tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24604668815669878532024-03-13T23:49:40.552-07:00Brady LongmoreWriter of supernatural suspense, horror, and adventure. Author of The SummoningBradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-86331724481256800622018-04-06T17:16:00.000-07:002018-04-11T07:48:23.182-07:00A Haunting in Idaho 9: The Unholy Ghost of Salem, Idaho<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The following true story has been terrifying me for most of my life.</i></span></b> So much so, that I paid homage to it in my first book, <a href="http://www.bradylongmore.com/books/The-Summoning.php" target="_blank">The Summoning</a> Those who have read it will immediately remember the significance that the old Salem Church plays in my novel. But, little do people know, such a place really existed and it was no less unnerving. The following true account is taken from none other than my own dad, Ken Longmore. With his permission, I give you the following:<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3nw0i7HQIqw/Wsj_DRngsOI/AAAAAAAAAtw/gDxm-lOP10kHQR_sxwN0RJ5rkQKjW9LHgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1152" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3nw0i7HQIqw/Wsj_DRngsOI/AAAAAAAAAtw/gDxm-lOP10kHQR_sxwN0RJ5rkQKjW9LHgCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_1040.JPG" width="285" /></a>It was the fall of 1967 and Ken was a young man attending his sophomore year at Rick’s College in Rexburg, Idaho—now known as Brigham Young University—Idaho. Ken had come all the way out West, from his home state of Minnesota, to study art, so that, one day, he might fulfill his dream of becoming a professional painter. Having only one year of college under his belt, he was still very unfamiliar with the area and hadn’t really spent a whole lot of time beyond the confining city limits of the small college town.</div>
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One morning, while attending one of his classes, the professor felt the sudden necessity to stop his lecture and offer a heart-felt warning to the students in attendance. <i>“I just want to take a moment and tell you young people, that you should stay away from the old Salem Church. I know some of you like going out there, seeking thrills, but something is not right about that place, something evil and sick, and you aught to keep clear of it.”</i></div>
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The professor probably saw the looks of befuddlement, amusement, and disbelief that must have been on many of his students’ faces—Ken included—and decided to add to his message of warning: <i>“A couple of days ago, a few high school kids didn’t come home after being out all night. I was called, as a friend of one of the families, to help search for them. It was discovered that they had been planning to go up to the Salem Church and tell ghost stories and the like. Well, we drove out there and, sure enough, they were still there. We found them on the front steps. They were out of their minds, babbling incoherently, scared half to death. I don’t know what those kids had been dabbling with, but something got at them and really messed with their minds. Two of them came to their senses after we got them home, but one of the girls is still being treated at the state hospital in Blackfoot. I don’t know if she’ll ever be okay. You have no idea what you might be fooling around with, class, so just stay away from that place.”</i></div>
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This professor might have had the best of intentions in offering this warning to his students, but in hindsight, it might have been better if he had just kept quite about this event. Having grown up in a haunted house himself <a href="https://bradywriting.blogspot.com/2017/03/a-haunting-in-minnesota-now-i-lay-me.html" target="_blank">(see A Haunting in Minnesota)</a> Ken’s curiosity was peaked at an all-time high. He had to see this Salem Church for himself. Of course. He <i>is</i> a Longmore.</div>
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Not being from the area, Ken had not heard of the place and began asking around about it. He was able to quickly learn that the building used to be an old Mormon church built out of limestone blocks by early pioneer settlers to the area. It had been privately owned for some time now and was derelict, rundown, and slowly eroding from the decay of time. It stood in a rural area, not far away from a small community known as Sugar-Salem. Once he had acquired directions as to its location, he was determined to go out there and have a look.</div>
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On a late afternoon, after he was finished with his classes for the day, he hopped into his 1956 Chevy Nomad and began the drive out to the abandoned old church. It was getting to be around five o’clock when he arrived. Despite its rundown condition, Ken was immediately impressed with the unique, Gothic architecture and styling of the building, complete with a belfry. It was really neat, he thought, in its own way. He even considered that the worn-down, two-story structure might provide excellent subject matter for a watercolor painting.</div>
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After taking in the scene before him for a few moments, Ken decided it was time to get out of the car and have a look around to see if there was a means to gain entrance and explore this place. It was the reason he had come, after all, despite the warnings of his professor. He had to admit, before arriving, he’d felt pretty bold and adventurous. Now that he was here, all by himself in this rural setting, the old church now loomed threateningly before him in the rays of the waning afternoon sun, and his previous conviction to come here was seeming to feel more and more like a foolish proposition. </div>
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Determined to see this adventure through, however, he approached the church’s main front door. He found the entrance to be securely locked. One would have to break down the doors to get in that way. He knew that there must be another way in, others had told stories of being inside.</div>
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To the left of the main entrance, a short distance away, was a smaller door, warped and damaged. It was near the corner of the building, and by the looks of it, this was the means to gaining access to the structure. Sure enough, with a little work, Ken was able to pry the door open, the bottom of it scraping against the ground as he pulled on it. Before him, a steep, narrow flight of stairs climbed dimly upwards to the second story.</div>
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Ken steeled his resolve and began ascending the old stairs, the rotting boards groaning under his weight as he climbed to the second story of the old church. The dire warnings of his professor echoed louder in his mind with each step. He finally reached the top. He now stood on a small landing where a door—slightly ajar—led into a larger room on the right.</div>
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As he reached the landing, his presence must have startled some doves that happened to be taking shelter in the old place. There was an avian explosion of flapping and beating wings in the other room as the birds became startled and made their escape through some holes in the roof. Ken jumped back in his own shocked surprise. His heart certainly needed no more shots from his already pumping adrenal gland.</div>
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When the birds had made their evacuation and things had settled back down, Ken gathered his wits once more and peered through the six inch crack left by the slightly open door. He could see a large room filled with maybe some old furniture he thought, along with scattered bits and piles of debris from the failing and caving roof. There was what may have been a stage, or otherwise some kind of raised platform at the back of the room. He decided to go in and have a look.</div>
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He went to place his hand on the door in order to nudge it the rest of the way open. But as he raised his hand toward it, the door suddenly swung back toward him and closed, all by itself, right before his eyes. This was not a gentle swaying of the door as one might expect that a draft would cause—there wasn’t any wind outside anyway. Nor was it an outright slamming of the door; it was almost just the regular force that one might expect a person to use under normal circumstances when shutting a door.</div>
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To Ken, these were not normal circumstances. Not at all! In Ken’s words: “I don’t even remember my feet touching one stair on my way out of there.” The next thing he knew, he was in his Nomad and heading down the road like a bat out of hell. He never returned to the old church in Salem, figuring that maybe there are powers that are not to be trifled with, and places that are better left alone.</div>
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There’s no saying what Ken really encountered in the old church that day in 1967: a draft of wind, a shifting of the building, or perhaps it was, indeed, an unseen entity letting him know that he was not welcome. Who knows what really happened to those kids that the professor had warned about, that were driven into such a state of fear as to have temporarily lost their sanity? That story remains to be told, but it probably won’t be by me.</div>
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We will probably never be able to find adequate answers to these questions; the building itself is gone, having been torn down, and hauled away years ago. Maybe for good reason.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some images in this blog post were obtained through Google. The author does
not own these images and takes no credit for them. No copyright
infringement was intended. </span></b> </div>
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Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-72547659553344914412017-12-11T16:19:00.000-08:002017-12-11T16:47:08.713-08:00A Haunting in Idaho 8: What The Shadow Knows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Have you ever heard of shadow people? I suppose it’s a relatively new phenomenon in the paranormal world, but extremely interesting to me. I’m not sure what to think about it to tell you the truth. To be honest, I’ve never really gave it that much thought until a close friend of mine had his own sighting of a shadow person a few years ago.<br />
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So, what is a shadow person? Well, nobody really knows and there are many theories on it, but the typical sighting usually goes something like this: The witness will unexpectedly notice movement—many times from the corner of their eye, just inside their peripheral. Most witnesses report seeing the shadowy form of a person, with no identifying features. Many describe it as looking like a three dimensional shadow where you can see the outline and shape of the person only.<br />
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In most cases the shadow person seems oblivious to those witnessing its appearance. A lot of the time this phantom is in the act of simply walking—a lot of the time walking right through walls. Usually, the sighting only lasts a few seconds. The shadow person is there … and then … gone.<br />
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There are a number of theories on who or what these beings are. Anything from visitors from another world, to time travelers, even guardian angels. Most agree that these are probably not ghosts and don’t tend to haunt or linger in a specific area. Anyone can conceivably encounter a shadow person anywhere, anytime. Although, some people may be more prone to seeing these strange apparitions than others.<br />
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The theory that I find the most interesting is that shadow people are actually beings from another parallel universe or dimension. For whatever reason, just for a moment, the interdimensional fabric that separates our reality from theirs thins just enough that we catch a glimpse of someone in that other universe. It’s quite possible that we ourselves unknowingly appear as shadow people, from time to time, in their dimension! As Commander Spock might say<i> ...</i><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-phUaIHJq4Pk/Wi8eaqkQ8BI/AAAAAAAAAr8/a-xQlJAYE7cmD6P9O9hLid3qD00r5djwACEwYBhgL/s1600/spock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="238" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-phUaIHJq4Pk/Wi8eaqkQ8BI/AAAAAAAAAr8/a-xQlJAYE7cmD6P9O9hLid3qD00r5djwACEwYBhgL/s320/spock.jpg" width="320" /></a>This is a true story told to me by my friend, Duane. Duane experienced a classic shadow person sighting with a little bit of a twist a few summers ago while he was mowing his lawn.<br />
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It was an average summer day, nothing out of the ordinary going on, and Duane was enjoying the nice, warm weather as he sat astride his lawn tractor, mowing his lawn. As he came around the side of his house towards the front yard, he looked up to see a man striding purposefully across the grass towards him. Duane's first reaction was to assume that a neighbor was paying a visit, or perhaps a door to door salesman had stopped by. The man seemed quite tall and lanky, his long strides carrying him quickly in Duane’s direction. The figure was wearing a top hat of all things! Duane could see the outline of an old fashioned, long coat with tales flapping behind the man.<br />
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The most unnerving feature, to suddenly jump out to Duane, was the fact that this man walking towards him had no features. He was just a black shadow, like a cut out hole in the fabric of reality, through which only the darkness of some unseen void shone through. At that moment, before Duane even had time to become alarmed by the appearance of this Lincoln-like specter, the figure seemed to notice Duane sitting there on his mower. There was almost the feeling that the two had met one another’s gaze—if it’s possible to meet someone’s gaze who doesn’t even have eyes. Then, without even missing a stride, the lanky figure changed his direction. In one diagonal step, he vanished behind the trunk of a tree, growing nearby, and was gone.<br />
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The whole thing lasted less than two seconds according to Duane. It was broad daylight, he was wide awake, and he swears it was not some fleeting trick of the light or his eyes playing tricks on him. He knows what he saw. He has not seen a reappearance of the tall man in the top hat, but to this day, when he’s mowing his lawn and comes around the side of his house, his eyes go directly to the edge of his lawn, half expecting the strange visitor to be there once more.<br />
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Who knows, maybe in a parallel universe there is a tall, lanky man—perhaps he’s the president of his country—wondering if he’ll ever again encounter that strange, shadowy figure sitting on the strange contraption, staring at him.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some images in this blog post were obtained through Google. The author does
not own these images and takes no credit for them. No copyright
infringement was intended. </span></b> </div>
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-90777549171072044162017-09-14T05:02:00.000-07:002018-02-28T08:53:42.571-08:00Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qfkHwBggdO4/Wbpt2h8ODaI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/wlUKtl3xyw4Bt96PWS1TOGHyNqlFLuwtACLcBGAs/s1600/snakeswim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="1037" height="248" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qfkHwBggdO4/Wbpt2h8ODaI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/wlUKtl3xyw4Bt96PWS1TOGHyNqlFLuwtACLcBGAs/s400/snakeswim.jpg" width="400" /></a>Most of us can look back on our childhood, or some other occurrence in our lives, and point to a moment that may have defined us in some way or another. In this post I’d like to share one such moment from my childhood. This story is not of a paranormal nature, but still haunts me to this day, just as sure as any poltergeist or demon might. Looking back on it now, it’s probably one of the early experiences of my life that may have traumatized me into becoming a writer.<br />
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I grew up in a rural neighborhood that consisted of a row of about twenty houses, isolated in the country, surrounded by farmland on all sides. Across the road from our split-level home ran an irrigation canal that carried precious, life-giving water to the nearby potato and wheat fields. The canal was relatively small compared to some of the larger channels in the area, but was an adequate source of entertainment and adventure for the children growing up on Crowley Road.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F0R_VTCylbw/Wbpq4glLh2I/AAAAAAAAAp8/xZS7R5lKIugof1Y8B0qrLRfWFjmuvesdgCEwYBhgL/s1600/waterfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1600" height="207" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F0R_VTCylbw/Wbpq4glLh2I/AAAAAAAAAp8/xZS7R5lKIugof1Y8B0qrLRfWFjmuvesdgCEwYBhgL/s400/waterfall.jpg" width="400" /></a>We built sketchy forts and swung from rope swings in the ancient Russian olive trees that grew along the steep, grassy banks. We assembled rickety rafts from rotten lumber scraps and old, leaky inner tubes. Most of these hastily constructed vessels would usually disintegrate shortly after an unceremonious launch into the murky currents from which always wafted a faint odor of mildewing vegetation.<br />
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After too many failed attempts at navigating the deceiving waters in our crude boats, we eventually resorted to assigning the task to our platoon of G.I. Joe action figures. Courageously, and with nary a complaint, the Joes made these voyages in crafts constructed of pop cans, sticks, and kite string. Incidentally, the action figures usually enjoyed much more successful expeditions than us kids. Although, there were a few casualties that were lost beneath the swift, opaque currents that often churned the same color as the chocolate Nestle Quik that our moms made for us on hot, summer afternoons.<br />
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I remember on one such afternoon being down at the waterfall, which was the geographical representation of my mother’s imposed limits upon where I was allowed to range. This was only about five houses away from my mine, so I must have been fairly young still—maybe seven or eight-years-old.<br />
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The waterfall was actually just a head gate, where boards could be stacked between two vertical concrete slabs in order to raise the water level upstream. This would result in a waterfall where the water would pour over the top board and rush, foamy and white across another concrete slab, creating a small section of whitewater below. Even the G.I. Joes knew not to float this section of the canal. And knowing is half the battle. (Sorry about that.)<br />
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On this particular day, myself and a few friends were hanging out at the waterfall, throwing sticks into the sun-dappled water upstream and watching them take the tumultuous tumble over the falls. I would often imagine that the stick was a small canoe filled with a few unlucky jungle explorers about to meet their demise over a one-thousand-foot cascade.<br />
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Our little game was suddenly interrupted when a water snake introduced himself to us by slithering out of the tall grass and into the canal. We watched, mesmerized, as the snake wriggled his body in a sort of whipping corkscrew maneuver to propel himself through the water. He wasn’t very big—probably less than twelve inches long—but at the sight of him, my blood ran as cold as that water flowing by.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8Cf-qd9t3cA/WbprqX_1AKI/AAAAAAAAAqA/kf7Yygi09iQbYnT_bnp_60Nt329oZtMsQCEwYBhgL/s1600/jones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="625" height="156" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8Cf-qd9t3cA/WbprqX_1AKI/AAAAAAAAAqA/kf7Yygi09iQbYnT_bnp_60Nt329oZtMsQCEwYBhgL/s320/jones.jpg" width="320" /></a>I’ve always had an irrational fear of snakes. Even as an adult, just the sight of the smallest snake causes my breath to catch slightly in my throat and my heart to palpitate into a momentary arrhythmia. I blame my best friend’s older sister, Angie, for chasing us around one day with a big blow snake when we were really young—three or four-years-old probably. Pure terror, I tell you.<br />
