The Raven Mocker

Kalanu Ahyeliski, the Raven Mocker, is the most feared of Cherokee witches. They steal life from dying men and women. When not in Raven Mocker form, these witches appear as elderly. But hunting for the sick, people near death, the Raven Mocker flies through the air as fire, arms spread like wings, looking a little like a low-flying comet. As he flies, the Raven Mocker cries out like a raven.

The Raven Mocker searches for patients who are critically ill. Invisible, he comes into their room to torment their minds and speed death. Once the victim is dead, the Raven Mocker pulls out their heart and eats it to prolong the Raven Mocker’s life.

If recognized in his natural form, as a withered old man or woman, by the truly observant or someone trained in Cherokee medicine, the Raven Mocker goes into mourning, knowing that he’ll die in seven days. There’s a legend about a young hunter who stayed out past dark one night. A long way from home, he decided to stop at the cabin of an older couple he knew lived just off the trail. When he arrived, he found the log house empty. Just as he stepped inside the door, he heard a raven’s call, then another. The old man walked out of the back bedroom followed by his wife.

Wary, and unsure how to leave without raising their suspicion, the young man accepted their invitation to stay the night. While he pretended to sleep in a corner of the kitchen, he watched through slitted eyes as the woman prepared a meal. The meat on the spit was a human heart.

When the hunter left the next day, he heard the old woman weeping. She knew the hunter had recognized she and her husband as Raven Mockers, thus she mourned their own impending death. Back at the settlement, the hunter told others what he’d seen. Seven days after the night the hunter had been in the cabin, a group of warriors returned. They found the Raven Mocker’s dead bodies inside, and set fire to the cabin to keep them from returning in another form.

Secrets

Dear Reader: If you visited Scary Mondays a time or two, you may have noticed comments from Marilyn. Marilyn Pappano has published over 70 novels, mostly romantic suspense, and has been a finalist and winner of RWA’s prestigious RITA. Her book, COPPER LAKE SECRETS, is ghost story set in Georgia. I know you’ll enjoy my guest blogger today, Marilyn Pappano

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There’s a quote along the lines of “No proof is possible for those who don’t believe; no proof is necessary for those who do.” It can apply to almost anything – justice, religion, etc. – but it defines paranormal phenomena so perfectly.

I’m one of those who believes.

A few years ago, two friends and I stayed at the Bourbon Orleans, a French Quarter hotel that’s said to be haunted. Its previous incarnations were an orphanage and a hospital, and a few former residents are still hanging around. Nothing scary happened to us there – believe me, I’m a huge weenie and would’ve been checking into Motel 6 in a heartbeat – but there were a few . . . shall we call them incidents?

The room telephones (plural, because maintenance changed them at our request every day) worked fine for the staff but not for us. I don’t believe any of us ever managed to make a single call on the landline while we were there. At times, particularly in certain corridors, we could sense a presence.

And things went missing. Boy, did they go missing. We’d put something here and find it there. We would look for something in the same place three times and find it there in plain view the fourth. Items purchased at one shop would wind up in the bag from another shop, even though that bag had been closed up and packed away days earlier.

It was all mischievous stuff. Nothing disappeared for good. Though we went home thinking we’d lost a few things, once we unpacked, we found it all – in weird places, granted (my tweezers were tucked into a pocket of my curling iron holder that I didn’t even know existed until I felt the bump in there), but found just the same.
It’s the shilrun, the maintenance guy told us when we chatted while he replaced our phone for the fourth or fifth time. He’d been with the hotel a long time, and he’d had plenty of experience with the spirits of children who’d lived in the orphanage. They weren’t mean or malevolent. They’s jus’ havin’ fun, like shilrun do.

It was certainly an experience – more for me than my friends. Both of them have a few psychic sensibilities, and one has shilrun on a regular basis around her house. My only up-close-and-personal event before that trip was seeing my grandfather a few years after he’d passed. You’d think something like that would be so momentous that I’d remember every detail, but I don’t. What I mostly recall is the wire-rimmed glasses he always wore. (Let me refer you back to the weenie comment. It’s a wonder I didn’t run screaming from the room before I even realized who it was.)

They say kids are more open to this sort of thing, and I’m guessing it’s true. One day my daughter-in-law heard the grandkiddo talking in the other room. “Who are you talking to?” she asked, and he very matter-of-factly answered, “Great-grandma Wanda.” (My mom had died a few weeks earlier.) He still says she comes to see him, and lately he’s also mentioned visits from a nice boy who plays the drums. He hasn’t offered a name yet, but my nephew, who died four years ago at the age of 17, was a talented drummer. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe Kevin, who was really great with little kids, is making his cousin’s acquaintance. I like to think that’s the case.

