#the so called ‘England stones’ are all about locals who went to England and died there

[alltingfinns]

The Norse: We have a comprehensive writing system.

Their descendants: Please write down your mythology and history and overall traditions!!

The Norse: Fuck you! *uses the writing system almost exclusively for fancy gravestones*

Imagine how much historical knowledge wasn’t written down because our ancestors thought: “What idiot isn’t going to know this?”

[germanicseidr]

Frisians

We are picking up from where we left off on my post about the Frisii. The Frisians were a germanic tribe/kingdom located in modern day Frisia, Noord-Holland, Zuid-Holland, Zeeland, Utrecht, Groningen, Drenthe and Overijssel in the Netherlands, east-Frisia in Germany and north-Frisia in Denmark. They are the oldest Germanic culture that still exist until this very day with their own unique history, flag, traditions and language.

During the great migrational period, which also marks the end of the iron age and the start of the medieval age, new settlers, mostly Saxons, settled themselves in former Frisii territory. Most of the Frisii had abandoned their homeland and migrated either southwards or to the west to Britannia. Only a very few Frisii remained in their homeland, too little to continue their population.

Around the 5th century AD these migrants were now settled properly and called themselves Frisians. They quickly turned their homeland into a powerful seafaring nation now bordered by the Christianized Franks to the south and the still pagan Saxons to the east, the Frisians were still pagan as well. By 500AD they were possibly the most powerful sea power in western Europe, a power they gained from their long history of sailing and trading.

Since the collapse of the Western Roman empire, the economy in western Europe was in a very sad state. Poverty and hunger were considered to be normal while ancient Roman settlements started to decay and slowly disappear. Between 300-500AD, trade was pretty much dead and time appeared to have stopped moving for the people in western Europe. This all eventually changed thanks to the Frisians who were able to restore trade routes and opened up a path for the now so famous vikings.

During the late 6th century, the Frisians set up wide-spread trading routes all across the north sea, east sea and the Rhine area. In all of these trading areas, settlements grew like cabbage thanks to the wealth that these Frisian traders brought, settlements like: Ipswich in England, Ribe in Denmark and Medemblik in the Netherlands. Already existing settlements such as London and Dorestad grew thanks to this trade. Dorestad, a city which was located in modern day Utrecht, the Netherlands, even became the most important trade hub of western Europe, it was also the capital of the Frisian kingdom.

The Frisians were in fact so dominant in their trade that the term Frisian became a synonym for trader in many Germanic languages until around 1000AD. Curiously enough, many of the trading settlements were not fortified with walls or forts, the 6th and 7th century were relatively peaceful times. It was also the Frisians who reintroduced the concept of money in the form of sceatta coins. The word sceatta itself is Frisian for treasure. Archeologists have found these sceatta coins all around the North sea coast, England, Denmark, Germany and the Netherlands. These sceattas were based on earlier Roman coins. So you can thank the Frisians for the fact that we use money instead of the old trading system.  

So what did the Frisians trade exactly? They traded both luxery goods and more mundane goods per example: Fabrics, skins, pottery, metal, cattle, fish, flesh, salt, wine, dairy products, fur, milling stones and even walrus, sea lion and reindeer products which they got from the far North in Scandinavia. They also traded in human lives because the slave trade was a lucrative business and slaves were essential for the early medieval economy.

Who ruled the Frisians? It is not known when the Frisian tribe turned into a kingdom but we do have written sources of some of the earliest Frisian kings. The oldest yet quite unreliable source comes from the epic poem Beowulf which mentions Finn Folcwalding as the first king of the Frisians. It is however doubtful if Finn actually really existed since Beowulf is not exactly a reliable historical source. According to the Poem, Finn was the son of Folcwalding and married a Danish princes, Hildeburh.

Here is a quote from the Beowulf poem: "The warriors returned then to seek their houses, bereft of friends, to see Frisia, their homes and high fort yet Hengest the death-stained winter spent with Finn, in a place with no fellowship at all; he remembered his land, though he could not drive on the sea the ring-prowed ship: the sea welled in storm, fought against the wind, the winter locked the waves in icy bonds, until came another year to the courtyards, as it still does now, those which continuously carry out their seasons, gloriously bright weathers." Beowulf

The first Frisian king of whom's existence we actually got archeological evidence, is king Audulf, who ruled Frisia between 600-630AD. The most famous Frisian ruler however is king Redbad/Radboud who ruled Frisia from 690-719AD. His story is recorded by the Franks, the enemy of the Frisian kingdom. According to these records, Redbad refused to convert to Christianity exclaiming that he would rather spent an eternity in hell with his ancestors than to go to heaven.

It was also under Redbad's rule that the Frisian kingdom reached its peak. The Frisians and Franks were continuously at war with each other as the Franks tried to expand their empire. Not only did the Franks aspire to add more land to their already massive empire, they wanted to convert the Frisians to Christianity as well which they eventually did with quite some violence. Bonifatius and Willibrord were send to Frisia with orders to built churches and convert the local people.

Bonifatius started to chop down sacred trees throughout Frisia, oak trees which were dedicated to Donar, which were used not only for religious purposes but also for judicial purposes. This angered the Frisians greatly and eventually the mob turned against Bonifatius killing him and his followers out of anger and revenge.

Redbad managed to keep Frisia largely pagan until his death in 719AD. After his death, the Frisian kingdom was quickly conquered by the Franks who divided the kingdom into three parts, East-Frisia, Middle Frisia and West-Frisia. One thing I want to mention is that there is a very popular post going around the internet saying that Redbad is the last Frisian king, this is however not true. The last Frisian king was Poppo who ruled Frisia between 719-734AD. It was during Poppo's reign that Frisia was conquered by the Franks, perhaps the reason why most people conveniently leave him out of history.