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I don’t remember how long we observed the little reptile swimming there in the white-capped waves, just below the waterfall. Squatting along the bank, I was watching the water snake in such a state of horrified fascination that I didn’t notice the approach of Johnny Roadrash (as he will be known in this story) until he brought his beat up BMX bike to a skidding slide, locking up the rear tire, and spraying us with bits of gravel from the road.<br />
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Johnny Roadrash was a few years older than the rest of us, and to say he came from the wrong side of the tracks would be putting it mildly. Sometimes, I think the whole neighborhood was on the wrong side of the tracks, but that’s a story for another day. Johnny’s house was located down at the opposite end of the street, which was in the Forbidden Zone for me. Johnny was an emissary from that mysterious, unseen end of the neighborhood, where the older, sort of bad kids would occasionally emerge, like orcs from the Black Gate of Mordor.<br />
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Johnny was the embodiment of rebellion, with his long, shaggy, dirty-blond hair, weathered, sun-chapped face, and capacity for unpredictable outbursts of violence. He smoked, he swore, and he talked back to those in authority. This was a kid that was breaking all the rules and he knew it. He reveled in anarchy. The rest of us feared, and on some deeper level, kind of admired him for it.<br />
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I remember one time when Johnny came to our Cub Scout meeting. He showed up with his Cub Scout shirt unbuttoned, the shirt tail flapping behind him like a flag of war as he arrived on his battered bike with the squeaking chain and rusty sprocket. I’m not sure what caused the altercation, but within a short time of his arrival, Johnny punched another kid in the face, dropping him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Our den mother was furious and evicted him from her yard. I’ll never forget the way he seemed to simply shrug off the enraged screaming of an adult woman, as he sauntered over to his bike, gave a flip of his wild hair, and rode away, like some legendary gunslinger out of a Sergio Leone western, never to return to Cub Scouts again.<br />
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I looked up from the swimming snake to see Johnny Roadrash flying from the torn up seat of his bike, allowing the abused contraption to crash in a sprawling clatter to the hot asphalt below. How that bike continued to function was always a mystery to me. I assumed it was just as tough and rebellious as its owner—angry, even. Johnny ran to the bank of the ditch, his bare knees poking through the ragged holes worn through the knees of his faded jeans.<br />
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My heart skipped a beat as he picked up a rock, a murderous gleam glinting in his eyes. Was I to be the target of Johnny Roadrash’s legendary rage? To my relief, he didn’t throw the rock at me but directed his aim at the water snake. Barely missing the animal, the rock hit the canal, ejecting a plume of water that sprayed droplets into my face. Another rock followed immediately after, followed by another, and another.<br />
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I swear to this day, I have no idea how a kid could find that many rocks and throw them in such furious and rapid succession. It was like a severe hailstorm had suddenly burst out of the perfect, blue sky above. Johnny’s arms whipped the stone projectiles with such rage and reckless abandon, you would have thought that at some point in his childhood water snakes had been responsible for killing his entire family.<br />
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Now, I may have an irrational fear of snakes, but I’m also quite the soft-hearted sap when it comes to animals. So I watched with a new-found horror as this poor little snake slithered this way and that, in an attempt to stay clear of Johnny’s vicious barrage of rocks. But the poor guy never stood a chance. Not against the likes of Johnny Roadrash. After churning the water into a literal froth, Johnny finally hefted a huge boulder, roughly the size of a Nerf football, up over his head and hurled it with every ounce of force that all of his ninety-eight or so pounds could muster.<br />
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The impact of this larger rock created a huge splash that nearly soaked me and sent a small tidal wave cresting against the bank of the canal. I wiped my eyes, and as the water cleared, I saw that there was no sign of the snake. I assumed the poor creature had simply disintegrated into a million pieces, but secretly held out hope in my heart that it had somehow made it to the bank and escaped into the grass and weeds.<br />
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Johnny stood up on the high bank, surveying the scene like some avenging god, arms hanging loose, each hand already loaded with a rock and ready to let fly at the slightest movement in the water. The movement never came; the snake was gone. Johnny sniffed, dropped the rocks, mounted back on his mangled bike—the front tire was still spinning—and pedaled away back to Mordor, from whence he had come.<br />
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A movement caught my eye then: a wriggling motion below the surface of the water. At first, I thought it was a strand of algae that had been dislodged from the bottom of the canal by Johnny’s attack. But upon closer inspection, I realized it was the snake. His tail had been pinned by that last big rock, trapping the animal under the water; he was writhing for the surface, just a few inches from his outstretched nose.<br />
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An immediate terror took a hold of me that I’ll never forget, rendering me immobile; paralyzing me with fear and indecision. On one hand, I was in empathetic agony as I watched this poor snake struggling to obtain the surface, precious air almost within its reach. On the other hand, my crippling fear of snakes was preventing me from reaching down into the water to remove the rock that was pinning his tail.<br />
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I so desperately wanted to help the snake. A couple of times I dipped my fingers into the water, intending to help him, but just couldn’t quite go through with it. In my frenzied mind I imagined myself removing the rock, only for the snake to quickly latch itself onto my hand and then go slithering and twisting up my arm. It was more than I could bear.<br />
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So I squatted there on the bank of the canal, watching in my paralysis, as the snake writhed, jerked, tugged, and struggled. Most people would agree that reptiles are incapable of expressing emotions, but I saw the fear and hopelessness in those small, oil drop eyes that afternoon, as the snake finally opened its mouth in a silent scream and exhaled the last of its air. The air bubbles roiled upwards, breaking upon the surface of the water. The little snake struggled for a few more seconds and then went limp. His lifeless body soon joined in with the long, hair-like strands of green algae that grew along the bottom of the canal, swaying gently in the smooth flow of the current.<br />
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I don’t remember anything else about that day. I suppose I left the canal, after a while, and went about occupying my time with whatever it is little boys do on hot, summer afternoons. But thoughts of the snake and its senseless demise did haunt me throughout my childhood, and continue to plague me to this day. As the years have passed, I have taken this experience and twisted a meaning out of it, I suppose. I look back on it now as a time in my life when I knew what the right thing to do was, but allowed fear to hold me back from acting. For the rest of my life, I’ve suffered the emotional consequences of this failure to act.<br />
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At a young age—too young, I think—I learned how deeply an internal conflict like this can twist itself up and burrow into your psyche. Everyone goes through life and has experiences like this; I’m in no way unique. But, I believe it’s these human experiences that give writers that insightful glimpse into the human spirit, which allows them to flesh out and weave interesting and believable characters into their stories. For that reason, I’m thankful to have been gifted the type of mind that latches onto these moments and stores them away, while looking for hidden meanings and interpretations. Even if it means I have to go through life with a bit more sensitivity to death, tragedy, and the cruelties of our human existence.<br />
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I’ve always wondered if watching that snake drown at a young age influenced my later decision to become a lifeguard. Is it possible that the numerous times I’ve snagged a drowning toddler or plucked a panicked kid out of troubled waters, have made up for my lack of action on that day? I’m not sure I believe in karma, but I’d like to hope that if such a thing exists, then perhaps I’ve managed to balance the scales somewhat in this regard.<br />
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Even now, I can’t stand to watch a creature suffer death by drowning. I will go to great lengths to rescue ladybugs, earwigs, hornets—even spiders—from perishing in our backyard swimming pool. My kids probably think I’m sort of nuts. I say, I’m just trying to make up for an opportunity lost, many years ago.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some images in this blog post were obtained through Google. The author does
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-83774551549978615352017-08-22T21:02:00.000-07:002017-08-23T19:17:44.087-07:00Free Falling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UYM4pfZpS_8/WZz2htDvFzI/AAAAAAAAApM/CJdek2L-HDcxg8mnvHmQVOr02mIaXxzggCLcBGAs/s1600/out-of-body.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="926" height="192" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UYM4pfZpS_8/WZz2htDvFzI/AAAAAAAAApM/CJdek2L-HDcxg8mnvHmQVOr02mIaXxzggCLcBGAs/s400/out-of-body.jpeg" width="400" /></a>The following story comes from a close friend who wishes to remain anonymous. In the following story I will refer to him as Tyler.<br />
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Have you ever heard of astral projection, or OBE (out of the body experience)? The principle is pretty basic. It’s based on the belief that your spirit can vacate the confines of the physical body, for a time, and then return back to the body. This isn’t to be confused exactly with a near death experience but the two can definitely be linked, I believe.<br />
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An OBE can happen accidentally to someone. Some people have reported that in a moment of extreme duress, pain, or exhaustion, suddenly finding themselves floating outside of their body and observing what is taking place from a different angle, as if they were someone else merely observing. Others have reported to have left their body inadvertently while sleeping. They might be having a dream and then, the next thing they know they are standing in the bedroom, looking down at their own unconscious body.<br />
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Astral projection is the same concept, except that it is the deliberate action of leaving the body. Some claim to have figured out how to meditate and concentrate in the right way, allowing them to leave their body at will. Those who have been able to do this, say that they then are able to move about on what they call the astral plane. They are still here but are able to move through walls, fly about, and even meet other beings and spirits. <b>NO THANKS.</b><br />
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My dad used to know a man that claimed he could do this. According to this person, there was a sort of silver umbilical cord that connected him to his body. He had the feeling that when you die, the silver cord is severed and your spirit is permanently separated from your body. Off you go towards the light. This man gave up the practice, however, after laying down on his bed one night, he meditated and successfully entered the astral plane.<br />
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He turned around to look at his body and was horrified to see a dark, shadowy figure standing in the corner of the bedroom. He felt an evil vibe coming off this specter and had the distinct feeling that this character was trying to figure out how to take possession of this now vacant vessel. He jumped back into his body without hesitation, and gave up the practice of astral projection. <b>SO WOULD I!</b> </div>
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In my debut novel,<i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M5DR70N/" target="_blank">The Summoning</a></i>, the main antagonist, Daniel, uses astral projection to inhabit the body of someone else and commits a murder that can’t be traced back to him in any way.<br />
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The story of my friend, Tyler, is not that scary, but still quite incredible.<br />
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One late afternoon, after returning to his second-story apartment from an extra hard rugby practice, he collapsed on his couch. He was so exhausted that he didn’t bother taking a shower or anything. He doesn’t recall ever being in such an exhausted state before in his life, and immediately began to drift off to sleep.<br />
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He tells of suddenly experiencing the sensation that he was sinking through the couch. He opened his eyes and was shocked to be looking up at the ceiling, just a few inches from his face. He realized that he was falling, but very slowly—he wasn’t sure how he got up there to begin with. He tried to turn himself around to face the floor. He got about half turned and looked down. This was when he discovered he wasn’t even in his apartment!<br />
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Below him, on the floor, was a blow-up mattress with some big guy sleeping on it. He didn’t recognize the man, but he was distinctive, being a very big guy with long hair, possibly Samoan or some other type of Pacific Islander heritage. I’m out of my body, he thought to himself. At that moment, he felt himself fly back up through the floor, the couch, and into his body, like the snap of a rubber band.<br />
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At first, he just assumed that he’d experienced a really bizarre dream, brought on by his extremely exhausted state … until the next morning when he went to leave for work. He almost had a heart attack when, coming out of the apartment, he ran into the big Samoan man he had seen sleeping on the blowup mattress. He had not seen the man before hand and had originally thought he was just a figment of his imagination. Now the guy was standing right here in the flesh!<br />
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It turned out the big guy was spending the night with a friend and that’s why he had been on the blowup mattress in a spare bedroom. It was at this point that Tyler had to seriously take into consideration that he had, indeed, inadvertently slipped away from his body for a few seconds.</div>
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Personally, I don’t condone that one should try to experiment with this stuff on purpose. The story of the evil presence waiting there on the astral plane should serve as warning enough to those who might be curious. I don’t know what to actually think about this particular phenomenon. Of course, I do believe that we all have a spirit that inhabits this mortal house of clay. So, it’s not too far of a stretch for me to think that under the right circumstances we could find ourselves straying a little from our physical body.<br />
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But as far as I’m concerned, I’m only planning on my spirit taking a leave of absence from my body once, thank you.</div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">The
images in this blog post were obtained through Google. The author does
not own these images and takes no credit for them. No copyright
infringement was intended. </span></b> </div>
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-17269340742865381002017-07-25T19:05:00.000-07:002017-07-25T19:05:04.044-07:00A Haunting in Idaho 7: The Girl of My Dreams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The following happened to me in November of 2000.<br />
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I was twenty-seven years old and was excitedly anticipating becoming a father for the first time, in just a few months. My wife, Kimberly, and I had just purchased our first home in preparation for starting out a family. The house was an old, brick farmhouse, built in 1898 by some of the first people to settle down in the historic, little village of Iona, Idaho. This is the same house where I had my experience with Charles, mentioned in a previous post. Read about that good time right <a href="https://bradywriting.blogspot.com/2017/01/a-haunting-in-idaho-3-charles.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>.<br />
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We were thrilled to be in our first home and I still remember those wonderfully terrifying feelings of responsibility and stewardship that would come over me from time to time, as the idea of being a property owner and a father began to sink in. And if I’m honest, me being me, the idea that the house could be haunted was also on my mind. A hundred year old house is bound to have a ghost or two hanging around, right?<br />
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I don’t remember exactly how long we had been living in the house when I had this experience, but I do know it was within the first few weeks or so. One night, after having gone to bed and falling asleep, I suddenly woke up for no particular reason. I was lying on my right side, my back facing the open bedroom door. In this house the master bedroom was right off the living room. I don’t know why I awoke, but didn’t think much of it and decided to roll over onto my left side.<br />
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As I did so, I was taken completely off-guard when I saw a little girl standing in the doorway! She was about six or seven years old and was wearing a white nightgown that had an old-fashioned look to it, like something you’d see the Ingles girls wearing on <i>Little House on The Prairie</i>—minus the bonnet. She had long, dark hair and was smiling at me.<br />
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I didn’t feel any fear. In fact, the thought that this was a ghost didn’t even enter my mind. She didn’t look like what I would have imagined a ghost to look like. She seemed solid, right down to her little, bare feet planted on the old, hardwood floor. My first thought was that a neighbor kid must have been sleepwalking and somehow found herself in my house. Yes, that was it.<br />
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I was about to ask her who she was when she raised one hand up in a sign of farewell, smiled sweetly, and said, “Bye … “ She dragged the world out like, “Byyye.” Suddenly, she became less substantial, like the dimming of a light, fading into transparency, her hand still up in the air. Before I had time to be scared or disturbed by this, she was gone. Vanished into thin air.<br />
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I remember experiencing a sensation of wonder more than fear as I tried to come to terms with what had just happened. <i>What in the heck was that?</i> I thought to myself as I rolled back onto my right side, once again putting my back toward the bedroom door.<br />
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As I rolled over, I caught a strange movement out of the corner of my eye. Some shadowy thing slipped into the bedroom at that moment. Flew into the room, would be the better way of putting it, I guess. The best way I can describe it would be if a black blanket of mist slipped into the room by flying through the doorway, up high near the top of the frame, and then floated up into the corner of the ten-foot ceiling. It hovered up there, watching us in our bed.<br />
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I was seized by such a fear at that moment that I suddenly felt paralyzed, like a charge of electricity was coursing through my body. I thought I could sense this thing spreading out across the ceiling, becoming larger. It began to descend, as if to completely drape itself over us. With sheer mental force, I powered myself out of that feeling of paralysis and turned on my back to face this spectral threat. But, there was nothing there.<br />
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I lay there contemplating what had just happened. The fear slowly dripped away as several minutes ticked by. I concluded that somehow I had dreamed the whole thing. And, maybe I did. To this day, I’m not exactly sure about that. Was it all a dream? I felt like I was awake, but … I just don’t know for sure. To be honest, maybe I don’t really want to know.<br />
