouveau poor, scraping their living feeding off homeless and runaways.  They have become merchants, biding their time and hoping for another renaissance of excess.
An ignoble end for two from the finest Carpathian bloodlines. 
Perhaps a fitting end some may say, for however pretty the monsters are, they are still creatures of the night— or from hell as the church's mercenaries proclaim. 
The church's vanguards have also migrated from Europe. And like the Princess and the Countess, they have morphed and remade themselves to fit the times.  Always hunting, they are similar to the women they chase, although they would balk to see the comparison.  The church mercenaries seek to destroy magic and any evil that lives outside their doctrine.
Whether their victims deserve their fate or not is irrelevant. 
It was so much easier for both during the simple times, where murder was accepted and random acts of violence and carnage need not be explained for helicopters with news teams or amateur videographers.  They've learned a new dance for the modern world and it is kept to a very fine line.  Like the sword of Damocles, the truce poises hair thin.  It is not a matter of if that strand will break, but when.
And darkness save the innocents caught between.

Dream Killer
Flash Fiction By Jamie K. Schmidt

I swore I was going to do it. And this time, I meant it. He had finally gone too far,
pushed my last button, and said the unforgivable.
“When I married you my dreams died.”
The fight ended quickly after that. In the vacuum silence of words that can’t be taken back, he looked as stunned as I felt. But he put up his chin with false bravado and waited for my one-two riposte. I merely left the room.
The apartment shook when he crashed the door open. He peeled out of the complex driveway in a puff of smoke and burned rubber. A huge belch came from the living room and the stench of burning sulphur wafted into my study. I came out to investigate. My husband’s words had summoned forth a creature that was too small to be a demon, too malevolent to be an imp. The creature was straddling the couch. Its
yellow eyes were narrowed at me. It hissed, showing pointy teeth. I crept closer and it swiped out at me, its bony arms like broomsticks. His scissor bladed claws cut the sleeve of my robe. I backed away, threw a pillow at it. It caught it and shredded it into confetti. What was warlock born could not be witched away but it also could not harm me. I hissed back at it and cast a protective spell around my cat, whose back was arched like the letter A.
Three days of silence passed. My husband was grumpy and sullen, rattling the paper and slamming dishes to fill up the emptiness and the quiet. I moved like the walking wounded. There was a hole in my soul where happiness once lived. I was numb.
The creature would appear and disappear. Always watching, never attacking us. It
played with itself, picked its nose. But for the most part was content with existing in the silence of our world. If my husband noticed it, he gave no sign. I ignored it.
After a week, things gradually started returning to normal. I still pretended to be asleep when he came to bed, when I wasn’t in my office all night staring at the world map and wondering if anyone out there hurt as much as I did. We didn’t talk, but I found I could meet my husband’s eyes. I saw no apology in them, but I really didn’t expect to. The creature faded slightly, became translucent.
But as I became angrier at the unfairness, the creature fed on my emotions. As I thought, “Did he think that he was the only one who sacrificed, compromised?”, it solidified again. Its teeth and claws elongated and curved into Kris daggers. The creature followed me around and would preen when I clenched and unclenched my fist.
Back in our routine, my husband would go to work and come home. I stopped making supper or cleaning the house. He could do his own laundry and fend for himself. I made phone calls and robotically did what I had to do. He would stay in watching television or stay out late in bars. I didn’t care either way. The creature would curl up on the couch beside him or swing from the drapes, depending on our moods.
Today, I heard my husband in the shower and I walked over to the window of my study and laid my forehead against the window pane. The sensation was like eating ice cream too fast and I had a giddy recollection of summer time. The door slammed and jolted me away from tire swings and seagulls. I sipped my coffee as I watched him get into his car and drive to work. He never looked up. I wonder if he even thought of me.
The creature plastered its tongue on the window, making huge streaks. Shortly after ten, the movers arrived. I sat on my kitchen counter and watched them professionally pack up my things. The creature, hidden by my invisibility spell, danced around them and jumped from box to box.
“No, that stays.” I said when they started towards the TV set. I directed them to my office and went back to my perch, slowly stirring a head ache relief potion.
The movers were expensive. But if I had to carry box after box into my car all by myself I never would have left him. It wasn’t the first time, I sat contemplating leaving. I would grab a handful of clothes from the closet and got as far as the bed with them. I’d sit and wonder if I should donate most to the Salvation Army before packing. Then I would chide myself for giving up. And I would talk myself into staying. It was harder to leave than in was to stay. We had been playing at being happy for a long time.
I received my power from my dreams and prayers. If I had made him impotent by
marrying him, then I could rectify that by leaving him. I picked up my cat and my purse and walked out to the car.
When my husband came home tonight, I wanted him to see the living room as it always was. He wouldn’t notice that my books or my knitting would be gone. Maybe he’d watch TV for a bit. Maybe he would go into the kitchen to raid the leftovers or to pop a frozen dinner in the microwave. He wouldn’t notice my coffee mugs were missing or that my teapot collection had been lovingly removed.
But he would see the creature, formed out of his belligerence and sustained by our
negative emotions. I looked up from the parking lot to see it rubbing its butt cheeks against the study windows. They would make a good couple.