By the year 734AD, the Frisians were now largely converted to Christianty but some pagans still remained. The latest pagan burial dates back to around 1000AD and some pagan habits like placing offerings in moors and swamps continued on well into the 18th century. It took a very long time before the Frisians accepted Christianity, almost 1000 years before the Christian faith fully got its hold in even the smallest settlements.

Not only Frisia was conquered and converted by the Franks, the Saxons were also invaded by them which led to the Saxon wars which took place between 772-804AD. These wars eventually led to the destruction of the Irminsul and the forcible conversion to Christianity. Countless of pagans were murdered for refusing to convert. The Frisians provided military support for the Saxons in their uprising but it sadly failed. With the arrival of the 9th century, continental Germanic paganism has almost completely died with the exception of Denmark.

The Frisians were no longer independent and by 839AD, the reign of Frisian counts began. During the 9th century, the Frisian territory, now part of Lotharingia, was repeatedly attacked by the vikings. Thanks to the vikings, the Frisians lost their status of the most powerful seafaring nation and an age of terror began. Dorestad, former capital of the Frisian kingdom, was raided several times by the vikings until the city eventually slowly died. It was rediscovered in 1842 during archeological research conducted by L.J.F Janssen, conservator of the rijksmuseum van Oudheden in Leiden.

Since the Christianization of Frisia went so slowly, many of its people still believed in the Germanic Gods by the time the vikings were active. After the passing of Louis the pious, king of the Franks, in 840AD, a power struggle broke out between his three sons which resulted in devastating civil wars. The Frisians, who are genetically and culturally identical to the Danes, decided to stop defending their territories from Danish raiders and so Frisia fell in the hands of Danish rulers. The Frisians and Danes actually had good relationships with each other as their culture and religion were the same. It is believed that many Frisians turned viking as well and joined the Danes in their viking raids.

Eventually the viking raids stopped but the Frisians, now known as the West-Frisians, continued their good relationships with Denmark, a friendship which continued for many centuries as Holland and Denmark later united to battle the Swedes, in fact this friendship still endures until this very day and was recently celebrated between both governments.

The counts of West-Frisia, who governed on behalf of the Holy Roman Emperor, ruled over the area which was formally part of the Frisian kingdom, modern day Noord-Holland, Zuid-Holland, Friesland, Groningen, Drenthe, Utrecht and east-Frisia. The first known count is Dirk I who governed over Frisia between 916-928AD. This line of counts continued until count Dirk V of West-Frisia declared himself as count of Holland and so the province of Holland was born.

The climate of Europe changed again between 800-1200AD, the medieval warm period had begun. This eventually led to a gigantic flood, the Sint-Lucia flood, which created the Zuiderzee and separated West-Frisia from East-Frisia. Eventually east-Frisia became known as simply Frisia but West-Frisia, now reduced to an area connected to Holland, continued to exist under its former name. The remaining part of West-Frisia refused to join Holland which resulted in the West-Frisian wars which lasted around 160 years.

West-Frisia was eventually absorbed into Holland by count Floris V during the late 13th century after series of battles and a mass slaughter committed by the Hollanders on West-Frisian men, women and children. Even though West-Frisia is nowadays part of Holland, they still remain their own unique identity, anthem, flag and dialect. the province of Holland grew into the most powerful province of the low lands and eventually revolted against their Spanish overlords in 1568, a struggle now known as the 80 years war for Dutch independence which resulted in the free republic of the united provinces in 1648, the creation of the Netherlands as a united land.

Meanwhile east-Frisia, now known as Frisia, continued to resist against every power that tried to conquer the territory. Frisia became an independent territory around the year 1000AD and continued to be independent until they decided to join the Dutch revolt against the Spanish. Frisia joined the union of Utrecht and became part of the Dutch republic and still continues to be part of the Netherlands until this very day although some Frisians want to reclaim their independence again.

I am sorry for this long post on the history of the Frisians but they have a very long history that deserves to be told since they greatly influenced all of Europe and are the oldest still existing Germanic culture of Europe.

Here are images of: a map showing Magna Frisia, the Frisian kingdom at its peak. An image of king Redbad/Radboud, Frisian traders, artist unknown, A map of the Frisian trade network, Frisian sceatta coins with a depiction of Wodan, a map showing West-Frisia before the formation of Holland, A photo that I took myself of West-Frisian remains badly maimed by soldiers of Holland during the West-Frisian wars, Current territory of West-Frisia, map showing present day Frisia and east-Frisia

[southeastasianists]

Last September, I drove for four hours from Jakarta to a small town in western Java, staying one night in a Javanese-styled hotel at the foot of Mt. Ciremai, a 3,000-meter volcano on Java. When I got to Cisantana, I journeyed down a stone path, looking for the Mother Mary shrine. It was a welcome surprise to see this Catholic shrine, equipped with a tropical version of the Via Dolorosa—the route believed to have been taken by Jesus through Jerusalem to Calvary—and supported by electricity coming from a nearby Islamic boarding school.

The presence of such a shrine was all the more surprising in West Java, one of Indonesia’s most conservative Muslim provinces, where attacks against Christians, Ahmadis, and other religious minorities frequently make headlines in local news. Attacks against women’s rights, private gay parties, and transgender crowds are not uncommon.