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I never saw the girl again, or the strange, black shroud that had flown into our bedroom that night. I’ve spent the years since, telling myself that it was all just a bizarre dream. There was never any other evidence to make me think that there was the spirit of a little girl haunting the house.<br />
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Except for this one time when our dog, for no reason at all, got his hackles up and started growling at our darkened kitchen one night. But a dog wouldn’t growl at the ghost of an innocent little girl. Would it?<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">The
images in this blog post were obtained through Google. The author does
not own these images and takes no credit for them. No copyright
infringement was intended. </span></b> </div>
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-44676023838448236192017-06-23T12:50:00.000-07:002017-06-23T12:50:57.741-07:00A Haunting in Maryland: If These Walls Could Talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ruWgngl_lA/WUy6LtHJVPI/AAAAAAAAAns/YVlO4CdNV7MUmpoCTAhLF5s4q2E8nhVmwCLcBGAs/s1600/creepyhouse.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ruWgngl_lA/WUy6LtHJVPI/AAAAAAAAAns/YVlO4CdNV7MUmpoCTAhLF5s4q2E8nhVmwCLcBGAs/s320/creepyhouse.jpeg" width="320" /></a>This week’s true paranormal story comes to us from my friend, Thomas. It takes place in Maryland, over a period of about fifteen years. The story, in an almost classic style, begins with a recurring nightmare.<br /><br />Through much of the 1980s Thomas had a recurring dream that he was living in an older home. In this dream there was a feeling or sense that the walls of the house were to be avoided. One was to avoid touching or rubbing up against the walls. Even pushing furniture up against the walls was a bad idea. This was because the walls were infested with the spirits of the evil dead. Nothing ever happened in the dream; there was just a sense that the walls were evil.<br /><br />Sounds like a typical, demented nightmare—I’ve had similar dreams myself—except for the fact that this particular dream persisted throughout most of the 80s for Thomas. That’s something that I would not consider normal if it were happening to me.<br /><br />In 1992 Thomas found himself renting the second story of an older home, constructed in the 1840s. The home had been renovated some years prior into a rental unit. He recalls that there was a stairway on his floor with a landing that led to an attic door. The door was actually boarded up and also had bars installed across it. He began to feel like something might be wrong with the house when his bluetick coonhound started wandering up the landing to just stare in quizzical fascination at this off-limits door. Was this the house of his recurring dream with the infested walls?<br /><br />His suspicions were confirmed one night while he was watching TV in the living room. For seemingly no reason the ornamental plaster medallion, mounted above the fireplace, fell off the wall, all by itself. But it didn’t just fall off the wall. It practically sailed across the room, assuming an impossible trajectory, and crashing to the floor! Thomas climbed up to where it had been solidly attached just moments before. He looked for anything that might explain this strange occurrence. No explanation was to be found, and it was at that moment, he suddenly realized that he was actually living in his nightmare house!<br /><br />He took the dream and the flying medallion as a warning and moved out of the place, having only lived in the old house for three months. Years later, just by chance, he actually bumped into a man who’s grandparents had purchased the house some many years before and had renovated the place.<br /><br />Remember how Thomas’s dream included the idea that the walls were infested with the evil dead? Well, according to the grandson, when the house was being renovated, four complete human skeletons were found hidden inside the DANG WALLS! I know, I know! How creepy is that?</div>
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The bodies were never identified, I guess. The house was close to the old Mason-Dixon Line, and the working theory is the bodies must have been the murdered remains of a small group of runaway slaves. But, nobody really knows for sure.<br /><br />What do you think about dreams? Was Thomas warned ten years before to stay clear of this particular house? If so, where do dreams like this come from? Is there a higher intelligence reaching out and trying to warn us, or does the dream somehow come from within our own minds? Perhaps, through and extra-sensory ability that we possess but are mostly unaware of?<br /><br />Whatever the case, I think I might start paying a little closer attention to my own dreams for now on.</div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">The images in this blog post were obtained through Google. The author does not own these images and takes no credit for them. No copyright infringement was intended. </span></b> </div>
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-63212102841688584042017-05-15T22:29:00.000-07:002017-05-24T03:57:57.855-07:00A Haunting in Idaho 6: No Vacancy at the Hotel Rogers<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nUsUastTnAc/WRqIl2d7pPI/AAAAAAAAAnE/wfXwnHJ35AoyL1LErWoAAo940LBMRlTIACEw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-05-08%2Bat%2B3.41.35%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nUsUastTnAc/WRqIl2d7pPI/AAAAAAAAAnE/wfXwnHJ35AoyL1LErWoAAo940LBMRlTIACEw/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-05-08%2Bat%2B3.41.35%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a>As I went to do a little research on The Rogers Hotel in order to write up this blog post, I had no idea of the building’s already infamous reputation in the community for being haunted. And I certainly wasn’t aware of it when I got hired to work for a company that was using the haunted hotel as an office space at the time.<br />
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I did a little googling on the building to see what background information I could find on the place and was surprised—but not really—to see a few websites where the haunted building is mentioned. There has even been a paranormal investigation done in the place.<br />
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Some videos have been posted by the group that did the investigation on YouTube: <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/BbOVZbYBxmk/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BbOVZbYBxmk?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe><br />
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The Rogers was built in 1937 by Bronson Marshall “Brunt” Rogers, one of Idaho Falls’s first millionaires, for the cost of $300,000. Upon its completion, the hotel boasted 100 beautifully furnished rooms with attached baths that went for $2 and up. The hotel enjoyed celebrity guests over the years such as: Herbert Hoover, Lyndon B. Johnson, Ronald Reagan, Bing Crosby, Gary Cooper, and Roy Rogers.<br />
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My own experience with The Rogers takes place in 2001 when I took a job as a graphic designer for a publishing company that had just moved into the building. The antique structure is comprised of three stories in which all the rooms have been converted into offices; my office was on the second floor, if my memory serves me correctly.<br />
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I was excited about this new job—I had my own office for cryin’ out loud, with a window and everything! And I loved the building, located in the historic section of Downtown, Idaho Falls on the corner of B Street and Park Ave. To this day, the old sign still remains on the side of the red-brick building. Painted in fading lead-based paint, it reads:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>HOTEL ROGERS</b><br />
One of America’s better places … to eat and sleep.</div>
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As I said before, this building was not only new to me, but new to my coworkers too, as they had just recently moved in. Well, it didn’t take long before a coworker shared a ghost story with me, and my new workplace began to take on a whole new meaning.<br />
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Apparently, two guys stayed after hours one evening to put together a few modular desks. They were on the top floor—what turned out to be the hotspot of paranormal activity—with the parts and pieces of a new desk spread out in front of them on the floor. They were kneeling side by side, hunched over the instruction sheet, trying to make sense of the instructions—you know how those things go. Anyway, as they were kneeling there, they both suddenly felt a hand clap them each on the back of the neck. They both turned in surprise, having thought they were the only ones in the building at the time. They expected maybe to see a coworker, perhaps even the boss standing over them. But, there was nobody there!<br />
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In wide-eyed astonishment they looked at each other, and without a word, jumped to their feet and got the heck out of there, the skin on their necks still prickling with the sensation of a hand being laid there. They returned the next day and were forced to confess their story to their coworkers and explain why they had left a desk in a state of complete disassembly for everyone else to find in the morning.<br />
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A saleslady, who’s office was located on the third floor, told me of a time when she was working. It was midday and everyone on her floor had gone to lunch, leaving her alone as she worked to finish up a rush job that day. As she concentrated on the work in front of her, she caught a quick glimpse of a man walking by her door. She didn’t see much, except to note that he seemed to be wearing a pair of overalls and a checkered flannel shirt. She found it very odd, as this was definitely not company dress code.<br />
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She got up from her desk thinking that perhaps the boss had come in from a day off and was heading to his office, just a couple of doors down. Maybe he’d just come back from camping or something, she figured; he maybe just needed to grab something real quick. Although, it was strange that he just walked past her door without saying anything. She went to the door and called out his name. There was no response. She stepped out into the hallway. It was completely empty; all the doors were closed and there was no place the man in overalls could have gone! A chill spilled down her spine as a very uneasy feeling creeped through her body. She decided the rush job could wait and left until some other workers could return with her to the third floor.<br />
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There were other incidents: doors opening and closing by themselves, lights flickering, footsteps, a disembodied voice, etc. A few more employees thought they too had seen the man in the overalls and some had actually given the wandering specter a nickname. I can’t recall what the nickname was. Something like Bill, I think.<br />
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Things apparently got bad enough that someone reached out and contacted some people who had worked for the company that had previously occupied The Rogers. These contacts all enthusiastically corroborated our suspicions that the old hotel was haunted, saying that their employees had also experienced similar incidents while working in the building. I don’t know if there’s any proof to the rumor, but we were told that the man in the overalls was probably the ghost of the hotel’s maintenance man who had worked in the building for years, until he was discovered deceased in one of the rooms one day. Dare I speculate he was probably found in a room on the top floor?<br />
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Naturally, these stories and incidents served to incite my imagination quite a bit. I would make excuses to walk the halls of the old building, looking for perhaps a shadowy figure lurking in a corner, the ominous creak of a door slowly opening by itself, or even Bill’s ghost gliding down the hall.<br />
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One evening, I found myself working late on a project that had to be done by morning. After a while, I decided to get up and walk around a little to stretch my legs and give my eyes a break from staring too long at a computer screen. As I walked around, I soon realized that I had the entire building all to myself. All three floors. <i>Gulp!</i><br />
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I took possession of my faculties and decided that if I was ever going to see a real ghost, this was probably my best chance. Don’t ask me why I actually wanted to see a ghost; seems like a foolish thing to wish for now. With all of the courage I could muster, I began to walk the hallways of The Rogers, one deserted floor at a time. “Come on, Bill,” I said, now and then, as I made my way closer to the top floor, “Come on out and show yourself, if you’re really here.”<br />
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I know … Dumb!<br />
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For whatever reason, Bill chose not to manifest his presence to me that night, and to be honest, as I left the building to go home, I think I was kind of grateful he hadn’t. I refer you to my previous post:<a href="http://bradywriting.blogspot.com/2017/01/a-haunting-in-idaho-3-charles.html"> Charles</a><br />
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I kind of have this theory that when we’re actually trying to see a ghost or communicate with them, collect evidence, etc, we’re less likely to see something then if we just go about our normal existence. I think that maybe when we are in the act of pursuing an experience with the paranormal, perhaps we aren’t in the right frame of mind, making an occurrence not as likely. Perhaps, when we’re just going about our normal routines and daily lives, we are more relaxed and therefore somehow a bit more susceptible to a glimpse at the other side. Which leads me to what I count as my own experience at The Rogers.<br />
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At some point, I kind of forgot about the supposed ghost or haunting of the building as I went about my daily life there. I even began to doubt the stories I had heard from others. Not that I thought people were making up the stories, but I started to assume that people had probably just allowed their imaginations to get the better of them. Saw and heard things that just weren’t really there. Personally, I had just spent too much time there—many times all by myself—and had not witnessed any kind of paranormal activity. Not even an unexplained cold spot.<br />
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One day, I approached my boss and told him that my office needed a second chair for clients to be able to use when they came to see me. He told me that I could probably find a decent office chair down in the basement, where they had stored a bunch of office supplies and furniture when the company had moved in. Basement? Up to this point, I had no idea there was a basement in the old place. If I’d been on my guard, maybe the thought of going into the basement of an old hotel, that was alleged to be haunted, would have at least raised some concern. But, I admit on this occasion, I thought nothing of it, as I took the stairs, making my way down there.<br />
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The basement, itself, wasn’t particularly creepy as I remember it now, some sixteen or so years later. It was a pretty open space with an uneven cement floor and, indeed, it had a great deal of office furniture that had been stored down there: desks, chairs, filing cabinets, old computers, old fax machines, etc. The lighting wasn’t too bad, I remember. About what you might expect in a space such as that.<br />
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I began to rummage through the selection, in search of a decent chair that would fit well in my small office space. Before long, I had selected a good candidate and separated it from the conglomeration of stuff. With my primary task complete, I took a moment to have a look around. Maybe there was something else in the pile that I could use for my office.<br />
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And that’s when I took notice of the dark, far corner of the basement.<br />
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It was an empty corner that held this aura of being farther away then the rest of the room—detached somehow from the rest of the basement. It seemed a little darker than everywhere else too, as if the already weak light emanating from the lightbulbs down there just couldn’t quite penetrate into that one corner. Feeling somewhat drawn, perhaps like a moth to the flame, I took a few steps in that direction. But only a few steps.<br />
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I pulled up short, the dim corner gaping in front of me like the giant maw of some lurking monster that just might snap shut and swallow me whole, if I were to go any nearer. The skin on my arms prickled and I’ll be danged if I didn’t suddenly feel a slight chill in the air as I stood there, unable to go further—unwilling to take even one more step closer to that darker little realm of shadows.<br />
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I thought I actually felt a presence down in that corner. An unseen phantom watching me from the darkness, warning me, maybe willing me away from its otherworldly abode. For a long moment, I stood there wrestling with myself, questioning my instincts, trying to rationalize away these odd feelings of foreboding that had suddenly come upon me. In the end I chose to heed that sixth sense that was trying to tell me that something about my surroundings just was not quite right. I left with my chair.<br />
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Before heading up to my office, however, I stopped by the office of a coworker named Chris. I felt comfortable enough with Chris to tell him about my experience—I knew he believed in the ghost stories that had been circulating. I was sort of going nuts inside, wondering if I had just imagined those feelings in the basement, so I asked him to make a little trip downstairs, and see if maybe he might experience something similar in the far corner. Chris agreed to humor me and headed down to the basement while I waited in his office.<br />
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It didn’t take long for Chris to return. He was smiling, but looked a bit shaken up. I asked him if he had also had the uneasy sensation of being watched from the corner. He said that he had definitely felt uneasy while he was down there … and yes, especially while standing near the far corner.<br />
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I don’t think I ever went back down in the basement of The Rogers hotel during my employment in that building. And never again did I walk the halls, during after hours, audaciously calling out the building’s ghosts to make themselves known. To this day, and even immediately after my experience in the basement, I question what really happened down there. Was it just my imagination, after all? Was my mind just playing tricks on me?<br />
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I suppose these are questions that most people who experience a ghost sighting or paranormal event probably ask themselves. And to be honest, I don’t have an answer as to the truth of what really happened. But, I do know this: at that moment, as I stood there feeling as if the very walls of the room were yawning after me, my blood suddenly turning to ice water, there was no doubt. No doubt at all.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> </div>
<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-52739749316896165842017-04-21T08:50:00.000-07:002017-04-21T09:32:51.910-07:00An Adventure in Budapest: To Dungeons Deep and Caverns Old<br />
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8-R1O2mqGVo/WPlS9OmpFRI/AAAAAAAAAlk/HQusiYDH_hAHQy9ANh7KW1seik1Y7aM0ACLcB/s1600/BudaVar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8-R1O2mqGVo/WPlS9OmpFRI/AAAAAAAAAlk/HQusiYDH_hAHQy9ANh7KW1seik1Y7aM0ACLcB/s400/BudaVar.jpg" width="286" /></a><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">February
twenty-sixth, 1993 is a cold day in Budapest, Hungary, but the sun
shining brightly in a clear sky of cobalt-blue offers the promise of
spring, as I jump off the bus with my mission companion, Matt. As young,
nineteen-year-old
missionaries for the Mormon church, it's our free day, the one day a
week when we aren't expected to be out knocking on people's doors, or
teaching gospel lessons to people who are investigating our church.