My grandmother loved my grandson, and I have no trouble believing she’s keeping an eye on him, because I fully intend to keep in touch with my loved ones after I pass!

My True Haunted House Story

The whispered sigh of a ghost doesn’t always come in the darkest of the night. Spirits are not confined by time or space, sunlight, or moonlight. They flit unseen when and where they will. When they choose to let the living know their presence, it can be with a gossamer brush across the back of the neck, or the thunderous slamming of doors.

I learned this one hot August day years ago. Afternoon sun lit the frilly Victorian gingerbread framing the front porch of my mother’s house. Tall oaks spread their limbs to shade the roof of the little white frame house with green shutters. My mother’s house began as a one-room log cabin built shortly after the Trail of Tears. Over the years, a parade of owners had left their mark on the house adding bedrooms, a kitchen, an indoor bathroom, and a second story.

When my mother bought the property, she decided to redecorate, starting first with the front room, which was the original structure. She’d always wanted an old home to redecorate, but one day into the project she discovered she was not a big fan of getting down and dirty in the dust and the muck of home restoration. I, however, loved to paint and wallpaper. I happily volunteered to strip the worn mauve wallpaper from the walls, amused to discover that beneath the floral wallpaper was another layer of cheap walnut paneling.

Working alone in the house one afternoon, I peeled off paneling and carted it out of the house. The day was hot. The window air conditioning unit hummed loudly as it worked to cool the room. My mother had taken my kids grocery shopping, so I had the house all to myself. The physical labor was relaxing. It offered me the chance to let my mind wander numbly and aimlessly, to think about nothing in particular.

As I pulled back one section of paneling, I was stunned to discover a walled-up doorway. Intrigued, I used a claw hammer to pry away the paneling, curious to see what was beyond the door. The paneling was old and brittle. It broke off in pieces and I tossed it over my shoulder in a hurry to see the other side of the door.

Finally, the opening was large enough to poke my head through. Just as I peered in, the front door opened on it’s own, then slammed shut. I jumped, and screamed like a little girl. The back door opened and closed sharply by itself. Then as if tugged by dozens of unseen hands, every kitchen cabinet, every bathroom cabinet, every bedroom door began to open and slam shut. The thunder seemed to go on for minutes. I stood, rooted to the floor, my heart thumping wildly, more awestruck than truly frightened. Then just as suddenly as it began, the slamming of the doors and cabinets stopped.

Years later, that incident became the inspiration for a short story, Always Follow Instructions.

A New Year, a New Look, and a Great Read

If you’re a follower of Scary Mondays, you’ve no doubt noticed a change in the site appearance. In the coming weeks, you’ll read new content as well. I’ve amassed a collection of research about the paranormal and supernatural including, demons, angels, demonic possession, and hauntings.

And the really scary part? Much it is reputed to be true. For example, there is an organization called the International Association of Exorcists. Created in 1990 by six priests, and now with over two hundred members, the goal of this group is to expand the number of official exorcists throughout the world and raise awareness of demonic works.

Even the late Pope John Paul II acknowledged the battle against Satan. In 1987, during a trip to the Sanctuary of Saint Michael the Archangel, he said, “The battle against the devil, which is the principal task of Saint Michael the archangel, is still being fought today, because the devil is still alive and active in the world. The evil that surrounds us today, the disorders that plague our society, man’s inconsistency and brokenness, are not only the results of original sin, but also the result of Satan’s pervasive and dark action.”

Just a little something put a tingle down your spine on this cold second day of January 2012. As an added bonus, here’s excerpt from Scary Mondays Volume One available now at www.amazon.com

A New Year and a New Resolution

Mac stepped on the scale. The dial stopped just short of two-fifty. For a man of his height, that was pushing the limits. He wasn’t as fast or as agile as he used to be. He wheezed when he took the stairs or walked a few blocks. That didn’t do much for his social life or his self-esteem. And his weight made hunting more difficult.

Leaving the bathroom, Mac strode resolute to the kitchen. It was time to change his habits, start eating healthier. He opened the freezer, examined the meat wrapped in butcher paper. Food was his profession, and his obsession. It’d be a shame to waste all these well-marbled cuts. He withdrew one package, then another, and another. Shoulder of Paul, Don Butt, ah, leg of Lonny. Mac closed the freezer door, opened the refrigerator, and took out a slab of bacon he’d made at his shop from a guy named John.

Tomorrow he’d get started on his New Year’s resolution, adding more fruits and vegetables to his diet, choosing leaner cuts of meat.