I continued walking past avocado farms, a banana plantation, and cornfields and finally came upon an open space where a handful of Sundanese women and men were working to construct a tomb.

They were very pleasant. “It’s a quiet day today,” an elderly man said to me. They were taking a break and welcomed me to sit in their bamboo hut with a fire stove.

A woman showed me phone videos of the work they did with more than 100 volunteers, who used wooden poles and bamboo to bring several huge stones from a nearby river to this spot, which is inaccessible by road. They called the tomb “Batu Satangtung” or the “Human Stone,” intended for their elderly religious leader and his wife.

I imagined the makers of Stonehenge might have used similar methods two or three millennia ago in England.

The Sundanese people are from West Java, a province of about 40 million. They are the second largest ethnic group in Indonesia, after the neighbouring Javanese. The volunteers I met are not only Sundanese but of the ethnic-religious group Sunda Wiwitan. The name literally means “early Sunda” or “real Sunda.” Its practitioners assert that Sunda Wiwitan has been part of the Sundanese way of life since before the arrival of Hinduism and Islam.

Why were they building the tomb here? Ela Romlah, the woman with the videos, told me that in 1937 and 1938, when Mt. Ciremai was expected to erupt, Pangeran Madrais—then the leader of this group—and his followers climbed the mountain, carrying a set of gamelan instruments. He and hundreds of his musicians played the gamelan on the mountain for months. They believed their music and prayer stopped the eruption. “They then set up a camp at the foot of the mountain. It was here in Curug Goong.”

Madrais was an inspirational cleric, interpreting old Sundanese and Javanese beliefs. He helped establish the community in 1925.

The Dutch colonial officials in charge at the time were not amused to see this kind of independent behaviour. They tried to prevent hundreds of Sundanese people from staying at Curug Goong. But they said nothing when Mt. Ciremai calmed down.

In August 1945, at the end of World War II, Indonesia’s independence leaders adopted a constitution that vowed to protect all Indonesian citizens equally. But they also reached a political compromise with conservative Muslims, including Wahid Hasjim, the chairman of the Nahdlatul Ulama. The agreement, designed to avoid setting up an Islamic state, established the Ministry of Religious Affairs to be “the bridge” between Muslims and the state. The compromise was called Pancasila.

In Garut, about four hours’ drive from Curug Goong, Islamist militants were not satisfied with this and declared the Darul Islam (Islamic State) movement in August 1949, vowing to implement their version of Sharia in Indonesia. From 1950 to 1958, Darul Islam conducted a failed guerrilla campaign in West Java that nonetheless attracted some popular support. They attacked not only the Indonesian military but also religious minorities.

In response, Wahid Hasjim, the minister of religious affairs, adopted a 1952 decree to differentiate between “kepercayaan” (faith) and “agama” (religion). In Indonesian vocabulary, “aliran kepercayaan” is officially used to cover multiple minor religions and spiritual movements. Hasjim decreed that “aliran kepercayaan” are “dogmatic ideas, intertwined with the living customs of various ethnic groups, especially among those who are still underdeveloped, whose main beliefs are the customs of their ancestors throughout the ages.”

Meanwhile, “agama” was defined according to monotheistic understandings. If a community is to be recognised as “religious,” it must adhere to “an internationally recognised monotheistic creed; taught by a prophet through the scriptures.” In this way the decree discriminates against non-monotheistic religions including Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Bahaism, Zoroastrianism and hundreds of local religions and spiritual movements in Indonesia.

In West Java, the Sunda Wiwitan people faced two serious challenges: the Darul Islam militants, who repeatedly intimidated and attacked them, and the Ministry of Religious Affairs, which actively tried to align “underdeveloped religions” such as theirs with Christianity or Islam.

In 1954, Darul Islam militants attacked the Sunda Wiwitan base in Kuningan. “They managed to burn our paseban (communal spaces) including the kitchen and the garages but fortunately not the main hall,” she said. “They forced our members to convert to Islam,” said Dewi Kanti, a great granddaughter of Madrais.

Similar intimidation and violence took place in neighbouring regencies Tasikmalaya, Banjar, and Garut. Dewi’s grandfather, Pangeran Tedja Buwana, who succeeded Madrais, fled Kuningan to Bandung.

Darul Islam also sent militants into Jakarta. On November 30, 1957, President Sukarno attended a school function at which a Darul Islam militant threw a grenade. Sukarno was unharmed, but six schoolchildren died.

Even after Darul Islam had been militarily defeated, eight Darul Islam militants mingled with a Muslim congregation during a prayer service inside the State Palace on May 14, 1962. They fired shots at Sukarno but missed, hitting one of his bodyguards and a Muslim scholar instead.

Muslim conservatives continued their opposition to smaller religions and spiritual movements. To placate hardliners, Sukarno banned the Indonesian Freemasons (Vrijmetselaren-Loge) along with six so-called “affiliates,” without providing evidence of any illegal links: the Bahai Indonesia organisation, the Divine Life Society, the Moral Rearmament Movement, the Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, the Rotary Club and the Democracy League, a non-religious organisation considered to be critical of Sukarno. The Rotary Club was accused of being a Zionist group; this was essentially  a conspiracy theory intended to connect the Freemasons to the six organisations.

In June 1964, the Kuningan authorities declared Sunda Wiwitan marriages illegal. The Kuningan prosecutor’s office later detained nine believers—a priest and eight young grooms who married in Sundanese Wiwitan rituals—for several months.