We've just crossed over the Danube River to the Buda
side of the magnificent city, in order to visit the old royal palace
and the medieval fortress walls that once protected it. We've been here
before, but having a fascination for castles and old structures, I make
every excuse to come here. Fortunately, Matt
is an easy going guy that doesn't seem to mind my little forays into
what is known as the Castle District.</span></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Budapest,
known as the gateway to the east, just might be the most beautiful city
in the world. Before being connected by a bridge, Budapest was actually
two cities separated by the Danube River: Buda on the hilly north bank,
and Pest on the flatter south. Even though Budapest is officially now
considered one city, the Hungarian people refer to the two sides as if
they were still separated.</span></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">On
foot, we head past the famous Mathias Church toward the palace, which
at the moment is a museum. This is a touristy part of the city and the
cobble-stoned streets that lead to the palace are lined with quaint
souvenir and pastry
shops, little cafes, and bookstores, along with other similar shops and
stores meant to attract foreigners. But, having lived in Hungary for
almost a year now, and having learned to speak the language, Matt and I
have no interest in such places, and we walk right
on by.</span></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">It's
not a long walk and pretty soon we arrive at the huge gate cut
into the massive, thick outer wall of the palace grounds. The Hungarian
coat of arms, emblazoned on the side of the wall, stands out as a
reminder of the
nationalistic pride of the Hungarian people, and I can't help but feel a
small sense of reverence as we enter the grounds. One of the first
things we see is a statue of an eagle high up on a pedestal, its wings
outstretched, a sword clutched in his talons,
his beak open as he screeches in silent rebellion against those who
would attack. This particular statue bespeaks of Hungary's more ancient
roots. To the time when the pagan, Magyar tribes arrived in the
Carpathian Basin over a thousand years ago and conquered
it for themselves.</span></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">I
haven't come for any particular reason except to walk the battlements
and take in the unbelievable view that is to be had from this vantage
point. The entire city sprawls away to the south, the enormous dome of
St. Stephen's
Basilica rising up from the clusters of buildings on the flat Pest
side, floating on the horizon like a black moon. The unmatched Hungarian
Parliament building stares out at its own reflection in the Danube
River as the water snakes by the opulent, Victorian
structure.</span></div>
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<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">As
we walk along the top of the fortress wall, we pass beneath thick
arches that once might have served as gatehouses that could be closed as
a means of defense. We pass crenelations that line the top of the wall
like a row of
giant, stone teeth. In my mind's eye, I can envision the top of the
wall lined with determined warriors, courageously defending the walls
against a besieging army in some forgotten struggle of an age that has
long past.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">It's
as we are passing through one of these arches, a door made of iron
bars, coated with faded, red, and chipping paint, grabs my attention. The
door is set into the side of the castle wall to our right. We've
definitely walked by
this inconspicuous door of iron bars before, but on this occasion I stop and
take extra notice of it. Walking up to it I can see that beyond the
door, is a narrow tunnel with a low, arched ceiling burrowing its way
straight back into the wall. I can only see a
few feet of the tunnel before it's swallowed up by darkness. "Wow," I
say, my imagination beginning to spin up, "I wonder where that goes."</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">For
some reason, I grab onto one of the bars and give the door a small tug.
The door swings open as the old, rusted bolt that holds it shut breaks
loose!</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">In
disbelief, I look back at Matt, the silent question hanging between us:
are we going in there? I note the look of resignation on Matt's face.
This isn't the first time we have worked together as missionaries and he
probably
knows me well enough by now to realize the answer to that question is, a
big YES.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">One
advantage to sightseeing in Budapest on a cold February day, is we
mostly have the area to ourselves. So, nobody is around as we both slip
into the tunnel and quietly close the little door behind us. The tunnel
is only wide
enough that we can go single file. I feel like I'm at the start of one
of my childhood Dungeons and Dragons adventures as I lead the way, the
darkness quickly enveloping us. The only thing missing is a guttering
torch in one hand and a gleaming sword in the
other.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Only
after about ten or fifteen yards, it has grown so dark, that I'm just
about ready to turn back, when the tunnel comes to an abrupt end. We are
now standing in front of a spiral staircase made of stone that winds
its way upward.
Another staircase next to it vanishes downward into pitch-black
darkness. We choose to go up--at least there seems to be more light
coming from up there.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">The
stairs are just as narrow as the tunnel that brought us to them, and we
are forced to stay in single file. Still in front, I lead the way up
the sharply-twisting stone steps. The staircase doesn't climb far before
we find
ourselves on a small landing, any more forward progress blocked by
another door of iron bars, just like the one at the front of the tunnel
below. Except the locked bolt isn't rusted and broken on this door and
we are forced to retreat back down the way we
came.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5YlX4__LqbY/WPlTADCs_8I/AAAAAAAAAlo/eqxJvHDXyO4kd5hA63o2tWaJCK5Ccyn0gCLcB/s1600/Tunnel01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5YlX4__LqbY/WPlTADCs_8I/AAAAAAAAAlo/eqxJvHDXyO4kd5hA63o2tWaJCK5Ccyn0gCLcB/s320/Tunnel01.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Undeterred
and thirsting for adventure now, we make an attempt at taking the
downward staircase, but only make it a few steps before the absolute
darkness forces us to retreat back up and into the tunnel. There is just
no way
to continue without some sort of light source to illuminate our way. I
quickly make the determination that the only worthy way to continue this
adventure is by candlelight. Torches would be better, but don't seem
like a viable option at this time. Matt,
being the laid back guy that he is, decides to go along with my
eccentricity, and we set off immediately in search of a store where we
might be able to purchase candles and matches.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">It
doesn't take as long as I thought it might, and we have soon returned
to the broken door in the castle wall, candles and matches in hand.
After ensuring that nobody is around, we quickly slip into the
mysterious tunnel and
quietly close the broken door behind us. We walk to the back of the
tunnel, the stone staircase stretching before us in the gloomy shadows. We
light our candles. It's time to head down. Let the adventure begin.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">With
the score to Indiana Jones thrumming softly in my head, I descend down
the winding stairs. I have the presence of mind to count the steps as we
follow them down like a giant corkscrew. I hit twenty or so and begin
to grow
slightly apprehensive. How far down do these stairs go? How far do I
dare to keep going? What would Indy do?</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Indy
would keep going, and so do we. Finally, after taking more than thirty
steps, the staircase ends abruptly and spills us into a tunnel. It's
narrow, lined with ancient-looking bricks, and with a low, arching
ceiling. By the
dim light of our candles we can only see a few yards ahead. I take one
apprehensive step into the tunnel's yawning mouth, Matt nervously
encouraging me from behind. As we follow this passage, I'm nearly
overcome with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
</span><i><span class="m_3656384242380771979s4">I was born for this stuff</span></i><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2"><i>,</i> I think to myself.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P3Mszilm6hs/WPlTFQJ8QOI/AAAAAAAAAls/p9Ss8kbDRlgeH4mPYeBbtiZ15S_AGUCegCLcB/s1600/Tunnel02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P3Mszilm6hs/WPlTFQJ8QOI/AAAAAAAAAls/p9Ss8kbDRlgeH4mPYeBbtiZ15S_AGUCegCLcB/s400/Tunnel02.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<br />
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Suddenly,
the tunnel floor drops away into a straight flight of stone steps going
down even further. We cautiously descend these stairs, and I begin to
become extremely aware of the encompassing darkness, and the closeness
of
the walls as they press in from all sides.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IomaCuFYNQw/WPlS5FA4sQI/AAAAAAAAAlg/FD5-omdZgsEdzvGvrU4u66sNIK6PUUqxQCLcB/s1600/Bigtunnel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IomaCuFYNQw/WPlS5FA4sQI/AAAAAAAAAlg/FD5-omdZgsEdzvGvrU4u66sNIK6PUUqxQCLcB/s200/Bigtunnel.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">At
the bottom of the stairs, the floor's grade takes a steep angle
downward, and the walls grow much narrower. It also begins to twist and
turn more severely. We almost have to turn our bodies sideways to fit
through. I'm not
normally claustrophobic, but at this point I'm starting to get less
comfortable in this enclosed space than I care to be. As we press
downward into the gloom, I half-expect to hear Tolkien's pitiful creature, Gollum, scrabbling around
somewhere nearby, in search of his lost Precious.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">At
last, this narrow, winding tunnel comes to an end and we find ourselves
in a much, much larger tunnel--several feet across--with a tall
ceiling, at least twice my height. Maybe more. You could probably drive a truck down
here. More stairs lay at our feet, beckoning us down, deeper still.
Here, we no longer need our candles. Small rectangular apertures are
spaced along the top of the ceiling through which the natural light of
day filters through, illuminating our surroundings.
At first, I'm baffled by this. I was sure we were at least a hundred
feet underground by now. Then it all makes sense as it dawns on me that
we have only been following the downward slope of the hill as it runs
down to the north bank of the Danube.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bxs8b0pOdUw/WPlTHaMxCII/AAAAAAAAAlw/bC1eHw9HEuYcMF8gkBFOD_WtR5eQytGUQCLcB/s1600/Tunnel03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bxs8b0pOdUw/WPlTHaMxCII/AAAAAAAAAlw/bC1eHw9HEuYcMF8gkBFOD_WtR5eQytGUQCLcB/s400/Tunnel03.jpg" width="400" /></a><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Having
come this far, we naturally continue our exploration, and begin
descending these other stairs. We pass a bit of graffiti spray painted
on one of the walls. So, we aren't the only ones who have been down here
recently, it
appears. The graffiti is a giant, crude depiction of a devil with
horns. It's a bit of an ominous sight to come across down here in a
derelict tunnel beneath an old castle. My mind immediately conjures up
the image of mysterious, hooded figures that perhaps
gather down here on certain nights, engaged in unholy, forbidden
rites and dark ceremonies.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">I
do my best to push these unsettling thoughts from my mind and continue
to take the stairs, one at a time, until at last we have reached the
very bottom. I turn and look back up the way we came. It's been far
enough that I can
no longer make out the top of the stairs through the gloom. Before us,
the tunnel continues on a little further until a pile of rubble marks
the end. But, a door made of iron bars--identical to the one that we
used to get down here--sits slightly ajar on the
left wall. Perhaps our journey is not over, just yet.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hMzTz_tG9B8/WPlTQ6jorqI/AAAAAAAAAl4/1AsZhtc79uMZMgV7xW0qD4Snu43oomMngCLcB/s1600/Tunnel05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hMzTz_tG9B8/WPlTQ6jorqI/AAAAAAAAAl4/1AsZhtc79uMZMgV7xW0qD4Snu43oomMngCLcB/s200/Tunnel05.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Stepping
through this door, we come upon another stone staircase, spiraling
upwards. With candles still flickering, we head up. It becomes
immediately evident that this staircase isn't nearly as tall as the one
that originally
brought us down here. After only ascending a few steps, I can see a
wooden door several feet above me. I hear voices coming from behind the
door; it sounds like two or three men speaking casually in Hungarian. I
can't make out the nature of the conversation.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">I
nearly jump right out of my skin when a dog suddenly, begins viciously
barking and snarling on the other side of the door! I turn to Matt, and
mouth the words, <i>Let's get out of here!</i> Behind me I hear the dog hit the
door, its
toenails scratching frantically at the wooden surface while we run back
down the stairs as quickly and quietly as we can.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">I
have no idea who those men with the angry dog are, and have no
intention of finding out. Matt and I hurriedly trace our steps back up
the way we came, and in short order we find ourselves exiting the secret
tunnel beneath the
Buda castle, closing the iron door behind us. We've definitely had
enough adventure for one day and agree to head home, but determine to
return in a week to have another look around.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WFnNAj4B58I/WPlTL7qseaI/AAAAAAAAAl0/JDpM1KU1tCY66vdYax8UA0NGtY7Q4R-WgCLcB/s1600/Tunnel04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WFnNAj4B58I/WPlTL7qseaI/AAAAAAAAAl0/JDpM1KU1tCY66vdYax8UA0NGtY7Q4R-WgCLcB/s400/Tunnel04.jpg" width="400" /></a><span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">I
spend the rest of the afternoon recording the day's events in my
journal. I even render a crude map of the tunnel and fold it between the
pages. Over the next couple of months, before I'm transferred to the
small town of
Kecskemét in central Hungary, we make several more excursions into the
tunnels. Word spreads through the mission of our unique find and other
missionaries request to be shown the way. I become a sort of quasi tour
guide, taking other missionaries into the
tunnel. My only rules: No flashlights, candles only. And we don't go
up the stairs where the dog was.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">It's
been 23 years since I left Hungary and I've never been back. I have
plans to return someday--hopefully sooner rather later. When I do, I
definitely plan on making a visit to the castle, and walking along its
walls once more.