The End






About the Author:

USA Today bestselling author, Jamie K. Schmidt, writes erotic contemporary love stories and paranormal romances.  Her steamy, romantic comedy Life’s a Beach reached #65 on USA Today, #2 on Barnes and Noble and #9 on Amazon.  Her Club Inferno series from Random House’s Loveswept line has hit both the Amazon and Barnes and Noble top one hundred lists and the first book in the series, Heat put her on the USA Today bestseller list.  Her dragon paranormal romance series from Entangled Publishing, has been called “fun and quirky” and “endearing.” Partnered with New York Times bestselling author and former porn actress, Jenna Jameson, Jamie’s hardcover debut, SPICE, continues Jenna’s FATE trilogy.







Sign up for newsletter: http://jamiekschmidt.weebly.com/

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Friday, September 23, 2016

Vanta M. Black is Today's Featured Author for the Haunted Halloween Spooktacular!





Oubliette: A Forgotten Little Place
By Vanta M. Black

Genre: Fiction, Thriller, Paranormal, Historical Fiction, Genre-Fiction, New Adult, Horror

ISBN: 978-0-9964488-2-6
ISBN: 978-0-9964488-1-9
ISBN: 978-0-9964488-0-2




Book Description:

Veronica knows the monsters aren’t “just in her head”, but no one listens to the headstrong ten-year-old as they tie her to a hospital bed every night.

Years later, after being dumped by her business-partner/boyfriend, Veronica finds herself on the verge of bankruptcy. Then a late-night call promises the perfect solution — a job opportunity decorating a castle in France.

Will Veronica risk what little she has left to chase a fairytale?

When the shadowy things that once terrorized her come back, Veronica must decide how much she’ll sacrifice for them, for her sanity, and for her life.

This epic book consists of interwoven stories with paranormal twists. A horror-filled historical fiction adventure, it spans nearly two millennia.

You'll be transported to an ancient Pagan ritual, Roman-ruled Gaul, the bloody Inquisition of the Knights Templar, France as it's ravaged by the Black Death, the duplicitous Reformation, the Paris Catacombs, and the gory French Revolution, while you unravel Oubliette’s cryptic layers.



Amazon    BN    Author Website

Excerpt One from Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place by Vanta M. Black - From the Prologue to Veronica’s Story
Veronica didn’t understand why they looked for the monsters in her head, that’s obviously not where they were. Instead of listening, the doctors stuck pads with wires to her temples and increased the dosage of an IV that dripped into her veins.
They also told the nurses to tie her down with thick, leather belts every night.
The tethers didn’t matter though, because when the monsters came, she wouldn’t be able to move anyway. The only thing Veronica could ever do was scream.
The doctors called them “night terrors”. The pudgy lady who talked funny –– she told Veronica it was her accent –– said they were “spirits”. Mommy used the term “shadow people”. Veronica just called them “monsters”, and wished they’d stop scaring her when she slept.
They wanted her. Deep inside, on a primal level, Veronica knew the monsters –– or whatever they were –– craved her, and if given the chance, they would do something very, very bad to her.
The little girl tried to explain this to the doctors, the nurses, the accent-talking lady, and her mother, but none of the adults really listened. Instead they argued and shouted at each other, and huffed in and out of the room –– but the thing that frightened Veronica the most, is when the adults would simply shrug their shoulders, and admit that they really didn’t have any idea what the monsters were at all.

Excerpt from Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place by Vanta M. Black
From The Children’s Story

Louis dashed and the creature lunged after him. A thick, strong paw snatched the boy’s injured foot, wrapping around it with a vice-like grip. It pulled him down. The lad’s belly splatted on a damp bed of moss and the precious contents of his satchel sprayed out around him.
It reared up with a ferocious maw open wide. Despite the darkness, Louis saw into its eyes. Bright against its black matted fur, they had glistening whites — like a person’s. The eyes looked human, and that terrified Louis more than if they had looked like a raging, wild animal’s.
As the beast swooped down to attack, Louis twisted to one side and rolled over something round and hard. He grabbed what he thought was a rock and brought it down on the thing’s skull with a smack. It howled in pain, swung its head around to attack again, and then froze.
Louis braced for its strike with hands shielding his head. When nothing happened, he tentatively pulled his arm back to see the creature sulk back. The boy took advantage of the inexplicable reaction and kicked his foot free. It recoiled, and Louis saw that its menacing gaze was locked on the object in his hand. It wasn’t a rock after all, but one of the special relics his father had given him.
Louis scooted back. The thing hovered in front of him but did not move forward. It swayed slightly, like a dog tethered on a leash. Perhaps Isabelle was right! It couldn’t go beyond the castle grounds.
He gathered up his satchel and the rest of the contents, then slowly, cautiously, walked backward, keeping his eyes on it the whole time. Once he felt there was a safe distance between him and the devil, he spun and ran toward the river.
He was small and fast and darted easily through the dense foliage. It only took moments for him to arrive. Isabelle was there on the bank, waiting for him. She hugged him and cried, “Are you all right? Did it chase after you?”
Louis nodded and tears welled up in his big, brave eyes. “But it didn’t get me. It tried, but I scared it off!”
Isabelle chortled. “You scared it, my little poppet?”
“No, it was scared of this.” He held up the object.
Isabelle looked confused and squinted at the gleaming globe-like relic in the moonlight, “What is it?” Before the boy could answer, she interrupted him. “Shh, listen. Barking...I hear dogs.”