Anticipating increased hostilities, Tedja Buwana, who had returned from Bandung, left the Sunda Wiwitan faith, joined the Catholic church and used their paseban as a church. His move prompted 5,000 Sunda Wiwitan believers to convert to Catholicism, according to a researcher, Cornelius Iman Sukmana, himself a Catholic in Kuningan, who wrote a book about the Sunda Wiwitan and the Catholic church.

“It was an important decision. My grandfather saved thousands of our members from accusations of atheism,” said Dewi Kanti, referring to massacres of the communists between 1965 and 1969. “We can’t imagine what would have happened if he didn’t do it.”

Decades later, when the situation finally calmed down, many of these Sunda Wiwitan people, including Dewi Kanti, openly, but not offficially, re-converted to Sunda Wiwitan. Many who converted away from Christianity still go to Sunday mass and wear a cross around their necks. But inside their pockets, they also have Sunda Wiwitan pendants (a mountain, an eagle and two snakes).

“It is common in Kuningan to meet a single family with several religions,” said a vendor near the shrine.

As I walked down from the tomb, I wondered if these conversions and re-conversions prove that religious identity is not a zero-sum game. Identity is somehow imagined like a container with a fixed volume; if you have more of one identity, you have less of another. The Sunda Wiwitan people showed me that they could expand the container and have multiple identities. Thinking of it from this perspective, it is no surprise that I found a tropical Via Dolorosa and an Islamic boarding school near the tomb construction.

The 1965 Blasphemy Law

In downtown Kuningan, I drove to the paseban area, looking at the beautiful wooden hall and sipping a smooth ginger-lemon tea while chatting with Okky Satrio Djati, a Catholic Javanese, who had married the Sunda Wiwitan leader Dewi Kanti almost two decades earlier.

Djati and I used to work together in a newsroom during the Suharto era, publishing online samizdat and managing a mobile internet server. He went to Kuningan in 1998 when President Suharto was facing the mass protests at the height of the Asian economic crisis and helped hide political activists fleeing trouble.

Djati is now a Sunda Wiwitan member, speaking Sundanese, burning incense and sometimes performing midnight prayers in a nearby mountain. “He seems to be more Sundanese than me,” said Kanti, with a giggle.

Djati helps his wife deal with the discrimination that many Sunda Wiwitan members face. “My husband chose Catholicism as his official religion,” Kanti said. “But he practices Kejawen faith. If we insisted on marrying with our own (real) religions, we wouldn’t have birth certificates for our children, or at least, not with my husband’s name on them.”

Under Indonesia’s legal system, an ethnic believer cannot put their kepercayaan on the agama column of their national ID cards and thus cannot legally marry unless they change their kepercayaan to a recognised religion. In these cases, they leave a blank space in the religion column of the card and the civil registration office does not recognise paternity because the couples are not officially married.

Problems for religious minorities escalated in January 1965 when President Sukarno issued a decree that prohibited people from being hostile toward religions or committing blasphemy, which is defined as “abuse” and “desecration” of a religion. Sukarno decreed that the government would steer “mystical sects … toward a healthy way of thinking and believing in the One and Only God.” The decree, which gave official approval only to Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Confucianism, was immediately incorporated into the Criminal Code as article 156(a), with a maximum penalty of five years in prison. This has had disastrous effects until the present.

After deposing Sukarno, Suharto and his regime enforced the 1952 decree, which also requires a religion to have a holy book, leading to many bizarre stories of “religious alignment.” In Kalimantan, Dayak tribal leaders created the Panaturan –a collection of Dayak ancestral wisdom compiled into a single “holy book.” This required the creation of a clergy, so Dayak priests were trained. Religious rituals once held in fields and homes were moved into new worship halls called Balai Basarah. But most importantly, Kaharingan religious leaders had to choose a permitted religion to align with. They chose Hinduism, and thus became “Kaharingan Hindu.” But do not ask them about Ganesh or karma!

President Suharto’s wrote about his own Javanese Kejawen faith and Islam in his 1989 authorised biography. He described the syncretism common among the Javanese, conducting his Islamic prayers and celebrating Islamic holidays while also meditating in the sacred places of the Javanese traditions when he wanted to make major decision.

On September 7, 1974, three months before the East Timor invasion, Australian Prime Minister Gough Whitlam met Suharto in a villa in Mt. Dieng, Java Island, where Suharto was meditating in the Semar Cave, which is named after a mythical Javanese character with whom Suharto identified. That cave is still regarded as sacred. When I visited in 2019 it was locked—the villa is now a museum where photos of the Suharto-Whitlam meeting are displayed. Showing a more open mind towards religious minorities, in 1978, Suharto created a directorate within the Ministry of Education and Culture to service these local religions, telling the Indonesian parliament, “These kepercayaan are part of our national tradition, and need not to be opposed to agama.”

Yet even under a strongman, the Ministry of Religious Affairs, technically in charge of religions, resisted and maintained its opposition to local religions. They have refused to include kepercayaan within their domain and have promoted the inclusion of these believers into monotheistic realms. One reason Muslim groups refuse to recognise kepercayaan is their concern that the percentage of Muslims (88 percent) in Indonesia may decline, threatening their majority status.

In Kuningan, the new atmosphere under Suharto prompted the Sunda Wiwitan to re-convert to their native faith. Some of them legally left the Catholic church. Some maintain the practice of two religions, living with multiple identities. In 1982, the faith registered with the Ministry of Education and Culture’s directorate, seeking government services along with President Suharto’s accommodation of ethnic believers.

During the weekend I spent talking with Kanti, Djati and other Sunda Wiwitan believers, young and old, women and men, I witnessed the pain of the discrimination they faced and the cost of religious intolerance to people full of tolerance themselves.