And perhaps that little door of iron bars is still there. And perhaps
I'll test it again, as I did so many years ago.</span></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p4">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s3"></span><br /></div>
<div class="m_3656384242380771979p3">
<span class="m_3656384242380771979s2">Will
it be locked this time? Or will I find myself staring once more into
the yawning mouth of that mysterious tunnel, the thrill of adventure and
exploration beckoning me forth? I'll have to be sure and bring a candle
or two
along, just in case.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3Xt-swlPOkw/WPlS17gP-QI/AAAAAAAAAlc/HeiS77_MwO0rOYdYjohjmJJcJ2ZbU37kgCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3Xt-swlPOkw/WPlS17gP-QI/AAAAAAAAAlc/HeiS77_MwO0rOYdYjohjmJJcJ2ZbU37kgCLcB/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal or an adventure that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-19007370930626628452017-03-26T19:35:00.001-07:002017-03-26T19:40:10.579-07:00A Haunting in Minnesota Part II: If I Die Before I wakeWelcome to the exciting conclusion to my two part story: A Haunting in Minnesota. Before you continue, make sure you have read <a href="http://bradywriting.blogspot.com/2017/03/a-haunting-in-minnesota-now-i-lay-me.html" target="_blank">Part One</a>. <br />
<br />
I'll just go ahead now, and dive right into it. <br />
<br />
Some
period of time passed after my Uncle Dale's experience that night in the
attic bedroom. I'm told it wasn't long, maybe just a week or so, but at some
point my dad, Ken, found himself alone one night--his mom was working
late--getting ready for bed. <br />
<br />
He was on the cusp of
leaving home to attend college out west in Idaho, and had recently
purchased a brand new turntable--a record player, for some of you
younger readers--to take with him to school. This particular turntable
had the fancy capability of automatically playing a whole stack of
records, without requiring a person to manually switch them. This was
not unlike today's modern CD changer, which is becoming a thing of the
past itself. But I digress. Probably feeling a little extra sensitive to
the emptiness of the house, especially in light of Dale's recent
experience up there, Ken decided he would fall asleep to music that
night. He placed a few records on the turntable, set the needle, got
into bed, and pulled the single bed sheet over himself that he slept in
during the warmer summer months.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bWQPHfWFMZ0/WNh2fes1O4I/AAAAAAAAAjQ/Em9858veN6M_Zti_sZJDKcoVycPyffjNACLcB/s1600/turntable.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bWQPHfWFMZ0/WNh2fes1O4I/AAAAAAAAAjQ/Em9858veN6M_Zti_sZJDKcoVycPyffjNACLcB/s400/turntable.jpg" width="400" /></a>After several minutes in bed, his music playing softly in the darkness, Ken
was slipping away into subconsciousness when suddenly, his music
stopped playing. He heard the needle lift up off the record and return
to its off position, as if it had reached the end of the record. Except,
the needle had only made it through two or three songs.<br />
<br />
The
turntable was brand new and had been working flawlessly until now, so
he assumed that perhaps there was a problem with the record. Maybe a big
scratch? He got out of bed and pulled the string on the single, naked,
light bulb that served as the room's lamp. He inspected the record for
any problems. Finding none, he put it back on the player, set the needle
back to playing music, shut off the light, and got back into bed. But, a
few minutes later, at almost the same spot in the music, the record
player repeated its previous malfunction.<br />
<br />
This time he
was positive that there must be a problem with the album itself, so he
got out of bed and removed that particular record; even though he
couldn't see any problem with it. He placed a new record on the
turntable, set it to spinning, and went back to bed, sure in the
knowledge that he would soon be fast asleep.<br />
<br />
But again,
his attempt at sleep was thwarted when the needle, once more, lifted
itself off the vinyl disk and returned to the off position. At this
point, Ken was angry. Obviously, his newly-purchased record player was
broken. Frustrated with thoughts of having to return the machine to the
store, he got up and shut the player off. He would just have to sleep in
silence.<br />
<br />
He lay on his side, waiting for sleep to make
its much welcomed return. Sure enough, he once again grew drowsy and
began to drift. When all of a sudden, he felt the sensation of his
single bed sheet slowly sliding down his body. It only slid a few inches
and at first he thought that something weird was wrong with his sheet.
Maybe he had just draped it over himself wrong? Not really thinking much
about it, he grabbed the top of the sheet and pulled it back up around
his shoulder.<br />
<br />
He instantly realized, at this point,
that something was very wrong when the bed sheet was suddenly tugged out
of his hand, and then proceeded to slowly slide down his body--this
time gliding almost all the way down to his waist. His older brother's
prior experience, from a week or so before, came to his mind now, and he
lay there too terrified to move.<br />
<br />
When Dale had related
the tale of his nightly visitor earlier, the idea of a ghost or the
experience being of a paranormal nature never entered anyone's mind. The
going theory was that a burglar had assumed the house was empty and had
broken into the home while Dale was upstairs in bed. The burglar prowled
around a bit and when he had come upstairs and seen Dale in bed, he got
spooked and left.<br />
<br />
Now, as Ken lay there with his sheet
halfway down his body, his mind conjured up another horrifying
possibility: someone was secretly living in the house, cleverly staying
out of sight, maybe hiding in the cubby hole and only coming out at
night! And now that individual was standing in the shadows, somewhere
near the foot of his bed, toying with him. He made the quick decision
that if this was indeed the case, then it would be better for him not to
let on that he was awake. There would be no telling what the deranged
individual might do.<br />
<br />
He lay there for a long time,
pretending to be asleep, but straining all of his senses, probing out
into the darkness. But, he couldn't see or hear a sound. Was there
really ever anything there at all? Maybe he was alone, after all. Maybe
not.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3Z009sZztxk/WNh2151dQoI/AAAAAAAAAjU/VMFq_BObeVsQyPmTDLG5hy1rJIEySZbvwCLcB/s1600/sheets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3Z009sZztxk/WNh2151dQoI/AAAAAAAAAjU/VMFq_BObeVsQyPmTDLG5hy1rJIEySZbvwCLcB/s400/sheets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
He
formulated a plan. On the count of three, he would roll over and moan,
as if moving in his sleep, pretend to subconsciously grab his sheet and
pull it back up to his chin. Then, see what happened. In my dad's words,
"I must've counted to three at least hundred times." I can imagine the
heart-pounding fear that would prevent him from carrying out his plan.
But, finally he mustered the courage and went for it.<br />
<br />
He
was now on his back, holding the sheet to his chin in both hands,
feigning sleep. And sure enough, to his shock and horror, the sheet began
to tug in his grasp. At first, it was a gentle little pull that stopped
for a second as Ken chose to hold on to the sheet this time. It tugged
again, with a little more force. He maintained his hold.
Again, even more forcefully. Realizing that he wouldn't be able to
continue his farce of being asleep while engaging in a game of
tug-o-war, he relinquished his hold on the sheet.<br />
<br />
Although
it was a warm summer evening, chills pricked across his skin as the
sheet, once again, slid down his body--even farther this time. Out of
options, he simply lay there, continuing his gambit, hoping that
whoever or whatever was up there with him would eventually grow bored
and leave. As impossible as it might sound, after a certain period of
time, Ken actually did fall asleep. When he awoke the next morning,
there was the bed sheet lying at the foot of the bed. He never slept up
in that room again. He spent the rest of the summer sleeping on the
couch until he went away to college in the fall.<br />
<br />
He had
only been away at school in Idaho for maybe a month or two, when he
received a phone call from his mom, back in Minnesota. She called to
inform him that she had sold the house and moved into an apartment. He
was shocked to hear this and asked her why in the world she would sell
the house. She told him that after he had moved out, she started hearing
footsteps in the attic at night. Sometimes she'd be sitting downstairs
watching TV in the living room and hear, quite audibly, someone go
stomping from one end of the attic to the other. At other times, she'd
be in bed and hear the disturbances.<br />
<br />
One night the
footsteps got so scary and loud that she got out of bed, threw on a
robe, and ran across the street to the neighbors. The neighbor came over
with a flashlight and searched the house. Of course nothing was ever
found.<br />
<br />
I certainly can't blame my grandma for selling
the place. I don't think I'd do very well either in that circumstance.
Incidentally, my Grandma Margaret is one who I give a lot of credit to
for my own fascination and love of the paranormal and the mysterious. I
have many fond childhood memories of sitting up late at night sharing
ghost stories and tales of UFOs with her. When a particular story would
strike her just right, her hand would fly to her lips and her blue eyes
would dart nervously around the room. "You don't suppose ... " she'd
often say.<br />
<br />
<div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Some images obtained through Google Images and are not my own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> </div>
Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-45254739755509095872017-03-11T19:20:00.000-08:002017-03-11T22:44:20.383-08:00A Haunting in Minnesota Part I: Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CcnlAkV71mg/WMPlRsoX1dI/AAAAAAAAAis/x6LvJdyS7tYSRt6EeWkJVOeZEWMHVB_eACLcB/s1600/Colera22.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CcnlAkV71mg/WMPlRsoX1dI/AAAAAAAAAis/x6LvJdyS7tYSRt6EeWkJVOeZEWMHVB_eACLcB/s400/Colera22.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
This particular true ghost story has haunted me most of my
life--ever since my dad related it to me years ago, when I was a young
boy. Honestly, I've been hanging on to this one, holding back a bit in a
desire to do the story justice. This one is a legend in my family and
happened to my dad and his older brother, Dale. I've decided to break
the story into two parts, beginning with my Uncle Dale's experience.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The
year was around 1965-66 in the small mining town of Coleraine in
northern Minnesota, where my dad and his brothers grew up. At this point
in time, my dad, Ken, was at or around eighteen years old, and
preparing to head out to Idaho for college. As the youngest of four
boys, he would be the last one to leave the nest, and was living in the
house alone with his mom at the time--his father having passed away recently.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On
this particular night, Ken and his mother had gone to visit a relative
in a neighboring town and decided to spend the night there. Ken's older
brother, Dale, had decided to come home for the weekend and arrived to
find the old family home in Coleraine to be empty. This was nothing
strange or out of the ordinary, and he figured he would be sleeping
alone in the house that night. He was wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Growing
up as kids in the older house, the four boys all shared a bedroom in
the attic and all of their beds were still up there. To access the attic
bedroom, one opened a door at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. At
the top of the stairs was a window and then a right turn which would
take one directly into the bedroom with steeply sloping eaves for walls.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dale
climbed into the old bed of his childhood that night and nestled into
the blankets, allowing the weariness of the day to carry him off into
slumber. As his mind drifted and sleep began to take hold, he was
shocked back into full lucidity by the unmistakable sound of the door at
the bottom of the stairs creaking open on its hinges.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In
the darkness he lay there, straining his ears for any other sound. Had
he just imagined it? Had a strange draft of wind been generated
somewhere in the old house and caused the door to swing ever so
slightly?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After a time, he concluded that it
must have been nothing. Just as he was getting ready to dismiss the
entire thing, he was jolted again by another unexpected noise: the loud
creaking of a stair. This was not his imagination! The fear level
jumped inside him as he again, found himself straining his auditory
senses to their maximum potential trying to determine what could
possibly be the source of the noise. He listened for the sound of
breathing or the dry whisper of clothing scraping on a wall. Anything.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SHJ_JyqmLko/WMPjoZYStLI/AAAAAAAAAig/peTDVqiOvTwAa1zH4OwZjGNricCLLf62ACLcB/s1600/image%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SHJ_JyqmLko/WMPjoZYStLI/AAAAAAAAAig/peTDVqiOvTwAa1zH4OwZjGNricCLLf62ACLcB/s400/image%25281%2529.jpeg" width="298" /></a>And
sure enough, another stair groaned. This time it came from a stair
further up the flight, and closer to the room where Dale now lay
terrified in the darkness. There was the sense that someone was doing
their best to sneak up to the room quietly, but being foiled by the
squeaking stairs. Dale listened to this occur a few more times, each
occurrence resembling how one might react after having a stair squeak
underfoot: pausing for a long moment, then proceeding to creep upward.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After
a time it got to the point where Dale knew that this visitor--whoever
it was--must be close to the top of the stairs. In horror he fixed his
eyes on the window just outside the bedroom door. The yellow glow of a
streetlight shinning through it, weakly illuminated the entryway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
His
heart pounding like a drum he watched in utter disbelief as the black,
featureless form of a man was revealed, momentarily, when the figure
glided past the window and into the bedroom.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Apparently,
this final revelation was just too much for poor Dale's nervous system
and his mind decided to check completely out of the situation. Dale
fainted from fear. When he came to, he had no idea how long he had been
unconscious. His unwelcome night visitor was gone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He
never was able to explain away the events of that night. There were no
signs of a forced entry into the house and nothing had been stolen. When
the figure had revealed itself for that brief moment in the streetlight
shining through the window, Dale had not been able to discern any
features that would have made the being identifiable in any way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To this day that night remains a mystery in my family.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But,
the story doesn't end there! It wasn't long after that my dad had
his own frightening encounter in that same bedroom! Be sure to check
back to hear the second part of the story. Or, follow my Facebook page
so you know when part two is out.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Some images obtained through Google Images and are not my own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> </div>
Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-77345919713749339272017-02-23T14:57:00.000-08:002017-02-23T14:57:47.751-08:00A Haunting in Idaho 5: The Possessed Toy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tTQE5Gf7ocU/WK9l9FOPZwI/AAAAAAAAAh8/vyKbEuMPWGEolOTEBSbGFsRritUg_v4tgCLcB/s1600/merlin.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tTQE5Gf7ocU/WK9l9FOPZwI/AAAAAAAAAh8/vyKbEuMPWGEolOTEBSbGFsRritUg_v4tgCLcB/s320/merlin.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
This week’s true story of the paranormal was submitted by a friend of mine, who wishes to remain anonymous, so for this story I will refer to him as David.<br />
<br />The incident that was relayed to me took place approximately in the year 1981 in the Iona, Idaho area while David was playing at the home of a childhood friend. The boys would have been right around ten years old. David’s friend had a handheld electronic game that was extremely popular at the time called Merlin by Parker Brothers. Many of you that are around my age or older, probably remember the game and the TV commercials that advertised it.<br />
<br />
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At some point while playing with the game, the boys became bored and set it aside to just talk about whatever it is a couple of young lads might discuss. At some point, David—and for no particular reason—decided to punch in the number 666 into the keypad on the Merlin game. I imagine that whatever conversation they were having may have lead to this decision. The game did not respond, however.<br />
<br />Not to be one to give up quite so easily, David tried once again to feed the biblical number into the device. Again, Merlin was having none of it, and remained silent to this input from the young boy. David says that he made a few more attempts, not really knowing what he was thinking or why he would try such a thing. Each time he tried this, the little machine gave zero response.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9O7lmrO_gw0/WK9l-5iNB7I/AAAAAAAAAiE/VhZOrCP1FckezLG42pPRk5m9VQKmNwDJACEw/s1600/666.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9O7lmrO_gw0/WK9l-5iNB7I/AAAAAAAAAiE/VhZOrCP1FckezLG42pPRk5m9VQKmNwDJACEw/s320/666.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />His friend, growing nervous—apparently a smarter kid than David—started asking for the game, saying that he wanted to put it away. But before handing the Merlin over to his friend, David gave it one more attempt, punching the infamous number into the game, expecting the same results as before.<br />This time however, and for no apparent reason—I like to think it might have been the sixth attempt—the Merlin suddenly came to life in a flurry of beeps, screeches, and high-pitched tones. It lasted a few seconds, and in David’s own words, it seemed as if the game were somehow screaming directly at him in anger and rage.<br />
<br />When the Merlin fell silent again David and his friend were very afraid. And although the game shook in his trembling fingers, David just had to know, so he punched in the three sixes a final time. The game remained silent. The boys looked at each other, eyes the size of teacups, each feeling that what they had just experienced was something that went beyond just a coincidental malfunction of a toy.<br />