The Vampire

Today’s post is KT’s tribute to Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire.

The house was deadly quiet as he slept
No light, no sound, no smell but death, no taste
Along his satin bed the spider crept

all of the world that man would lay to waste
T’were not for his new found victim Louis.
Louis, who longs for death with so much haste

Perhaps a new child could make this one see,
a child with fanged grin like a ferile cat
Could keep his beloved in New Orleans

the Child who in immortal life’s face spat
in her anger, killed him, her creator,
he lives, oh woe is the vampire Lestat

Scary Mondays Volume One available now at www.amazon.com

email your comments to lynnsomervillefiction@gmail.com

A Home-Cooked Meal

Evan dropped his heavy laundry bag at the front door. He turned the knob, and knit his brow, surprised to find the door locked. His parents wouldn’t forget he was coming home for Thanksgiving break. He turned, walked down the sidewalk to the garage. He cupped his hands around his eyes to ward of the glare, peered in. One Ford pick-up. One Nissan Sentra. Yep, both cars were there.

Retracing his steps, Evan tried the door again. “Duh,” he muttered, remembering his key to the house. He dragged the chain from his jeans pocket. Before he could insert the key into the lock, the door opened.

“Evan! I thought I heard someone at the front door. You’re early.”

“Yeah, my econ professor rescheduled our quiz, so I decided to head home.” He sniffed, caught the fragrant aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting out to the front porch. Cloves. Pineapple? A hint of honey glaze? A welcome home Ham? Evan’s stomach growled. His mouth watered. “I sent Mom a text. Didn’t she tell you?”

Dad blocked the doorway. Evan shifted right, to enter, but Dad stepped left, barring the way. “Your mother and I….”

“Is something wrong? Is she okay?”

Dad’s eyes were a little too wide, the pupils a little too dark. Evan craned his neck, trying to look over Dad’s shoulder. He saw the family room decorated as it had been all his life. Well-worn furniture, that stood the test of crayons, spilled milk, and feet on the coffee table. If the wallpaper was a little dated and the drapes faded, who cared? It was home. “Dad?”

“No. No. You’re mother’s fine. She’s been cooking all afternoon.” Dad stepped out, lowered his voice. “Listen, I told her not to say anything. I didn’t want you to worry. But, ah, we hit a rough patch after you left. It happens to couples sometimes.” Dad cast a glance toward the open door, dropped his tone even lower. “Your mother had this crazy notion she and I had grown apart. But everything is fine now.”

“Can I come in?” Evan grinned, trying to mask a growing sense of unease. He knew a few of guys in his college dorm whose parents were divorcing. It happened, he knew. But he hoped not to his parents.

“Oh, sure. Sure,” Dad said absently, as if just realizing he still blocked the entryway. He turned, led the way into the kitchen.

“Is that a mince meat?” Evan asked, pointing to the pie on the dining room table. “Is Mom trying a new recipe?” He couldn’t recall anyone in his family caring for that flavor of pie. Pumpkin yes. Pecan, oh yeah. Mince meat? Evan scrunched his nose, made a face.

“No. It’s my own recipe.” Something in Dad’s tone, eerie, disconnected, and distant, made Evan swivel his head.

He nearly retched.

Mom, at least parts of her lay on the bloodied cutting board. He watched in horror, as Dad opened the oven, stuck a fork in the “ham” inside. “She’s nearly done.”

Odd One

“Diana, darling, how many times do I have to tell you, I can’t stand odd numbers,” Frank said to his dead wife. Winded, he drew in a breath. Scattered on the kitchen floor around her bloodied body were the remains of five shattered coffee mugs.

“We had six cups, but you broke one, so now there’s only five.” He crunched across the shards of china to the pantry to retrieve the broom and waste pan. “You really shouldn’t have been so dismissive. It’s just a coffee mug, you said.” He stood over her for a moment, her last words echoing in his head. Not the same since the accident. Obsessive. Compulsive. Moody. Violent.

“No my dear, I haven’t become a monster. You’ve become sloppy. Careless. We can’t have that, now can we?”

He swept the mess into a pile, bent to scoop the liter into the pan. That’s when he noticed something odd. He put the pan down, lifted Diana’s shirt, counting the stab wounds. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine….” He counted again. His left eye began to twitch. His hand started to shake.

“Oh, this will never do,” Frank said, as he reached for the butcher knife near Diana’s head. He plunged the blade deep into her abdomen. “Ten.” He sighed. “That’s better.”

Satisfied, he finished cleaning. Calmly, he dragged his cell phone from his pocket, dialed 911. As he waited for the call to connect, he frowned, glanced down, and said to Diana, “I hate odd numbers.”