It is fascinating to see a small religion resisting the power of the state. While Suharto took some important steps to protect religious freedom, it would have been better still if he had shown the moral courage to rescind the blasphemy law and the idiosyncratic and dangerous definition of religion from the Sukarno era. Sadly, Suharto’s successors have also failed to find the necessary political will.

Post-Suharto Discrimination

Jarwan is the only Sundanese man who stays overnight to guard the Sunda Wiwitan tomb in Curug Goong. He is a well-built man, keeping a motorcycle and several guard dogs in the bamboo hut.

“Someone has to stay here,” he said. “I am the youngest of the elders.”

In July 2020, the Kuningan government sealed off the tomb, declaring that the Sunda Wiwitan group had no permit to build “a monument.” Dozens of Sunni Muslim militants accompanied government officials to seal the tomb, saying that “the monument” is idolatrous.

Sunda Wiwitan members argue that the construction is not a “monument” but rather a “tomb” prepared for two of their elders, Dewi Kanti’s parents, Pangeran Djati Kusumah, and Emalia Wigarningsih. “It’s built on their own land. There is no regulation here to ban anyone to have cemeteries on our own land,” Djati said.

This is not an unfamiliar scene in many Muslim-majority provinces in Indonesia. Rights monitors have recorded hundreds of incidents like this involving Sunni militant groups, whose thuggish harassment and assaults on houses of worship and members of religious minorities have become increasingly aggressive. Those targeted include Ahmadis, Christians, and Shia Muslims. To give just one grisly example, on May 13-14, 2018, Islamist suicide bombers detonated explosives at three Christian churches in Surabaya. The bombings killed at least 12 and wounded at least 50 people. Thirteen suicide bombers also died.

In 2006 the government introduced regulations for building permits for houses of worship, prompting Muslim protesters to demand the closure of “illegal churches.” Hundreds of churches were closed. Some Christian congregations won lawsuits allowing them to build, but local governments simply ignored  court rulings. GKI Yasmin Protestant Church in Bogor was shut down in 2008. The congregation won the case at the Supreme Court in 2010 and then-President Yudhoyono asked the local government to reopen the church, but the city government defied the orders, without consequence.

By contrast, in 2010 the Religious Affairs Ministry listed 243,199 mosques throughout Indonesia, around 78 percent of all houses of worship. Recently an ongoing government census using drones and photography has registered at least 554,152 mosques, suggesting that the number of mosques has more than doubled in a decade.

The hardline Islamist preacher, Rizieq Shihab, has just returned to Indonesia from self-imposed exile in Saudi Arabia. He then called on his supporters “to behead blasphemers;” on November 27 an Islamist group attacked a village in Sigi, Sulawesi island, beheading a Salvation Army elder and three of his relatives. The attackers also burned a Salvation Army church and six other Christian-owned houses. No action has been taken against Rizieq for inciting violence, although police arrested him for breaking coronavirus restrictions.

Threats and speeches that incite violence are facilitated by Indonesia’s discriminatory laws and regulations. They give local majority religious populations significant leverage over religious minority communities. Compounding this, institutions including the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the Coordinating Board for Monitoring Mystical Beliefs in Society (Bakor Pakem) under the Attorney General’s Office, the Religious Harmony Forum, and the semi-official Indonesian Ulema Council have issued decrees and fatwas (religious rulings) against members of religious minorities, and frequently press for the prosecution of “blasphemers.”

Recent targets of the blasphemy law include three former leaders of the Gafatar religious community, prosecuted following the violent, forced eviction in 2016 of more than 7,000 members of the group from their farms on Kalimantan. A more prominent target was former Jakarta Governor Basuki “Ahok” Purnama, sentenced to a two-year prison term for blasphemy in a politically motivated case in May 2017. His longtime friend and ally, President Joko Widodo, simply stood by, afraid of the wrath of radical conservatives.

Violence against religious minorities and government failures to take decisive action negate guarantees of religious freedom in the Indonesian constitution and international law, including core international human rights conventions ratified by Indonesia. The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, which Indonesia acceded to in 2005, provides that “persons belonging to…minorities shall not be denied the right, in community with the other members of their group, to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practice their own religion.”

Throughout there have been occasional and modest examples of progress. The Rotary Club began operating again in 1970 after Sukarno died. In 2000, President Abdurrahman Wahid, the eldest son of Hasjim Wahid, cancelled President Sukarno’s 1962 decree banning the Freemasons and alleged associate organisations. After more than a dozen members were detained under the law during the New Order, the Bahai community has since been able to revive their network; however, they have been denied permission to build a temple so they continue to worship in private homes.

A major reform took place in 2006 when President Yudhoyono signed the Population Administrative Law, which no longer requires kepercayaan believers to convert to official religions to be listed on ID cards. But many civil servants are still not aware of or ignore the law, so religious minorities face problems if they refuse to choose one of the six religions that these officials recognise. “They simply say you’re a godless woman if you want to keep the [religion] column blank,” said Kanti, whose ID card has a blank space after the word agama.

In Kuningan, Indonesia’s Ombudsman finally helped mediate the dispute between the Sunda Wiwitan community and the local government, prompting the local authorities to lift the seal on the site and permitting the group to continue constructing the tomb.

The Ombudsman’s Office also helped the Dayak Kaharingan, pressuring several local governments to drop decades of discrimination. Ombudsman Ahmad Suaedy said in a webinar: “The key issue is that they [local religious groups] should get public service. The religious minorities should take courage to report their difficulties.”