<br />Not having any more of it, David’s friend took the Merlin from him and went to put it away.<br />To this day, the memory remains with David as a terrifying and vivid reminder that it is definitely not wise to play around with such things. The moral of the story:<br />
<br />Toying around with The Number of The Beast is no game.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "avenir next" , "avenir" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">If you are enjoying my blog, please consider signing up for my <b>FREE</b> <a href="http://www.bradylongmore.com/mailing-list/" target="_blank">Newsletter</a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "avenir next" , "avenir" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images obtained through Google Images and are not my own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> <br />
<div>
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</div>
<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-22317258249859769052017-02-10T20:46:00.000-08:002018-05-26T16:58:50.440-07:00A Haunting in Idaho 4: The Ghost Waitress of Idaho Falls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The following true ghost story was told to me by a coworker of mine some years back, and has remained as one of my favorites over the years. It happened in Idaho Falls in the early or mid eighties.</div>
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This coworker of mine, Rick, was working at the time as a busboy at the old JB's restaurant on Broadway by the overpass. There was a young waitress working there at the time who I will refer to as Linda. Rick remembered her as a very hard worker that always seemed to be in a cheerful mood and easy to get along with.</div>
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Unfortunately, after a period of not feeling well, Linda went to the doctor only to be told that she was in the final stages of a very deadly and aggressively spreading form of cancer. Within a very short time the cancer took Linda from this world, leaving her coworkers at the restaurant reeling in shock at the sudden loss.</div>
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A few days after the funeral, Rick stayed late with the manager, John, to help close up the restaurant. When they had locked up the place they went and got in the manager's car, having carpooled to work that night. As they were getting ready to leave, Rick's boss started patting himself and quickly realized that he had left his cigarettes back inside. "I'll be back in a sec," he said, leaving Rick in the car to wait.</div>
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John was gone a lot longer than would have been expected for a simple task like retrieving a pack of cigs. Rick began to worry and was just about to go inside to check up on the guy, when John finally returned. According to Rick, the man was as pale as a sheet and trembling!</div>
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"Man," Rick said," you look like you've seen a ghost!"</div>
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John nodded slowly and whispered, "I did." He then related the following story to a wide-eyed Rick.</div>
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John was pretty sure he knew where he'd left his pack of cigarettes and quickly made his way through the restaurant to get them. Indeed, the smokes were right where he remembered leaving them. When John grabbed the pack and turned to leave, he was suddenly frozen in his tracks by a loud crash that came from the kitchen. It sounded like someone had just broken every plate the restaurant owned. He could even hear the distinct scraping sound a plate makes when spinning in its undulating fashion on a tile floor.</div>
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His first thought was a thief had concealed himself somewhere in the building and now, having waited for everyone to leave, was in the act of robbing the place when John had come back inside, scaring him. He figured the thief was trying to make his getaway and had accidentally disrupted a stack of plates in the process. Feeling more angry than frightened, John dashed toward the kitchen in hopes of snagging the little rat before he could escape.</div>
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Bursting through the back entrance to the kitchen, John was shocked to see nothing wrong with the place. There were no plates smashed into millions of pieces across the floor as he had expected to encounter. He shook his head. Was he losing it? Too many late nights? That's when he heard a thump and looked up to see the big double doors that the wait staff used when picking up orders from the kitchen. Both doors were swinging gently back and forth on their two-way hinges. Someone had just gone through those doors! How he had not seen them was beyond him, but the thief was getting away! John ran to the doors and shoved them open.</div>
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His blood turned to ice when he saw Linda! There she was in her waitress uniform and as real and substantial as any living person. Her back was to him, and in stunned silence he watched her walk down the little corridor that led from the kitchen to the dining area, as she had done thousands of times before her untimely death. Then she turned the corner and vanished into thin air! After realizing what he had just witnessed, John ran out of that place as fast as his feet would carry him.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "avenir next" , "avenir" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">JB's is gone now. Torn down with an Olive Garden in its place. I did manage to eat at JB's a few times though, after hearing this story. Each visit, as I ate my popcorn shrimp--as if it really were popcorn--I couldn't resist taking a moment to wonder and entertain the notion that each night, after the guests dispersed and the place grew quite, perhaps Linda would glide among the tables once more and pass through the kitchen doors, leaving them to swing gently back and forth in the dim silence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images obtained through Google Images and are not my own.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> </div>
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Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-20208547918689800122017-01-31T07:58:00.000-08:002017-01-31T17:08:46.849-08:00A Haunting in Idaho 3: Charles<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-opQNc-kguDM/WJCyy5CwmqI/AAAAAAAAAgA/tC7WzS_YohsvohIdUSLurJT789viFIQ-wCEw/s1600/littleboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-opQNc-kguDM/WJCyy5CwmqI/AAAAAAAAAgA/tC7WzS_YohsvohIdUSLurJT789viFIQ-wCEw/s400/littleboy.jpg" width="300" /></a>When I first began this blog and decided that I would use it to share tales of the paranormal, including a few personal experiences, I originally had not intended on sharing the following story. But, I reconsidered because I thought maybe it could serve as a bit of a cautionary tale about dabbling with things pertaining to the the other side of the veil. Especially without being prepared or having a clear understanding of what you are doing.<br />
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Personally, I don't believe in or recommend actively seeking out any interaction with the dead or the world of spirits. In my opinion, you really have no idea of verifying who or what you're contacting, or discerning what that being's intentions or abilities are. So, before I tell my story, allow me the following disclaimer: <b>I do not recommend that ANYONE actively attempt to contact the dead.</b> I know there are ghost hunters and paranormal investigators out there who might disagree with my statement and I have no problem with that. If they are comfortable with what they are doing, that's their deal and they've obviously worked around this stuff enough to get to a point that maybe they know what they're doing and know what particular precautions might be necessary when dealing with the spirit world. By my own admission, I am not a paranormal investigator, so read the following story with that in mind.<br />
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The first home that my wife and I purchased was a small, brick farmhouse built in the late 1800s. It had been fixed up pretty neat inside and we loved the charm and character of the place. I secretly relished the idea that maybe there was a ghost or two hanging around the place. This was a stupid thing to hope for. Fortunately, we did live there in peace and quiet without the spectral apparitions or visitors from beyond the grave that I half-expected. (I did have ONE experience shortly after moving in, but maybe I'll save that one for another time.)<br />
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A few years passed and I had become quite the fan of the show Ghost Hunters.<i> </i>For those unfamiliar with the show, it was a reality based TV show where cameras would follow a team of paranormal investigators called TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) as they investigated different locations for scientific evidence of real paranormal activity. They conducted investigations into everything from abandoned asylums and prisons to personal residences of families and even the home of Lizzie Borden. You can check out more information about the show <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghost_Hunters" target="_blank">HERE</a><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DHW3GKJjI40/WJCyvUHt8OI/AAAAAAAAAf8/rRuNdYG6QuIotg-JNs-6No2u4Ut1qNykQCLcB/s1600/taperecorder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DHW3GKJjI40/WJCyvUHt8OI/AAAAAAAAAf8/rRuNdYG6QuIotg-JNs-6No2u4Ut1qNykQCLcB/s320/taperecorder.jpg" width="320" /></a>During their investigations the team would string cameras and recording devices of every type all over the place and then walk through the place attempting to incite the alleged spirits into interacting with them, hoping to catch evidence on their various devices. They did, in fact, have some very interesting things show up every once in a while: an object moving by itself, unexplained drops in temperature, increases in electromagnetic frequency, strange orbs of light and shifting shadows caught on camera. And, <b>disembodied voices</b> showing up on audio recordings. It was this final bit that piqued my interest.<br />
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In the ghost hunting world, catching an inexplicable voice on tape is known as EVP (electronic voice phenomenon). To catch an EVP is done by a rather simple process, a digital recorder and some audio editing software being all that's needed. The idea is for the investigator to walk around with a recorder running and start asking questions to the thin air, as if speaking to spirits that just might be there. The theory is that the spirits of the dead will sometimes try to talk back, but human ears usually aren't capable of hearing the voices at the time. However the voices can sometimes be heard when played back on audio software in the very low or very high frequencies. Now I'll admit, many of these so-called EVPs--even the ones presented on Ghost Hunters--are pretty questionable, and could easily be anything from squeaky floorboards to an investigator's grumbling belly. Here's an example of a typical EVP. You'll have to turn up your speakers to hear it well.<br />
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Okay, I think that's enough background on EVPs and ghost hunting. So, here I was a fan of the show and wondering to myself, <i>Is all this for real? or are we all just getting played by this show? </i>Of course, I was leaning towards believing in most of it because it's just in my nature, I guess. Anyway, I had stayed up late one night--I think it was past midnight--and my wife and kids were all in bed, fast asleep. I had my laptop out--I was probably writing one of my half-begun, never-finished novels--and getting ready to call it a night, when I had the half-brained idea to use my laptop to try and capture an EVP of my own.<br />
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The laptop had a built in mic and I already owned audio editing software. It was nothing fancy and I was pretty sure I wouldn't get anything. The idea was just a trivial thing at the time and didn't seem like a big deal. Without giving it the thought that I probably should have--note my disclaimer earlier--I set the laptop on the kitchen counter and hit the record button.<br />
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"Is there anyone here with me?" I asked into the quiet nothingness. Immediately, I felt somewhat apprehensive. I shrugged off the feeling and waited a solid thirty seconds, then said, "If there's anyone here with me right now, what's your name?" The feeling of apprehension grew stronger as I let the computer continue to record the silence around me. <i>What are you doing? </i>I thought to myself. I hit the space bar on the computer, stopping the recording software. A little, rectangular window appeared on the screen with a wavy line running through it, indicating the audio that had I just recorded.<br />
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Still feeling apprehensive, my curiosity overcame my better judgment. I turned up the volume on my laptop's speakers and hit <i>play.</i> I listened to the playback, my own voice sounding much like the stuff I'd heard while watching Ghost Hunters on TV. When I came to the part in the recording where I had asked anybody listening, "What's your name?" A definite sound crackled over the laptop's speakers. A reply? NO WAY!<br />
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I clicked on that part of the recording, enhanced it via the software, and listened to it again. "What's your name?" came my voice again.<br />
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My own breath caught in my throat as I heard, ever so faintly, what sounded like the voice of a young child say, "Charles." I nervously replayed it several times, each playback solidifying to me that indeed, I was hearing a for real response to my question from the other side!<br />
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Now, you'd think I would have been excited about actually having captured a real EVP just like my TV heroe's the Ghost Hunters, right? WRONG. Instead, I found myself utterly freaked out as I sat there in my empty kitchen that night. The thought that I had evoked a response from beyond the grave and in my own home was very unsettling to say the least. I wondered who this Charles was or might have been. Or <i>what </i>he might be. Had I inadvertently opened a door to something beyond my understanding? Had I opened myself, my home, and my family up to some force or being that might not have the best of intentions?<br />
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I felt like I was being watched from every corner of my home that night as I turned off the laptop and finally went to bed, to eventually fall into a fitful sleep. Eventually, this episode bothered me enough that I expunged the recording from my laptop and vowed that I would not engage in this type of activity again. I know to many this might seem like an overreaction. The Ghost Hunters certainly would scoff at my apprehension.<br />
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I have spent a lifetime telling and listening to ghost stories, watching horror movies, reading horror novels--heck I even WROTE a horror novel! So, I am quite familiar with the creepy feeling of my spine tingling, hair standing on end, skin crawling, etc. And I'm here to tell you, this feeling that night was different from all that. It was sort of like a slap in the face, I guess. It's hard to explain, but I think on some level I knew and recognized that I had crossed some sort of invisible line for myself. That I had crossed over from fantasy and fun speculation into a place where things could become real.<br />
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Real and dangerous.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images obtained through Google Images and are not my own.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at <a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> <br />
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-61359638922382812782017-01-21T21:47:00.000-08:002017-01-21T21:47:42.496-08:00An Uninvited Guest in The Idaho Rockies<div style="text-align: right;">
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In this week's post I decided to switch gears a little bit. As much as I love a good ghost story, I'm also interested in other facets of the paranormal or the unknown. As far as legends and mysteries go, in my mind, Bigfoot is the supreme granddaddy of them all. In fact, I hope to write a novel around the subject some day--when I can conjure up a plot and a story that will do the subject justice. This isn't a ghost story, but in keeping with the theme of this blog, it is still a TRUE one. And it happened to me. <br /><br />Now I imagine that most folks probably don't take the legend of Sasquatch--my preferred name for the creature--very seriously. Sure, it makes a great story around the campfire, but other than that, reports of sightings are mostly met with good-natured eye rolling at best, and outright ridicule at worst. The intent of this post isn't to try to convince skeptics or make a case for the existence of Sasquatch. The fact is, as fascinated as I am by the reports and stories of sightings, I'm not entirely convinced myself. That said, I WANT to believe!<br />
<br />The following really happened to me and some friends a few years ago. It's not proof of anything, but why don't you read for yourself, and then you decide. <br />