About the Author:

Vanta M. Black, author of Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place, enjoys uncovering the dark mysteries of our Universe.

In addition to writing,  she enjoys traveling to provocative places and studying all things esoteric.

Black has degrees in English, communication and art. She resides in Southern California with her husband and two pug-mix dogs, and spends her time in support of causes that empower women and advance science and technology.











Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Welcome Marsha A. Moore, Today's Featured Author of the Haunted Halloween Spooktacular

What's the Halloween season without tales of witches? Marsha A. Moore is my featured guest today with her paranormal romance, Witch's Cursed Cabin.


Witch’s Cursed Cabin
Coon Hollow Coven Tales Book Two
by Marsha A. Moore

 
Book Blurb:
Eager to be on her own away from home, twenty-year-old Aggie Anders accepts a relative’s invitation to live in Coon Hollow Coven. Although she’s a witch from a different coven, what locals say about the Hollow confuses her. How can witchcraft there live and breathe through souls of the dead?

Aggie’s new residence in this strange southern Indiana world is a deserted homestead cabin. The property’s carriage house serves as the coven’s haunted Halloween fundraiser. It’s a great opportunity for her to make new friends, especially with the coven’s sexy new High Priest Logan.

But living in the homestead also brings Aggie enemies. Outsiders aren’t welcome. A cantankerous, old neighbor tries to frighten her off by warning her that the homestead is cursed. Local witches who practice black magic attempt to use their evil to drive Aggie away and rid their coven of her unusual powers as a sun witch.

Determined to stay and fit in, Aggie discovers not only that the cabin is cursed, but she alone is destined to break the curse before moonrise on Samhain. If she fails, neither the living nor the dead will be safe.
 


 
A note to readers: the books in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series are written to be read in any order. The series is about one community, and its residents may pass in and out of various books, but each book has its own unique and special story to be told.

 

About the Coon Hollow Coven Tales Series:

The series is about a coven of witches in a fictitious southern Indiana community, south of Bloomington, the neck of the woods where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The books are rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel. There are interesting interactions between coven members and locals from the nearby small town of Bentbone. If magic wasn’t enough of a difference between the two groups, the coven folk adhere to the 1930s lifestyle that existed when the coven formed.

 

Book One
 
Excerpt from Chapter One: The Homestead
 
A shove of my shoulder pried the rusty hinges on the heavy log cabin door loose. I flung my blond braid to my back and peered inside. Beings and critters, alive and furry as well as undead and translucent, flew, crawled, or slithered across dark recesses of the hallway, sitting room, and stairwell.

“You weren’t kidding. This place is haunted.” I shuddered and looked over my shoulder at Cerise. She looked perky as always with her dark bobbed hair and lively brown eyes beneath horn-rimmed eyeglasses. “Were those things relations or varmints?” I took a cautious step over the threshold to escape the blustery weather and unbuttoned my corduroy jacket.

“Oh, both, Aggie. Ghosts of witch kin and their talking animal familiars,” she said and moved past me to lift sheets off the sitting room furniture.

I raised a brow, curious about what talking familiars were but was too afraid to ask. She didn’t seem to think they were bad, and I needed a place to stay.

Cerise dropped the sheets in a pile and wiped her dusty hands on her skirt. “Those sorts of ghosts are in all the homes here in Coon Hollow Coven. Maybe some animal spirits, too, from the surrounding woods. This property has at least fifty acres of forest. The ghosts are harmless, part of the family. At least no neighbors have complained, that I’ve heard.”

Eyeing corners of the parlor and the length of the hall, I wondered if I could ever get used to living with ghosts of people who’d lived here before. In New Wish, Indiana, where I’d spent my entire twenty years, we only had an occasional ghost. Usually lost souls who, for some reason, hadn’t found their peace before death took them. Most times, those folks had been tormented by darkness and experimented with black magic while they’d lived. Or so Mom told me, but I always thought that was just her way of keeping me in line.

I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I wanted a place of my own more than anything else, and not in the tiny town of New Wish where everyone knew me…or thought they did. They all said I was the spitting image of my Aunt Faye, with the same light blond straight hair, deep blue eyes, dark brows, and quiet personality. Everyone thought I’d grow up to be like her with a houseful of kids, seven or more. Fact was, they didn’t know me. I wasn’t sure I even knew myself. There was so much I wanted to learn and do that wouldn’t happen if I stayed at my parents’ home.

Cerise struggled to open the stuck window. “Aggie, can you help me here? Some fresh air might tempt a few spirits outside. This place has been vacant since my mother passed in 2009. We might find just about anything in here after five years.”

 




Are you brave enough to visit Coon Hollow Coven’s haunted carriage house?