In 2017, four Indonesian citizens petitioned the Constitutional Court, demanding the right to have their religions listed on their ID cards. They represented four Indigenous religions including the Marapu  (Sumba ), the Sapto Darmo (Java ), and the Parmalim and the Ugamo Bangsa Batak (Sumatra). On November 7, 2017, the court ruled in their favour.

But the Ulama Council objected to the decision. The Ministry of Home Affairs, which issues and manages ID cards, has since failed to implement the court decision. The Ulama Council argued that the ruling “hurts the feeling of the Islamic ummah,” but it is not clear on what legal grounds the ministry refuses to do its duty.

Separately, the Constitutional Court rejected three petitions to revoke the blasphemy law between 2009 and 2018, declaring that religious freedom was subject to certain limitations to preserve public order (former President Abdurrahman Wahid joined the lawsuit in 2009). Those limitations, the court stated in its 2010 decision, were to be defined by “religious scholars,” thereby outsourcing the rights of minorities to unelected members of the majority religion.

There are more than 180 ethnic-religious communities spanning from Sumatra to the smaller islands in eastern Indonesia. They are estimated to encompass around 10 to 12 million people, although the 2010 census recorded only 299,617 people or 0.13 percent of Indonesians claiming to be exclusively ethnic believers. It is still hard and even dangerous to publicly declare one’s religion in Indonesia.

Indeed, it is gruelling work to battle against both government officials and the Sunni ulama. Spineless politicians, feckless government bureaucrats, and narrow-minded ulama officials hamper the development of democracy and human rights in Indonesia.

Jarwan in Curug Goong knows very well that he cannot rely on the government or anyone else to protect the tomb he stands guard over. “We have seen this mistreatment and intimidation for decades. We must guard our sacred places ourselves.

[theparanormalperiodical]

The REAL Story Behind The Crooked Man And The 7 Other Fairy Tales & Nursery Rhymes With *Even More* Disturbing Backstories

It was 4 years ago that we first met the Crooked Man.

With a *sickening* reveal via rottweiler fit for the latest season of Rupaul’s Drag Race, the suited gentleman staggered his way from The Conjuring 2 (2016) into our nightmares.

But his ashy undertones, gnashing teeth, and general aura of “I’m a demon, or something, which means I have no real motive apart from wanting to kill you” isn’t the only thing that fits the film far too well.

The Conjuring universe is the definition of ‘based on a true story’. And the Crooked Man fits the brief.

In the opening scenes of the film we see lovable and bulliable Billy stutter through a nursery rhyme:

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile; He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all liv'd together in a little crooked house.

Accompanied by a totally-cursed-i-mean-just-look-at-it zoetrope (it’s a bit like a mini projector that shows you a moving cartoon), Billy introduces us to one of the handful of extra entities terrorising London’s most haunted house. You can discover more about the true story of 284 Green Street which inspired The Conjuring 2 here. 

But Billy also introduces us to a real nursery rhyme inherent in British culture - and British history.

Yes, the nursery rhyme, like many, is based on dark and twisted reality softened for a bedtime story. And amongst this history was a real person. Unfortunately, the Crooked Man is not the only fairy tale monster or nursery rhyme entity that will be haunting your dreams.

Are y’all tucked in?

The Crooked Man

The nursery rhyme was first told sometime in the 17th century during the reign of King Charles I. But the Crooked Man was not the Stuart King - it was allegedly inspired by Scottish general Sir Alexander Leslie and the covenant he signed.

The covenant secured religious and political freedom for Scotland despite prevailing animosity between the English and the Scottish.

The crooked stile is the awkward alliance between the two parliaments and the crooked house refers to the collective union the Scottish and English lived together in. But the ‘crooked’ part works on another level, too.

The great recoinage of late 17th century meant sixpences - which feature in the rhyme - were made of very thin silver and thus easy to bend.

An alternative origins story links it back to Lavenham, a village in Suffolk (England). The half-timbered houses leaned at off angles as if supporting each other, creating a crooked aesthetic that matches the nursery rhyme.

The Pied Piper Of Hamelin

I distinctly remember hearing the story of the Pied Piper when I was about 7 years old. I was there, sat crossed-legged on the wooden floor in assembly and listening to the headteacher tell us the tale of the musical maverick with an overhead projector.

I remember it being far more nostalgic and not so traumatising.

The story goes that sometime in the 13th century a peculiar man dressed in brightly-coloured clothes (pied clothing) was hired by the town to rid them of the rats with his pipe-playing abilities. Hamelin had been suffering from an infestation that would threaten the locals with the plague. The piper was to play his pipe, entice the rats with his magical music, and lead them to a river where they would promptly drown.

He was hired and he did the job - but they didn’t pay up.

The piper couldn’t exactly refund his services. Instead, he sought vengeance, luring away the children of the town with his magical pipe. He waited until Saint John and Paul’s day where the adults would be in the church, dressed in green like a hunter, and played his pipe. The children of the village swarmed to him, all 130 of them, following him out of the town and into a cave. Three were unable to follow due to being blind and deaf and thus told the villagers what had happened.

The real story:

Some versions of the story claimed he made them walk into a river, others claim he returned them after payment. But what we do know for sure is that there is a street in Hamelin called Bungelosenstrasse. On this street - ‘the street without drums’ according to translation - the children were seen last. No music and no dancing is allowed on this road.

Bluebeard

We open on a typical Medieval scene: a powerful and wealthy man is looking for a young wife to replace the last one who mysteriously went missing. Bluebeard’s been through quite a few women, actually, but it’s his latest bae that stars in this story. Bluebeard marries his neighbour’s daughter and goes on a business trip.