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<br />It was the fall of 2011. A few years earlier, some childhood buddies and I had started the tradition of going on an annual backpacking trip together. Ironically--and half-jokingly--we refer to these trips as our annual Bigfoot hike. We joke with our wives that we are embarking on serious expeditions to locate the elusive cryptid. But, nothing out of the ordinary had ever taken place on these excursions. Until this particular year. <br /><br />We were hiking in the White Clouds of Central Idaho, an outlying section of the famous Sawtooth Mountains. Our destination for that year was Walker Lake, a tranquil, blue mountain gem that lies in repose between soaring, jagged peaks. <br /><br />This is a fairly remote location and given the time of year and the length of the hike, it was not considered abnormal that we had not encountered any other hikers that day on the trail. At the lake itself, there was only one other camp, aside from our own: an older gentleman--in his mid to late fifties--and two women. Based on the man's graying beard, wide-brimmed hat, fancy trekking poles, and khaki shorts, my friend, Jon, immediately dubbed him, the liberal. No offense to my more progressive friends and fans out there, but it was funny. <br /><br />We made our camp near the lake's outlet, a crystalline trickle of ice cold water that tumbled down the valley, joining up with other small streams to form Little Boulder Creek. The liberal's camp was a few hundred yards away on the other side of the outlet. I have to take a moment here to describe the terrain of our immediate surroundings in order to properly convey what we experienced later the next night. <br /><br />On one side of our camp was the lake, maybe twenty-five yards or so away. Behind us was a very steep hill, strewn with boulders, deadfall, and pine trees. The hill was steep, but not very high. I would guess about a thirty foot rise from where our tents were set up. At the top of the hill, the terrain leveled out into basically, a giant granite slab crisscrossed with big cracks, from which scrubby bushes and gnarled trees sprouted. If you were to climb the hill from our campsite, to your left would be a sheer cliff face a few hundred feet high, topped with boulders and trees. <br /><br />Can you picture it now in your mind's eye? Good, I'll get on with the story. It was our second night camping by the lake and we found ourselves all alone, the liberal and his companions having hiked out that morning. The sun was down and the true darkness of night, that can only be experienced in the mountains, had fully settled in. But we had a good, comfortable fire going and were standing in the warm glow of its flickering, yellow flames, chatting and conversing, joking and laughing. Some of us were heating water in metal cups for hot chocolate. <br /><br />It was the quintessential good times with good friends moment, when suddenly a loud crash shattered the relative peace and quite. All conversation and movement ceased amongst us as every eye went to the hill behind us. It sounded like a small boulder--about the size of a basketball in my mind--had fallen from the sky to smash onto the big slab of granite above and behind us.<br />We all looked at each other, mutual expressions of curiosity and concern on each face, some of us silently mouthing, <i>what the ...</i> as our minds raced with possibilities. We listened and kept our eyes peeled on the shadows dancing among the trees along the perimeter of our campfire's limited glow. After some discussion and some nervous shining of flashlights into the dark surroundings we determined that a large rock must have somehow fallen from the cliff to land on the shelf of rock below. Although, I do remember thinking to myself that if that were indeed the case, the rock had somehow managed to fall at a forty-five degree angle.<br />
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After a few minutes, we shrugged it off, light-hearted conversation eventually picking back up. Or perhaps, if I was getting my way, the telling of spine-tingling ghost stories had resumed. Either way, the moment was interrupted once again by the identical noise. I'm telling you, this was loud. A great, singular THUMP, and most definitely the sound of stone colliding upon stone. <br /><br />Once more, we froze. Then flashlights clicked on, bright LED beams stabbing into the darkness as we strained with our ears for any other accompanying sounds. Once again, the sound had come from behind us, up and over the hill. I imagined someone ... or <i>something</i> up there, peering down at us from the blackness above. I even admit that more than one firearm was made readily available at this point.<br /><br />It took a little longer this time for the moment to pass, but eventually it did and once again we dismissed the incident. A few more logs were fed to the flames, we huddled in a bit closer to the fire, and did our best to resume normalcy by picking our conversation back up where it had left off. <br /><br />I actually couldn't believe it when a third crash resounded off the nearby granite cliff walls and reverberated across the still, black surface of the lake. A third time! I guess there's some truth behind the saying, <i>third time's the charm</i> because there was just something about this third interruption that said to me that, this was no coincidence of falling rocks or some other naturally explainable event. Somebody was up on that hill purposely screwing with us! I think we all reached this same conclusion at that time. <br /><br />But, I think another reality weighing on all of us--that had no need to be spoken aloud--was our utter isolation in the area. That, combined with the fact that it was nearly midnight, made it highly unlikely that it was a someone screwing with us and more likely a <i>something!</i> <br /><br />I remember at that point saying something to the group along the lines of, "We are men, for crying out loud. We are the dominant species on this planet. Let's all charge up that hill and let, whatever it is up there, know that it can't mess with us like this!" And so we formed a line and ran up the hill, our flashlights darting in every direction. I don't recall a battle cry, but there could have been one just the same.<br />We found the top of the hill to be void of any person or creature. Whatever had been causing the noise had made its fast escape from our impromptu charge. We returned to camp never to be bothered by the strange crashing noise again. Which confirmed to us that we had probably chased something or somebody away and it had chosen not to return. <br /><br />To this day I wonder what it was. I'm fairly convinced that it's highly unlikely it was a person. We were almost literally the only ones on the trail that weekend. We saw no other people on the way up or down the trail--except for the liberal, of course. But even he was gone at this point. Also, we were miles from any roads or other suitable campsites. A person would have had to have hiked in complete darkness through very steep and rugged terrain for miles just to mess with us. And in Idaho it's reasonable to say that he would be at considerable risk of getting himself shot! It just seems far-fetched that it could have been a person. But at the same time, whatever it was must have had the ability and level of thought process to purposely distract us by throwing small boulders near our camp. <br /><br />So where does that leave us? Well, you tell me.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sasquatch image obtained from Pinterest and does not belong to me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at <a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-30043022125919619952017-01-14T21:40:00.000-08:002017-01-15T14:28:05.357-08:00A Haunting in Idaho 2: The Woman in Black<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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The following <b>true</b> ghost story comes from a former coworker of mine, and is one of my all-time favorites. The story was told to me about twenty or so years ago, as we labored one day detailing cars at the small shop where we worked. For the purposes of anonymity, I'll refer to him as Steve. </div>
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Steve was about ten years older than I, and usually his stories were funny tales of some of the crazier things he had done in his youth. But for some reason, on this day the conversation had turned to the sharing of ghost stories. Maybe it was getting close to Halloween or perhaps, me being me, I had simply steered the conversation in this particular direction. <br />
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When Steve was younger and just getting out on his own--I would guess in the late 70s--he ended up renting a studio apartment that happened to come in the form of a small basement house. For those of you unfamiliar with what a basement house is: it's basically a half-built house. Imagine digging the hole for a basement, building your exterior walls--usually from cinder blocks--a few feet above ground, and then slapping a roof on the whole thing. Voilà! Basement house.<br />
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While living there, Steve never noticed anything strange or paranormal about his groovy new digs. Except sometimes, in the middle of the night, the little orange light indicating the gas oven was on would suddenly light up by itself. It was a frequent occurrence and Steve attributed it to an electrical glitch in the knob. But to be safe he would get out of bed each time and could always get the light to shut off by turning the knob on and then back to the off position. He didn't always catch the anomaly in the act, however, and would sometimes wake in the morning to find the light had come on while he was fast asleep. This was slightly disturbing, but not enough to worry him too much. </div>
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I'm not sure how long he lived there, dealing with the faulty oven light, but his days as a basement house renter came to an abrupt end one fateful night. <br />
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He awoke suddenly from a dead sleep to the click of the oven light, once again, turning itself on. But, when he opened his eyes, he beheld an old woman standing at the foot of his bed. He described her as looking like she had walked straight out of the 1800s. She wore a massive black dress: big shoulders, corseted tightly at the waist, and flaring wide at the hips. The bodice was stitched in elegant velvet scroll work with black buttons that ran all the way to the neckline. With her iron-gray hair up in a severe bun, she had the appearance of the strict head mistress of a girls boarding school. A detail that really stood out to him at the time was the huge, ruby-red medallion that hung from a silver chain halfway down her body.<br />
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Her face was as stern as the rest of her countenance, her eyes piercing him, as she raised an arm, sleeved in black lace, and pointed a bony finger at him. <b>"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"</b> she commanded angrily. </div>
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In stunned bewilderment he could only stare back at her, his fear-numbed mind racing and grasping for answers to questions he didn't even dare to ask. <br />
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Suddenly, the woman in black turned and walked away, vanishing as she passed right through the far wall. <br />
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Having no desire to disappoint the old woman, or risk any kind of return visit, Steve spent the remainder of the night packing up what little belongings he possessed. By morning he had moved back in with his parents until another apartment could be located. <br />
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But here's the kicker: that very next night ... the basement house caught fire and burned to the ground. The old mistress in black had probably saved Steve's life with her angry demand!<br />
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If you dig this kind of stuff, be sure to sign up for my <a href="http://www.bradylongmore.com/mailing-list/" target="_blank">News Letter</a> for more news, updates, and information about my writing. It only takes a second. <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pictures via Google Images and Downton Abbey TV show: PBS </span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at <a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span> Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-80712153955199845192017-01-07T11:43:00.001-08:002017-01-07T11:43:53.675-08:00A Haunting in Idaho: my true haunted house story.This, my friends, is a <b>true</b> story about my own experience with a bona fide haunted house. An early experience in my life that probably helped shape me as far as my love and fascination with stories of the paranormal goes. <br /><br />As a teenager I spent my summers working as a lifeguard and swim teacher at a little, outdoor, community pool. I loved that job and still look back on it with the fondest of memories. One of the things I liked about it was the chance to work with and get to know kids from outside my normal circle of friends and schoolmates. Many of these coworkers were a few years older than myself, including some college kids. <br /><br />There was this one guy--I'll refer to him by his nickname, Teo (Tay-oh)--that in a real way was my mentor at the time. And although he was two or three years older than me, he had no problem including me when he and some of the older kids would go out and do stuff. I really looked up to him and for a few summers he was sort of the big brother I never had. <br /><br />One evening as the summer sun sank slowly toward the horizon, Teo and I were lifeguarding together and just talking about random stuff when he asked, "Dude, have you ever been on Hell Tour?" <br /><br />Hell Tour? I had never heard of it. Teo attended a different school than I did, and according to him, all the kids at Idaho Falls High were going on this so-called tour. <br /><br />Hell Tour, it turned out, was a sort of underground tour of some of the creepiest and supposedly haunted places of Idaho Falls. You had to find someone who had been on it to act as a guide and take you. A big rule of Hell Tour: you never take more than one person at a time. I guess it just isn't as creepy with too many people along. <br /><br />"Dude," Teo said, lowering his sunglasses so I could see his eyes, "tonight, after we close, I'm taking you on Hell Tour." <br /><br />The pool closed at ten, and by ten-thirty I was seated in the passenger seat of Teo's car--a reddish Buick Skylark, I think it was, but I'm probably wrong. Whatever the make of the car, it only took a few minutes to get into the older neighborhoods of downtown Idaho Falls. And then, Hell Tour began. <br /><br />It was pretty cool ... and creepy. The tour basically consisted of driving from one location to another, Teo narrating a spine-tingling tale for each spot: haunted houses, a knocking grave in the cemetery, a murder location. Many times during the tour, the hair on my arms and neck were standing on end. <br /><br />Most of the stories, I'm sure, were just made up tales and harmless kids' fun. Like the old house on J Street with a room at the top where a blue light burned all night. According to the story this was a house inhabited by Satanists. Not so scary now, as I write this, but when your sixteen and sitting in a dark car across the street from said sanctuary of Satan, things feel very different. I'm sure many of you can relate. <br /><br />I guess it was close to midnight when Teo announced that the tour was over. And then he said, "I'm going to show you one more house that isn't actually part of the tour. It's a for real haunted house with a scary story behind it, and I only know about it because my family knows the people that this happened to." <br /><br />As we drove to the location, which was a bit off the beaten path of the regular Hell Tour attractions, a different mood settled upon us, as Teo began to relate the story to me. This was no longer a fun game of chills and thrills; kids messing around for the fun of it. This was serious stuff and I remember a certain constriction in my chest as Teo simultaneously finished the story while parking his car across the street from the house that I later nicknamed the Blood Home. <br /><br />I now relate to you, to the best of my memory, the story of this house as it was told to me some twenty-eight years ago. <br /><br />The story begins with a beautiful turn of the century home for sale in the historic downtown section of Idaho Falls, Idaho. I'm not sure of the date, but I'm going to say probably the early 1980s. A young family looking to buy a home in the area fell in love with the house at first sight--it really is a neat old house--and they scheduled an appointment with the realtor to have a look inside. <br /><br />The married couple decided to buy it, unable to believe their good fortune at finding a house that met their needs so well and was within their budget. They scheduled another appointment so they could bring their kids over to show them their future home. This was supposed to be a moment of excitement and celebration as they'd been waiting a long time to make this dream a reality. <br /><br />The family arrived at the home a few days later at the appointed time. The kids were excited, the parents, proud. The realtor lead the family up the walk and unlocked the front door. Everyone poured into the large front room. The husband put an arm around his wife as the kids went scurrying about, exploring and claiming bedrooms. Except one child. Their eight year old boy who had not set foot inside. The parents turned to see him standing in the threshold, eyes wide with fear, lips trembling in horror. The kid was almost hysterical and refused to enter the house.<br />
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<br />They asked him what was wrong. I like to imagine that someone made the comment that he looked as if he'd seen a ghost. But I digress. When the boy had calmed down enough to talk, he told his parents that he didn't want to go into the house because of the people that he could hear screaming inside. Did he mean the rambunctious yelling of his own siblings? But their son explained that it was grown ups that he could hear. They were yelling and screaming in pain as if they were dying. <br /><br />His parents asked him if he could see these people. He said he couldn't see them, but from where he was standing in the doorway, he could see a glowing, red stripe running along the walls of the front room. <br /><br />Needless to say, the parents were quite distraught over this incident. Was their child suffering from some kind of psychotic episode? Hallucinating? They had never noticed any kind of strange behavior out of him before. <br /><br />They apologized to the real estate agent and left, wondering if they should make an appointment for their son with a doctor. But, as soon as they left the property, the boy seemed absolutely fine. They made another appointment to tour the house for the next day, writing off the incident as,<i> just one of those things.</i> Unfortunately, the second visit played out much like the day before, and the family left again feeling discouraged and frightened. This house was quickly transforming from a dream come true into a living nightmare. <br /><br />Now unbeknown to the family, their realtor was one who dabbled a bit in the occult; occasionally indulging in things like séances, psychic readings, and such. She reached out to a psychic she knew and trusted, and asked him if he'd be willing to come take a look at the house. The psychic friend agreed to come over and check things out. <br /><br />Supposedly, upon arriving at the house, the psychic had a similar experience as the little boy. He too could hear the screams of agony and pain. He was also able to see the glowing red stripe, which he guessed to be blood that had been smeared on the walls at one time. Apparently, this instigated the two friends to conduct a historical investigation into the house. <br /><br />They were able to discover that over a period of a few years, during the Great Depression, the house was abandoned. Periodically, vagabonds and homeless migrants would take up residence for a while, usually moving on after a bit. Research showed that there was a period of time when a certain group of people lived in the home that, according to the story, were a devil-worshiping cult. It just so happened that during this same time there was a rash of disappearances of people in the community. <br /><br />At this point, anyone who has read my novel, The Summoning, might be seeing where I borrowed a little bit from this story. <br /><br />Teo ended the story by telling me that over the years the house has been bought and sold more than the average home and people who live there quite often will claim that there is something paranormal going on within those walls. I stared at the dark windows of the house as Teo pulled his car away, a cold chill settling across my shoulders. The windows seemed like big, dark eyes staring back, watching us go. <br /><br />I went home that night, my psyche definitely impacted by the story and the experience. Over the years I have shown this house, the Blood Home, and told its tale to several people. One Halloween some friends and I attempted to trick or treat there, but nobody was home. Eventually, the place lost its stigma of terror, and even though I really wanted to believe the story, I had reached a point in my life where I doubted there was any validity to it at all. It was surely just a cool, old house and nothing more. <br /><br />It was Halloween, a few years later. I was watching one of the local TV newscasts, when the station ran a report on a "real" haunted house in Idaho Falls. You can imagine my face and incredulity when I saw the legendary Blood Home being showcased as a true haunted house! It had been converted into an office and the owner was leading a news reporter around telling him stories of footsteps at night, doors slamming and opening by themselves, and a picture on the wall, constantly askew no matter how many times the owner tried to straighten it. <br /><br />Now, I have to admit that whenever I'm in that part of town, I like to find an excuse to drive past the Blood Home if I can. There are cars in the driveway these days and apparently someone is living there happily. But I can't help but to slow down a little as I roll past and stare. And sometimes, I could swear those windows still stare back.<br />