Guest Blog by Marsha A. Moore

Coon Hollow is the setting for Witch’s Cursed Cabin, the second of my series, Coon Hollow Coven Tales, and there are a lot of strange happenings going on down in the Hollow as Samhain approaches.

The Hollow is a fictitious small valley in southern Indiana, south of Bloomington. Somewhere in Brown County near Nashville and Bean Blossom, if you’re from around those parts. It’s Hoosier hill-country at its finest.

The coven was founded on strict rules of adherence to lifestyle and customs that existed at the time of the coven’s conception, in the mid-1930s. The rationale: to keep the transmission of witchcraft from one generation to the next as pure as possible. Members dress in styles of that period and drive long sleek Packards, Studebakers, and Nashes.

Several times during the year, the coven puts on magical events open to the public as charity fundraisers for their schools and eldercare. Witch’s Cursed Cabin opens with the coven preparing for their annual Halloween haunted carriage house.

Here’s an excerpt of the night when the attraction is open only to coven members. Aggie Anders has just moved to the coven and is joining Cerise’s family at the event.

*~*~*

 

Dusk was changing to night, the gloaming time as I called it, with the sky ribboned in bands of blue-grays and inky purples. As we ascended the small hill that separated the two cabins, I pulled my hood over my head.

On the other side, a group of black forms mingled outside, perhaps fifty, but the dim light made counting difficult. I glanced down at my jeans, happy the blue color wasn’t too noticeable. A chilling scream that seemed to come from the cabin’s roof made me gawk, wide-eyed.

A hush spread over the crowd, and hoods turned upward toward the tall gable above the front door. Another scream pierced the air, this one more like the chilling, long wail of a banshee, which I knew signaled approaching death. And another shriek, as two dark shapes emerged from behind the chimney. One began the dreadful cry once again, while the other leered at those on the ground.

Little Bud tugged on his dad’s arm and whimpered.

“What is this I see?” A deep male voice growled down at us. “Intruders! You’ve broken the peaceful rest of the carriage house spirits.” He gave a guttural laugh, then shinnied down a trellis at one end of the small porch. From there, he rubbed his hands together while shuffling side to side as he scanned the crowd. His ragged cape hung in shreds around his hunched shape, and his death-white face reflected what little light the twilight offered. “Since you’ve awakened the spirits, why don’t you come in and pay them a friendly visit? I’m sure they’ll be glad to welcome you.” With a menacing laugh, he turned and opened the door. “We have guests of the best kind—willing.”

A chorus of howls and yelps responded from inside, and the banshee on the roof gave a higher pitched cry.

A small girl, no more than four years old, begged for her father to carry her.

The ragged spirit pointed to a sign posted high on the porch support post. “Heed this sign well before you go inside.” It warned pregnant women and people with heart conditions to not enter. With the wave of his arm, he spun on his heel, and the crowd moved toward the entrance.

“Looks like this year’s show will be good. Every year they try to top the last,” Cerise said and pulled me behind her, while Toby herded their boys.

Inside, ghouls lurched near, guiding us up the front staircase. Real enchanted spiders dropped onto our faces, bringing plenty of squeals and some momentary lost footing on steps. While clinging to the railings to keep my balance, oozy slime gushed between my fingers. Faced with the safe scares, screams that escaped my lips immediately turned to giggles.

Live rats ran the length of the upper hall, scampering across our feet. I was glad for my stiff-toed boots, but many of the ladies wearing dress pumps jumped a couple feet. One woman landed against me, and we both fell against the wall where arms extending from paintings held us captive until we pleaded loud enough for release.

The wall hazards kept people close to the middle, regardless of the rats. At the doorway to the first bedroom, the floorboards gave way. Five or more in the line ahead dropped down a black hole, their screams reverberating after them. Bats flew up the open shoot and corralled us into the bedroom and the outstretched arms of a red-eyed goblin. His touch sent a sudden disorienting delirium through me, and I fumbled behind Cerise through a connecting hall that led into the next bedroom.

*~*~*

What happens to Aggie? You’ll only know if you’re brave enough to enter the coven’s haunted carriage house!

 

 

Flash Fiction by Marsha A Moore

Hello! I’m Marsha A. Moore and it’s great to be here and share some Samhain fun! I’d like to share with you one of my very popular mini-stories from my collection of fantasy flash fiction Tea Leaf Tales.

Tea Leaf Tales: The Necessary Practice Halloween Growl

 “Oh, come on, Grindor,” I pleaded for the third time. 

“Not until Halloween,” he replied with a terse snap, his face stoic, his body frozen.

“Just one pre-Halloween scare.” I climbed beside him and peeked over the fence.  

“There’s a teenage boy walking this way toward your gate who’d make a great practice target.” 

“Nope,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to knock me off balance with his left wing. 

“It’ll feel good to do just one little growl.” 

A whiz of loud pops sailed inches above my head, and I jumped behind my griffin guardian who spread his protective wings wide. 

The teen burst through the open gate, gun in hand, and Grindor let out a horrific roar, so loud that my teeth rattled. 

From behind, I winked at the boy with the bb gun, my five-dollar bill showing in his jeans pocket.