He tells her he can stay alone in their house but she cannot open a certain door.

Of course, she opens the door and finds the corpses of his ex-wives. Her and her sisters band together to kill Bluebeard, showering themselves with a wealthy inheritance.

The real story:

This tragic tale of murder and mystery is unfortunately all too true.

There are many alleged origins of the folktale. Let’s start with the Medieval ruler of Brittany, Conomor the Cursed: his new wife agreed to marry him to prevent him from invading her father’s lands but accidentally walked in on a room full of his dead, old wives. She was visited by their ghosts who warn him if she falls pregnant, he will kill her, preventing a prophecy that claims he will be killed by his own son.

She gets knocked up, gives birth, and then she gets her block knocked off.

An alternative inspiration could be a similarly brutal figure: Gilles de Rais (15th century). He was accused of murdering approximately 140 children who suddenly went missing in the Nantes countryside. He was condemned to death and executed in 1440.

Snow White

It’s one of the most popular fairytales of all time.

The story goes that a queen gives birth to a baby girl but dies in childbirth. The king’s new wife is wicked and vain, asking her magic mirror ‘who is the fairest one of all?’ on a daily basis. When the child turns seven, the mirror changes its answer from the queen to the child, Snow White (yeah, that’s weird). The queen hires a huntsman to kill Snow White, but she begs for mercy and says she will live in the woods and he can pretend he killed her.

She finds shelter in a cottage belonging to seven dwarfs who agree to let her stay as a maid until the evil queen asks the mirror her favourite question. It claims Snow White is still alive and the fairest of them all. She goes through several methods of attempting to kill Snow until she falls into a deep coma. The dwarfs host a funeral, a prince comes along, and he, uhhh, kisses what he assumed to be a corpse and she is awakened.

They then get hitched but don’t invite the queen to the wedding. The queen asks the mirror yet again the identity of the fairest, assuming Snow is well and truly deceased but the mirror breaks the bad news to her again. The queen tries to kill her once more but Snow’s hubby forces her to wear red-hot iron slippers and dance in them until she dies.

There’s a lot going on here.

But rather than unpacking everything that's wrong with all of this *gestures to everything*, let’s just get to the dark reality beneath it all.

The real story:

The inspiration is generally deemed to be Margaretha von Walbeck, a young woman who had a terrible relationship with her stepmother. She was forced to move to Brussels and fell in love with Phillip II of Spain, a romance not popular with her parents.

Suddenly, however, Margaretha died. Rumour has it she was poisoned.

Another detail of her life also links her to Snow White: her father’s copper mines were often filled with child labourers whose growth was stunted by working in them, mirroring the ‘dwarves’ in the story.

But Margaretha is not the only contender: Maria Sophia Margaretha Catharina Freifräulein von Erthal *inhale* also hated her stepmother. This - and the fact that her stepmother was given a mirror as a gift by her husband - also ties her to Snow White.

Hansel And Gretel

It’s possibly the most simple fairy tale up for discussion: a brother and sister are sent out to the woods by their father. The mother asked for him to send them away so they can survive a famine. But Hansel uses stones to trace their steps back home. One day, however, he uses crumbs. They get eaten by the local wildlife, so the kids get lost.

They then discover a witch's house, a gingerbread cottage. She lures ‘em in, fattens up Hansel, and prepares to feast on his flesh. The kids plot against her, throw her in the oven, and steal her stuff before heading back to live with their father.

Okay, so maybe this one isn’t based on a true story. It’s based on true stories. Yep - plural.

The real story:

Child abandonment and infanticide was pretty common during plagues, famines, and all other circumstances of poverty. In fact, this particular tale is believed to come from the Great Famine which stretched across Europe from 1315 to 1317. Child abandonment surged during this time.

Rapunzel

Turns out Disney lopped off a lot of Rapunzel’s real story to make it a family friendly movie. Yep, this is a weird one.

A pregnant woman begins to crave a kind of salad leaf (Campanula rapunculus, also called rapunzel) in the garden of the house next door. He goes out to nick it but is caught by the homeowner - a witch. She says he can take the rapunzel, but in return he must give her the child once it is born.

The witch raises Rapunzel as her own but locks her away in a tower when she is 12 to protect her from the outside world.

A prince eventually rocks up and decides to climb her immensely long hair. Unknown, probably PG-13 and probably not consensual acts happen. Still, given it's the medieval era they agree to get hitched after escaping.

The witch discovers her plan, cuts off her hair, exiles Rapunzel, and uses the locks as bait for the prince before throwing him to the briar roses below where he is promptly blinded. Rapunzel gives birth to twins and the prince finds her, identifying her only by her voice. Her tears restore his voice.

The real story:

Being kidnapped or being kept hidden away from the rest of the world is pretty common, well, all of the time. But Saint Barabara, a Greek saint, was the main inspiration for the tale.

She was locked away in a tower in Turkey in the third century by her father in an attempt to protect her Christianity. But her Pagan father’s efforts did not succeed and she discovered the ways of Jesus. She escaped but she was eventually caught by her father who then tortured and beheaded her.

Religious intolerance, y’all.

Beauty And The Beast

Time for another Disney classic with a heavily edited plotline.

The father of a family seeks shelter in a grand palace during a storm. In the morning before he leaves he takes a rose from the garden but is caught by a beast who threatens to kill him for nicking a flower. But the beast agrees not to kill him if his daughter takes his place instead.