And So It Begins

“Damn me! I bow to no man!” Heaven still echoed with Lucifer’s howl just before he fell. The air still rang with the clash and clang, the groans of war, the scent of sweat, the coppery taste of blood. The field churned up around him, littered with the choirs of angels, bloodied, and broken, the Archangel Michael dragged his sword behind him. Exhausted from battle, he limped toward his brothers.

He watched Gabriel swipe at the gash above his eye. His hair matted to his head, his face dirtied with mud and blood, the messenger sat on the ground with his legs drawn up, his arms resting on his knees. His sword and shield lay next to him. His left wing drooped, busted, and useless. The feathers on Michael’s own span were shredded. Raphael lay flat on his back, wings crumpled, his armor battered, shield in his left hand, sword in his right. His chest rose and fell rapidly, while he labored to catch his breath. This had been no brotherly wrestling match. Nor was it a fight to the death.

“You look like hell,” Gabriel announced.

Michael summoned enough strength to grin. “You should see the other guy.” He glanced down. “It’s not the fall….”

“It’s the landing,” Gabriel supplied.

“How many did we lose?” Raphael asked as Michael eased down next to his brother angels. He winced as his bruised ribs screamed in protest.

“I’m not certain. A third, at least.” Michael removed his filthy gauntlets, tossed them aside.

“One third!” Raphael sat up, flinched, grunted in pain.

His heart heavy, Michael sat with his brother archangels in mournful silence for several moments.

“Did you see how he changed?” Raphael asked, his voice filled with wonder, not the kind Michael or any angel wanted to inspire.

“Lucifer? He became a monster,” Gabriel said. He hung his head.

“He was beautiful once. The best of us,” Michael lamented. He ran a hand through his grimy hair. He felt something tangled in a strand, pulled until it was free. He looked down at the black dragon’s scale in his hand.

A tear beaded, fell over the rim of his eye, slid down his cheek. With a sigh he asked, “Ah Lucifer, what have you done?”

Have You Ever?

Have you ever had something just plain weird happen? You know, you know it’s supernatural. Yet you keep it to yourself, because—well no one would possibly believe you? This week’s blog isn’t a work of short fiction like I usually post—this is a true story. Since I write about ghosts, demons, or the occasional vampire, I get de-sensitized to spooky stuff. Nevertheless, I believe in earth-bound spirits, although I don’t participate in séances or play around with Ouija boards.

I know there’s evil, and I try not to open a door so it can slither through.

Occasionally, the strange happens, and I know beyond doubt, something has slipped through the thin veil between this world and the next. Last night was one of those moments. I keep a statue of St. Michael Vanquishing the Devil on my desk. The archangel stands astride a chained and bound Satan, who looks up at the angel in complete submission.

At two in the morning, my six month old chocolate lab, Ozzy, sat up in my bed (Yes, he sleeps with me.), and growled. This dog never snarls or gets aggressive. He’s a lover. Yet, he sat up growled, backed up so his rump touched me, as if shielding me from danger. Ozzy whined, then barked in a high-pitched panicked tone.

Annoyed, rather than frightened, I flipped on the light, looked in the direction his nose pointed. Then I got scared. Ozzy was facing the statue. The archangel was missing. And the devil stared back at me. My heart tripped. I blinked. And St. Michael was back where he belonged with the devil bound and subdued again.

Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe not. Have you ever had something happen you just couldn’t explain? Care to share?

Angels and Demons

Recently, at a writer’s conference, I had the opportunity to chat with a New York agent about the popularity of books written about angels. Angelology fascinates many people. Perhaps it’s the coming 2012 apocalypse foretold by the Mayans or the approaching anniversary of 9/11 that makes us seek out God.

We should not pray to angels, nor should we worship them. Yet many believe angels can intercede for us, carry our prayers to heaven, and God’s messages to us. John Milton in Paradise Lost popularized the concept of choirs of angels, each with a specific purpose. However, my grandfather, a Southern Baptist minister, taught me if you believe in God, you must believe in Evil. If there are choirs of angels, then there are corresponding demonic orders.

Author C.S. Lewis wrote in the Screwtape Letters, “The commonest question is whether I truly believe in the Devil…The proper question is whether I believe in devils. I do.” Lewis goes on to say, “Devil is the opposite of Angel only as Bad Man is the opposite of Good Man.”

So here is a question to start your week: If a mother asks the Archangel Raphael, whose name means “He who heals,” in Hebrew, to wing her prayers for her sick child to Heaven, what then does a serial killer ask a demon for?