Tea Leaf Tales is a series of original ten-sentence short stories by Marsha A. Moore, relating to photos/scenes that resonate with her.

Visit Marsha’s website www.MarshaAMoore.com to read more archived episodes of the Mercantile of Tea Leaf Tales and watch her blog for new episodes.

 


About the Author:
 

Marsha A. Moore loves to write fantasy and paranormal romance. Much of her life feeds the creative flow she uses to weave highly imaginative tales.

The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing, as well as other pursuits of watercolor painting and drawing. She’s been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and is a registered yoga teacher. Her practice helps weave the mystical into her writing. After a move from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transformed into a Floridian, in love with the outdoors where she’s always on the lookout for portals to other worlds. Marsha is crazy about cycling. She lives with her husband on a large saltwater lagoon, where taking her kayak out is a real treat. She never has enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at stories with toes wiggling in the sand. Every day at the beach is magical!








Goodreads author page  http://www.goodreads.com/marshaamoore

 
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Monday, September 19, 2016

Book Review: Haunted Boston Harbor


Haunted Boston Harbor
Haunted America
Sam Baltrusis

Genre: Ghosts and hauntings, Local/Regional History

Publisher: History Press/Arcadia

Date of Publication: August 22, 2016

ISBN: 9781626199569

Number of pages: 144 pgs
Word Count: 35,000

Cover Artist: Cover photo by
Frank C. Grace

Book Description:

Ghosts lurk in the waters near Boston's historic seaport, haunting the secluded islands scattered throughout the harbor. Boston Harbor brims with the restless spirits of pirates, prisoners and victims of disease and injustice. Uncover the truth behind the Lady in Black on Georges Island. Learn about the former asylums on Long Island that inspired the movie Shutter Island, and dig up the skeletal secrets left behind by the Woman in Scarlet Robes. From items flying off the shelves at a North End cigar shop to the postmortem cries of tragedy at the centuries-old Boston Light on Little Brewster, author Sam Baltrusis breathes new life into the horrors that occurred in the historic waters surrounding Boston.