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<br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>If you have a personal story of the paranormal that you would like me to share on my blog please contact me at <a href="mailto:bradylongmore@gmail.com">bradylongmore@gmail.com</a> I'd love to hear your story. You can remain anonymous if you wish.</i></span>Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-61291737490445088142016-12-31T03:39:00.001-08:002016-12-31T04:02:11.357-08:00The Hollow Earth and Admiral Byrd's Incredible Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For me, legends and myths are one of the great spices of life. It's the
mystery and wonder that makes things interesting and keeps that innate explorer, that I'm convinced dwells in all of us, engaged. The
irony is that I secretly don't want the legends to be proven one way or
the other. Honestly, if some hunter one day drags a real sasquatch out
of the woods and ends the speculation on Bigfoot, I don't think I'll be
very happy. It will be amazing, but in many ways sort of a let down too, as the
mystery and wonder will be gone. Although, it sure would be satisfying
to see all the scoftics have to eat crow.<br />
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One of my all-time favorite myths, legends, or "theories", if you will, is the Hollow Earth Theory. The first time I heard of such a thing I was a teenager and my dad told me that there is a theory out there where some people believe that the earth is hollow, and not only that, but that it is populated by another civilization! The very idea of it fascinated me, as unlikely as it seemed. <br />
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It was hard to believe, but me being me, I had to try to find out what I could about the theory. And it turns out there are some pretty interesting stories on the subject. For example, It's rumored that Adolf Hitler believed that a pure Aryan race dwelt in the earth's center. He believed it to the extent that, supposedly, he sent an expedition--some say three--to Antarctica to try and locate an opening that would lead to this place. He assumed that this hidden civilization would have superior technology and be sympathetic to his cause. There are those who even go as far as to postulate that Hitler did indeed discover an opening and that he actually escaped into the hollow earth, and lives there to this day. Can you imagine?<br />
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Another interesting theory advances the idea that UFO sightings aren't the result of alien visitors from outer space, but are actually technologically superior aircraft that originate from inside the earth; perhaps the descendants of the lost continent of Atlantis checking up on the goings on up here on the surface. This sort of coincides with Jules Verne's vision from his novel, Journey to The Center of The Earth. Except in the book, Atlantis is discovered to be an abandoned ruin. I have even heard some people in the religious community speculate that the lost tribes of Israel were led by God into the hollow earth, and reside there to this day. How cool is that?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hollow Earth model</td></tr>
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The idea is not new; I could go on and on with different versions and legends about a hollow earth. Most cultures and peoples have some sort of variation of a hollow earth in their beliefs, traditions, and mythologies. Most of these traditions deal with the idea existing in a spiritual plane. Hell, for example: a place where the spirits of the damned reside with their master, Satan, in an eternal lake of fire, paying for a life of sin and wickedness.<br />
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There are many varieties of Hell or the underworld out there in religion and mythology, but what really gets my attention is the secular side of this subject. The idea of this being and actual domain of our physical world, as we know it, is what sparks my imagination. Hell can wait. <br />
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On that note, I'd like to just briefly talk about the incredible story of Admiral Richard E. Byrd of the US Navy, my favorite hollow earth story, and the one that my old man used to spark my imagination on the topic those many years ago.<br />
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It's not my intention here to go into an in-depth article on the Admiral himself, his life achievements, background, history, etc. If you'd like to know more about this early twentieth century explorer and adventurer you can check out the Wikipedia article on the man <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_E._Byrd" target="_blank">HERE.</a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admiral Richard E. Byrd</td></tr>
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The story that was told to me was that in February of 1947, Admiral Byrd decided to make a solo flight over the North Pole, just for exploration's sake. In a nutshell, as he was nearing the pole, his compass and other flight instruments went totally haywire on him, and he totally lost his orientation. One second the plane felt like it was in a steep dive, and then climbing steeply in the next.<br />
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After a few minutes of this, he quite suddenly found himself flying through a valley of lush, green vegetation. I believe one story claims that, looking from the cockpit window, the lost admiral even beheld a woolly mammoth lumbering along a hillside! According to my old man, it was at this point the compass went all crazy on him again, and the next thing he knew he was back to flying over endless miles of snow and ice. Other versions of the story tell of him actually being escorted by advanced aircraft to a city and meeting with its leaders, but this was not the story that was verbally passed on to me at the time.<br />
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He returned to the North Pole at other times in search of this green valley, but never found it again. The general consensus of people who chose to believe his report was that he had inadvertently flown into an opening that led into the hollow earth.<br />
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Now, if one were to do a quick Google search on the subject it wouldn't take long to discover that the story and the existence of a secret diary where the Admiral recorded this experience is very much in contention. And for the most part, the whole story seems to have been debunked from what I could tell. But who knows?<br />
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Debunked or not, the story itself suits my purposes, because as a fiction novelist, this is the kind of stuff that stokes my creative fires. I don't have to worry about whether the diary exists or if the story has been debunked or not. As an author, all I have to do is ask myself, <i>Yeah, but what if?</i> and my imagination is off to the races!<br />
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The idea of a hollow earth has fueled countless stories, myths, and legends. Not to mention even containing major religious themes. And it's no wonder. The Hollow Earth theory has got to be one of the greatest mysteries that's out there. Do you agree? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it in the comments section.<br />
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If this post roused your curiosity and you would like to know a little more about the subject, I found a great write up by <i>The Telegraph</i> that provides an excellent little overview on it. <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/10961412/Hollow-Earth-conspiracy-theories-the-hole-truth.html" target="_blank">Check it out here.</a> <br />
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<br />Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-85669651834713900272016-12-04T20:59:00.001-08:002018-09-27T15:33:16.405-07:00Facing My Own Demons Through WritingWhy did I take on such dark themes when I wrote my novel, <em>The Summoning</em>?
This is a question that has been asked of me by readers, and well ... I've even asked myself this question a time or two. Many who know me are surprised by
my exploration into such a thing as the demonic. To be perfectly
honest, when I began writing the book I hadn't intended to go in that
direction, and was a bit surprised myself.<br />
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In the beginning, my intention was to just write an old-fashioned, creepy ghost story. But, as a discovery writer--someone
who basically makes up the story as they go--I soon found myself
exploring much darker themes and subject matter than I had originally
intended to. I ended up writing scenes that, quite honestly, were disquieting even
to myself, and several times I wondered why I felt the compulsion to go
in that particular direction.<br />
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After mulling this over and allowing the question to percolate in the
back of my mind for a while, I think I can finally answer this
question. But to answer it sufficiently, I think I need to relate a
little story. A true story from my own childhood.<br />
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When I was about ten, maybe eleven years old, my friend, Danny, invited me over to spend the night at his house. He had just purchased a
new pup tent and wanted to give it a try. We pitched the tiny,
triangular, nylon shelter in his backyard, and unrolled our sleeping
bags. Under a velvet summer sky, bejeweled by a billion gleaming stars,
we settled into our bags. And with the chirruping of nearby crickets
providing the perfect soundtrack, we began one of the most ancient
rituals since the beginning of boydom: telling ghost stories.<br />
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Now keep in mind, we were only ten years old. At the time, the
scariest story in my entire repertoire was the one where the boyfriend
goes to let his girl out of the car after their date, and finds a bloody
hook hanging on the door handle. Well, after a little bit of this, Danny's mom came out to check on us one last time, before turning in for
the night herself. She asked us what we were doing, and when we told
her, her eyes grew large and she said, "Do you guys want to hear a true
scary story that happened to my grandpa?"<br />
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"Well, yeah!"<br />
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This grown, adult woman, mother of little children, then proceeded to
fill our innocent minds with a tale of evil spirits manifesting themselves and demonic entities paying a
horrifying visit to her grandfather as he slept in his bed one night.
I'm talking real <i>Exorcist</i> stuff here! When she was finished with her
terrifying tale, she abruptly wished us a good night and left. At the
time, my little, ten-year-old brain had no comprehension of demons or
evil spirits. To me, the devil was this insubstantial, cartoonish guy with a pitch fork and
a goatee that whispered in your ear, and tried to make you sneak a
cookie out of your mom's cookie jar.<br />
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I remember laying there in the dark, absolutely horrified by what I
had just been told. In fact, I fully expected a pale, leering face to
materialize in the empty space above me at any second. After that, the
unnerving concept of receiving an unwanted visitation from demons or
evil spirits stuck with me ... for years. I dreaded nights and bedtime.
Almost every night, I went to my bedroom like a condemned man to the gas
chamber, certain in the knowledge that THIS would be it. This would be
the night they would come.<br />
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One night, the terror was enough that I felt compelled to go to my
father--as ashamed as I was--and tell him about this consuming fear. I
told him that I was afraid that evil spirits were going to visit me.
I'll never forget my dad's reply as he sat in his green and gold plaid
chair, most likely missing the ten o' clock local news broadcast.<br />
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I shared with him how the fear of evil spirits appearing to me was dominating my thoughts lately. "I just can't stop thinking about evils spirits coming to me," I said.<br />
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He looked at me and said, "Well, if you keep thinking about it so much, they probably will."<br />
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I'll never forget how those words thundered into my soul like the very clap of doom. My legs barely had the strength to carry me up the
stairs to my room, where Satan, himself, surely sat waiting for my
arrival.<br />
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Fortunately, Satan or his denizens never manifested themselves to me,
and as time wore on, my fears abated. But my belief in the existence of
these beings never faded. Having a strong religious upbringing, the
reality of the dark side was an ever present reality to me.<br />
<br />
My guess is, that this period of time in my childhood left a deeper
scar than I realized--those things still frighten me. I think that as I set
out to write something scary, my subconscious dredged up out of my
psyche the need to face my old fear. I think that through writing about
these things I was, in a sort of cathartic way, confronting the past. Perhaps, as the protagonists in my novel battled the forces of evil, in some way, so was I.<br />
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I offer this up as an explanation for understanding, not as an excuse or an apology. I'm proud of <em>The Summoning</em>
and how it turned out. I know there will be people who read it that
will be disturbed by some of the subject matter--it's a horror novel,
it's meant to be disturbing. But it's also not just a horror story. It's
a romance too. It's about the power of love, friendship, and loyalty in
the face of evil. I'm confident that people who read the novel will
come away from the experience satisfied.<br />
<br />
And yeah ... maybe a little disturbed too.Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2460466881566987853.post-24302003332808818602016-12-04T20:37:00.004-08:002016-12-29T00:14:59.433-08:00A New Chapter About to Begin<br />
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I'm so nervous as I write this. Nervous and exhilarated at the same time. I'm just a few days away--if all goes as planned--from publishing my first book, The Summoning. It's been a five year journey from that fateful night, when I sat down at my computer and typed out that first chapter. And now here I am on the verge of seeing that effort to fruition.<br />
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Will anyone bother to read it? Will the people who do read it, like it? Who am I to publish a novel? And then have the gall to actually ask people to pay me money to read it? Will people just see me as an amateur with an unattainable dream? I mean for crying out loud, I'm not even a college graduate! What was I thinking?<br />
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These doubts, these esteem-destroying questions have been prowling about, slithering through the nooks and crannies of my brain like rattlesnakes over the last five years, over a lifetime, actually. And now, the moment of truth looms on the horizon.<br />
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I struggle to keep these fears and doubts in check. I'm in the long game, I tell myself. Patience and persistence is the key. I remind myself of the path to success of some of my favorite writers. Stephen King was a struggling high school English teacher living in a mobile home and selling short stories to magazines for meager compensation when his Carrie made it big. Dean Koontz had published thirty novels before anything he had written finally hit a home run. Brandon Sanderson had written twelve novels and had them all rejected before finally publishing. Stories like this are the norm for authors.<br />
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I take comfort in the belief that The Summoning is a good book. I think there is potential there, if I can reach the right audience. I don't have a big name publisher that can send me on book tours, or set me up for radio and tv interviews, take out ads in newspapers. Word of mouth will be my best chance at discovery, and this actually gives me hope. I think it's good enough that people will talk about it with their friends and family. A recommendation from a friend has to be the most powerful form of advertising an author can hope for.<br />
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In the meantime, keeping true to my Viking heritage, I continue to plunge forward into unknown seas. As I write this, I'm happy to report that my second novel is nearly halfway finished. I said I was in it for the long haul. I plan to release some details about the second book as it nears completion--sooner than five years this time.<br />
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I know I'm on the threshold of a long journey that will be fraught with pitfalls and perils, but also potentially filled with immense reward and gratification.<br />
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So let it begin. Unfurl the sail, grab an oar, and ... ROW FORTH!Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17137736800774891196noreply@blogger.com0