Amazon    BN


Introduction to Haunted Boston Harbor
The Lady in Black summoned me here. However, as I searched every nook and cranny of Georges Island during a five-month gig as a historical narrator in Boston Harbor, the ghost of Melanie Lanier—as the Lady in Black is otherwise called—refused to reveal herself. She was playing hard to get.
  “Something touched me in there, and it wasn’t human!” screamed a girl running out of the corridor of dungeons after a field trip to Fort Warren at Georges Island. “It was the Lady in Black,” she said convincingly. The girl looked mortified.
  This was just one of the strange events that occurred during the summer of 2014 when I gave historical tours with Boston Harbor Cruises and traveled on large vessels carrying passengers back and forth to various islands in the outer harbor. I spent most afternoons during the summer searching for a repeat experience of a shadow figure that I’d seen there seven years before. No such luck.
  I frequently heard screams emanating from Fort Warren’s haunted ramparts. However, it was usually one of the kids touring the dark hallway in the southeast battery.
  The location that Edward Rowe Snow said was the Lady in Black’s haunt was in the front of the fort. It’s still accessible, but it’s extremely dusty and dark.
  In 2007, I moved back to Boston from Florida and had a ghostly experience while touring the ramparts of Fort Warren at Georges Island. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an all-black shadow figure. I looked again, and it was gone. At this point, I had never heard the Lady in Black legend. I just intuitively knew Georges Island had some sort of psychic residue. While researching Fort Warren’s history, my interest in Boston’s haunted past gradually became a passion. History repeats itself, and it was my job to uncover the truth and give a voice to those without a voice—even though most of the stories turned out to be tales from the crypt.
  Lawrence, a fellow Boston Harbor Cruises tour guide and former park ranger, insisted that ghosts do not inhabit Georges Island, adding that the Lady in Black legend was completely made up by folklorist Edward Rowe Snow.
  “I spent so many nights there, I would know,” he said, as we passed Nix’s Mate en route to the mainland. “However, I would say the island has a spirit. Some rangers say the island’s energy, or spirit, welcomes people.”
  In hindsight, I’ve decided that my encounter on Georges in 2007 was the island’s spirit welcoming me. However, ghosts can almost certainly be found nearby.
  While several of the thirty-four islands have paranormal activity, Boston Harbor’s Little Brewster is allegedly the most haunted. The mysterious Boston Light, one of the five remaining Coast Guard–manned lighthouses in America, stands eerily on the rocky, two-acre island. It’s located behind Georges Island and can be spotted from the ramparts, which I explored regularly during the summer of 2014. While I was giving historical tours, the lighthouse was closed for much-needed repairs in preparation for its three-hundred-year anniversary.
  Boston Light reopened in 2015 and has once again become a Boston Harbor hot spot.
  Photographer Frank C. Grace, his father and I took a ferry out to Little Brewster. It was a rainy, overcast day—perfect weather for a ghostly encounter. Coincidentally, we visited hours before Boston Light’s 299-year anniversary on September 14, 2015 and the island was buzzing with excitement from both the living and the dead. The volunteers at the historic lighthouse were quick to confirm that Little Brewster was indeed haunted.  “You hear ghost stories all the time,” remarked Val, a veteran tour guide. “One day, I had climbed all the way to the top and I heard phantom footsteps behind me and there was definitely no one else in the lighthouse.”
  Other volunteers have mentioned hearing what sound like congo drums, possibly Native American tribal rhythms, on the island, without a plausible explanation.
  Jeremy D’Entremont, historian for the American Lighthouse Foundation and author of The Lighthouse Handbook New England, confirmed the ghostly legends associated with Boston Light. “Coast Guard keepers experienced odd things and generally blamed it on ‘George,’ meaning George Worthylake, the first keeper, who drowned in 1718,” he told me. “The Coast Guard Auxiliary Watchstanders who spend shifts there today have also seen strange things.”
  On the way back, we passed by many of the islands I fell in love with during the summer of 2014. Nix’s Mate, the smallest of the Harbor Islands, seemed particularly ominous. Marked by a black-and-white beacon and completely submerged during high tide, the freakishly small island is where pirates were kept in a crude contraption known as a gibbet cage, an invention of the Puritans. They would showcase the pirates as sort of a cautionary tale. While narrating Boston Harbor tours, I was pushed from my seat by an unseen force multiple times when passing this spot. It was so intense that I physically tied myself to my chair. One time, I was pushed so hard that I almost fell off the top deck of the vessel.
  Disgruntled ghost pirates? Yep, Boston Harbor has them.
  Of course, I had multiple encounters while researching the various haunts featured in Haunted Boston Harbor. The most profound was during an exploration of the USS Constitution, or Old Ironsides. The famous vessel was scheduled to be dry-docked for a three-year hiatus. I had seen it multiple times in all its majestic glory in Boston Harbor. It was breathtaking to watch the three-masted frigate sail past my vessel; it brought me to tears.
  According to naval officer Wesley Bishop, Ghost Hunters was scheduled to investigate the oldest commissioned naval vessel still afloat. And yes, the uniformed crew did strongly believe that Old Ironsides was, in fact, haunted. “No enemy died on board, so if there are ghosts, they’re my fellow crew members who died long ago from battle-related wounds or the elements,” Bishop told me. “I haven’t had an encounter, but several of my [living] crew members have.”
  Meanwhile, his fellow naval officer friend chimed in, “There are definitely ghosts on board.”
  While I was peeking into the berthing area known as “the rack,” I swore I saw a shadow figure dart by me. Of course, multiple reports have been made of a sailor wearing a navy blue jacket and gold buttons. Ellen MacNeil, who has investigated the USS Constitution with her team, SPIRITS of New England, confirmed that the vessel is paranormally active.
  “Is it haunted? Oh, hell yes,” MacNeil told Haunted Boston Harbor. Her team investigated the Constitution in 2010 over a two-day period. “We totally freaked out the captain with our audio and video evidence. With 308 deaths on the ship, mainly from illness not battle, the ship is very much loved and protected by these lost souls who were playful, curious and responsive to us being there.”
   In addition to the USS Constitution, I had an up-close-and-personal encounter with the extremely haunted Charles W. Morgan. One sunny afternoon, the last wooden whaleship in the world cruised past my vessel in the harbor. The Morgan is supposedly haunted by a nineteenth-century sailor smoking a pipe. It was so surreal to experience this ancient vessel sail by me.
  I also had a few bizarre experiences on the mainland. One sunny June afternoon, I was walking up State Street near the Old State House. A Clydesdale-type horse—his name is Prince—was carrying two passengers to the heart of Boston’s Revolutionary War past. The carriage driver named Becky, a saucy brunette, was stunned when the horse stopped mid-trot, raised his hoof as if he was spooked by an unseen force and looked in my direction. “Whoa, it must be a ghost,” Becky said without hesitation. “It’s the ghosts of the revolution.”
  Apparently, horses are sensitives, too. If Becky only knew.
  While giving tours during the summer of 2014, a co-worker at Boston Harbor Cruises captured an electronic voice phenomenon while exploring Georges Island one afternoon. He spent the day with his brother exploring the fort and captured a voice of what sounded like a man. “You can hear breathing, and then it says something,” he told me, playing the recording over and over.
  “It sounds like it says ‘get out’ or something similar,” I told him.
  What’s even more fascinating is that the male voice saying, “Get out” in his impromptu EVP sounded southern. Could it be a Confederate soldier?
  One year later, I ventured out to Fort Warren and crawled through the original corridor of dungeons. I found the coffin used by Edward Rowe Snow to retell the Lady in Black legend. It was covered in dust and cobwebs.
  A message from the vice president of the Confederacy, Alexander Hamilton Stephens, popped into my head. His quote: “All the genius I have lies in this.”
  I laughed. It all made sense now. There is no Lady in Black. The ghost is a Confederate soldier or possibly even the cranky spirit of Stephens. I shivered in the beauty and the madness of the moment.
  I crawled out of Fort Warren’s corridor of dungeons armed with my latest tale from the crypt. Melanie Lanier is totally made up. The Lady in Black is a man.



THE BAD ROOM: Residential haunts in Malden and Somerville
By Sam Baltrusis

As the author of six historical-based ghost books, I hear all sorts of stories about alleged hauntings throughout New England. One of my readers, Michael Marciello, reached out to me about a haunting from his childhood home in Malden. As a kid, he called the off-limits haunted bedroom "the bad room.”

I got chills as he recounted tales of his father being pinned to the bed by an unseen force and sounds—he later described as evil and potentially demonic—echoing from a room that was unoccupied ... at least by the living.

His mother ended up putting a lock on the bedroom's door so he and his siblings would stay away from the paranormally active first-floor room."It was always so cold," he said, recalling the inexplicable temperature fluctuations in the bad room. "We thought it was an animal," he said, claiming that he would smell sulphur which is an indication of an evil entity.

When I posted Marciello's account on social media, sociolgist Michelle Willms talked about her version of a childhood bad room. "There was a room in my grandparents' house that was the ‘wicked room.’ It was my father's old bedroom and I don't see how he ever managed to sleep there," Willims explained. "It was always about 15 degrees colder than any other room in the house. I had a hard time even staying in the room by myself.”

Barbara Tolstrup, a lifelong resident of Malden and active member of the city’s historical society, interviewed me for her monthly show Malden Square on MATV. Like most typical New Englanders, she was initially skeptipical when we talked about the paranormal. However, she sheepishly opened up when I asked her if she ever experienced a haunting in her home that has been passed down several generations.

“I myself have been known to be sitting in the den and then see something at the corner of my eye through the double doors in the livingroom,” Tolstrup recalled. “I look again and there’s nothing there. This happens frequently.” Tolstrup told me that guests in her family her historic home have had similar ghostly encounters. She suspects it’s her grandfather or great grandfather keeping an eye on the family’s decades-old home. “It probably is a family member because the house has been in our family for a hundred years.”

As a paranormal researcher, I generally stay away from residential hauntings. Why? Because the phenomenon hits a little too close to home for me. I had my own experience with a “bad room” and it was my bedroom and office in a creepy old Victorian home on Hall Avenue in the Boston area.

While writing my first book, Ghosts of Boston: Haunts of the Hub in 2012, my sensitivity to what could be the spirit realm kicked into high gear. In fact, my old home in Somerville’s Davis Square apparently had a playful older female poltergeist with an affinity for scissors. One night, I invited a friend over who claimed to have some sort of psychic ability. He said that she was a seamstress and mentioned, without hesitation, the various things she did in the house to make her presence known.

While writing the book, an unseen force opened doors that were firmly shut. Lights mysteriously turned on and off without provocation. According to my roommate, scissors have disappeared and then reappeared over the years in the three-floor Gothic-decorated home. One night while I was writing into the wee hours on the Boston Harbor Islands’ Lady in Black myth, I noticed a gray-haired female figure wearing an old-school white nightgown and donning fuzzy slippers dart across the first floor. I ran downstairs and noticed that the closet door had been mysteriously opened and the lights had been turned on while I was upstairs hacking away at my computer. My roommate was out of town. No one else was there.

The poltergeist activity on Hall Avenue turned inexplicably dark around Halloween of 2012.

While writing my second book, Ghosts of Cambridge, I fled my room with a “boo!” in Somerville’s Davis Square. It was May 2013. At this point, the ghostly incidents escalated after the initial encounter.

While I was preparing for the launch party for my first book at Boston’s Old South Meeting House, the scissors sitting on the front-room table mysteriously started to spin, and one night, during an interview with Paranormal State’s Ryan Buell’s Paranormal Insider Radio, I heard a loud knock on my bedroom door. I quickly opened it, but no one was there. Oddly, the phantom knocking continued throughout the phone interview. I wasn’t afraid.

Months after I submitted the manuscript for Ghosts of Boston, a construction crew was hired to paint the exterior of the house. Apparently, the spirit I called “Scissor Sister” didn’t like the ruckus outside. What was supposed to be a month-long project turned into more than a year. The first crew of painters claimed that paint brushes would disappear and ladders would fall. One guy, tormented by a series of inexplicable incidents, asked me if the place was haunted. I sheepishly nodded, and I never saw him again. After a series of freaked-out painters, scaffolding from the top floor fell on my roommate’s car.

The gig was up. I decided to move.

Master psychic Denise Fix picked up on the spirit of the seamstress during our second interview. “She’s not trying to scare you. She wants your attention,” Fix said, sitting at a table that, oddly, was a repurposed Singer sewing machine. “She sewed for many people and felt quite tortured a lot of the time. She was celebrated by you, and she thanks you for that. She was released from whatever bound her there,” Fix continued. “And it wasn’t a good thing to be bound there.”

Two weeks later, I moved out. My last night in the house was memorable. My roommate’s exotic parrot escaped from its cage and perched on the oven’s open flame. The bird was quickly engulfed in flames but didn’t catch fire. The bird was unharmed. While carrying boxes down the stairs, I slipped. I felt something hold me back as I watched the box fall down the stairs. Glass shattered. It could have been me. I fled the haunted house on Hall Avenue and haven’t looked back … until now.

Peter Muise, a friend and fellow History Press author, posted about a bizarre cryptid encounter from the 1980s on his blog New England Folklore here.

“A young woman named Karen bought a Victorian-era house outside of Somerville's Davis Square in 1983. She liked living there, but there were a few things that seemed a little odd. The basement often flooded, which was annoying, but Karen suspected that something else was going on,” Muise wrote.

“She often felt uncomfortable near the back wall of her house, particularly on the second and third floors. She kept her spare clothing up on the third floor but got such weird vibes that she did not go up there at night. She had tried sleeping in the back bedroom on the second floor, but did so only briefly because she felt uncomfortable there as well. She felt that there was something in the room with her at night,” he continued.

Karen was featured in The Ghostly Register by Arthur Myers."I had a feeling of a presence at night, of its being almost like an an animal, as though it had claws or wanted to bite me,” she recalled.

According to The Ghostly Register, Karen and her roommate reached out to a Cambridge psychic who said the poltergeist-like activity wasn’t a ghost … but a troll.

“The troll was apparently connected with an underground spring that ran under the house and that caused the basement flooding,” Muise explained. “When the house was built on top of the spring the troll became trapped and would send its energy up along the back wall of the house. Karen had always felt its presence in the house, but the troll increased its activity once the roommate moved in and started to sleep near that wall.”

The troll supposedly revealed himself during the ritual and begged Karen to let him stay. She asked the cryptid to leave and the troll haunting and basement flooding mysteriously stopped.

However, did the troll have any ties to my paranormal encounter in 2012? After reading Muise’s post, it turns out the troll incident was literally across the street from old home on Hall Avenue.

“I am so curious where in the Davis Square area this happened. I lived in a Victorian near Davis Square and had what we believed to be a poltergeist who had an affinity for scissors ... maybe she was a troll?” I joked online. However, Muise’s response made my jaw drop.

“According to Myers the troll house was 35 Hall Avenue. It’s weird there is so much strange phenomena on one street,” he responded. I gasped. My old home on Hall Avenue was a stone’s throw to the troll incident from the 1980s.

Muise suggested that maybe the troll just moved across the street. Or perhaps Karen was experiencing poltergeist activity and somehow mistook it as a mythical monster. For the record, there was a movie called Troll that came out around the time of this alleged cryptid encounter.

Did whatever Karen and her roommate experience in the 1980s somehow set up shop across the street? In hindsight, I believe it did.


About the Author:

Sam Baltrusis, author of Ghosts of Boston, Ghosts of Salem and 13 Most Haunted in Massachusetts, is the former editor-in-chief of several regional publications including Spare Change News, Scout Somerville and Scout Cambridge. He has been featured as Boston's paranormal expert on the Biography Channel's "Haunted Encounters," and he is also a sought-after lecturer who speaks at dozens of paranormal-related events throughout New England.



Twitter: @LoadedGun






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Haunted Boston Harbor
 by Sam Baltrusis
ISBN 978-1-62619-956-9
 

Book Review by Kim Richards

 
I love books on local haunted places. I pick them up wherever my husband and I vacation. Stories of local supernatural lore and ghostly history are interesting, whether or not the embellishments people add over the years of telling and retelling are true. They’re just plain fun. Now, you understand why, when the opportunity to review Haunted Boston Harbor came across my computer screen, I jumped at the chance to review it.

My only wish is that I’d read this book before my visit to Boston back around 2006 or so. My husband and I did take a ghost tour there but I have no idea if it was one led by Sam Baltrusis or not. Yes, that’s correct…Mister Baltrusis has worked as a tour guide in the area. I was fortunate enough to visit several places he mentions in his book. That made this reading a little more special for me.

Mister Baltrusis draws on his own experiences and interviews of others who live or work in the haunted buildings he covers. He speaks with paranormal investigators and psychics about their views and experiences. Additionally, he refers to the history of each place which gives a nice understanding of when and where a particular spirit may have originated. He references the works of other authors, as well as, television shows and movies. I was intrigued to find out that the  book and film, Shutter Island, was based on one of the areas of the Boston Harbor. I am also pleased with the inclusion of black and white photographs.

There are also sidetracks with anecdotes of interesting tidbits from the area’s history. Although some had nothing to do with the creation of ghosts or any particular spook’s story directly, they never detracted from the entertainment value of the entire read. I am still snickering at the Confederate soldier who lost all his hair to rats.

Although I was given an ebook edition to read for review for this Haunted Halloween Spooktacular event, this is a book I will be adding to my shelf collection of local haunted place books. If you like learning about apparitions of witches, Native Americans, colonial forefathers of the United States, pirates, soldiers, lovers, animals, and lost children plus the places they refuse to leave, you’ll like this book. Inside the pages are spooky lighthouses, asylums, forts, camps, tribal grounds, taverns, churches, and hotels. The stories of love lost, betrayal, murder, heartbreak, abandonment, and death will intrigue you as they did me. I give this a four of five stars.  

 For more information on the author and his tours, visit www.HauntedBostonHarbor.com