The daughter moves to the palace but asks to go see her family for a week. She is then convinced by her sisters to stay at home. A magic mirror then reveals the beast is dying because she isn’t with him. She returns to him and her love breaks the curse that makes him appear so monstrous.

The real story:

Petrus Gonsalvus (1637-1618) was born with hypertrichosis. This meant he had a thick layer of hair all over his body - his physical difference didn’t go down very well. He was kept as a ‘wild man’ in a cage and fed raw meat.

When he was 10 years old he was gifted to the king of france. But he wasn’t kept as a ‘beast’. He was educated like a nobleman and was taught to read, write, and speak three different languages. He was then married off to the daughter of a court servant.

He was married to her for over 40 years and they had seven children together.

(Aww.)

Three Blind Mice

Three blind mice, three blind mice, See how they run, see how they run, They all ran after the farmer’s wife, Who cut off their tails with a carving knife, Did you ever see such a thing in your life, As three blind mice?

The real story:

It's one of those nursery rhymes you grow up with - and 17 years later you realise how traumatic it actually is.

This nursery rhyme can be traced back to the reign of Bloody Mary (16th century) who had a tricky relationship with Protestants. And by that I mean she burnt them alive, hence the nickname.

The three blind mice represented three Protestant bishops who may have been blinded before their execution or spiritually blind for following Catholicism. Another reference to Queen Mary was her as a farmer’s wife.

Her husband, Philip of Spain, owned several estates and thus was technically a farmer.

Welp, there goes your childhood.

If you liked this post go on and like and reblog. Go on, share your love for my amazing talents with the world!

And if you want to read an article about the paranormal every weekend then you best be hitting follow!

See you next week, kiddos. Sleep tight.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I'm curious about "a history of dead women in the city" (and also the Wellington one, of course)

Yusss! 

“History of dead women in the city” - oh man one day I will write this. It's part of this world I'm creating called Babel and it follows this woman as she tries to figure out what happened to her sister who died years ago. 

 A long excerpt: 

Here is a scene from our childhood: It’s a sunny day. Dappled. Portrait worthy sun. It brings out freckles. We are in the courtyard, my sister drawing and me watching her draw. On a large blanket by the well sits our parents. Our mother is laughing, her arms entwined with our father’s, they are so in love. They do not notice us. It’s one of those loves that perfumes air, that is intimate and consuming, where only they exist and nothing else.

‘That is what I want,’ Bellefrey says to me. She’s drawing my round face. Squinting, holding up her thumb, making a show of it. ‘I want a man who makes me feel sublime.’ 

‘Don’t you mean loved?’ 

Oh no, she means sublime. She wants to be a thunderstorm. A tsunami. A hurricane. Something you stand in awe of. 

‘The word awesome is overused,’ she explains. ‘We use it too much. Everything is awesome. The food-stalls at the mid-summer carnival are awesome. The paintings by George Dier are awesome. The play at the Round was awesome. I’m awesome. You’re awesome. Everyone’s awesome. Awesome, awesome, awesome.’ Her voices becomes mocking at the end. 

‘But I am awesome,’ I protest. ‘I know how to make a penny appear from behind your ear.’ I sit up to perform the trick and she lets me fumble through it. 

That was over thirty years ago when Bellefrey was seventeen and me, a mere ten. 

Bellefrey wrote to me a week before she died saying that she hoped her daughter Lyra would make up her mind about the name for her daughter. The child was two weeks old and still no name. How was that to be countenanced? 

Lyra was Bellefrey’s third child, though second to survive. Perhaps she thought you should have all these things planned. Bellefrey was a great believer in organization. She planned out all the names for her children. Lists tracked down the side of commonplace books next to recipes and almanac predictions. Boy names, girl names, names that could go for either. 

As soon as she missed her third course she was to the local midwife to read leaves over her stomach so she could prepare properly. Will it be a boy? Will it be a girl? Will it die and so there is no need to prepare a name? 

Johan is her son, first born. He followed his father into the merchant trade and sells all manner of fabrics and spices. He visits me, aunty I’ve black tea pearls for you laced with lavender, hounded by dried ginger, protected by saffron. We brew fragrant drinks and he shows me his art. All those drawings of places I will never see but he has and oh isn’t that wonderful. 

Havel was her second child, a boy, but he died at three weeks. One of those deaths where the babe goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up. Gay in the morning, dead by dinner except there is no fever to blame this on. 

Lyra is three. First daughter and pulled out a screaming child with spindly legs and a too-large head. Her hair is the thick curls that is our mother’s inheritance, her grandmother’s inheritance. Married to a lawyer who aims to one day be well connected through the inns of court, she means to make herself into something. Daughter three was named Belle. She wagged a finger at me, never a word about beasts and fairy tales. 

I don’t tell her that a woman I knew said that fairytales are our collective neurosis born out in repeating tropes. Patterned to go down forever and on. 

The fourth had no name because the leaves read by her midwife told her not to bother. It was born early and without heartbeat. 

Guilluam is fifth and last. She swore he was conceived ready to escape her belly. He patted the inside of her stomach as soon as he could move. Once born he clung to her then didn’t anymore, running away at sixteen. A year before she died. 

What would her most difficult child make of all of this? I remember his sneering face. Where Johan was gentle kindness, Guilluam was sharp. He cut with a look. He cut with a laugh. He could be a harsh, cruel boy. Probably is a harsh, cruel man. 

Or maybe he’s softened. Maybe as he ages he’s gentling. Some people do that. But in all honesty, I don’t think Guilluam the sort. 

What am I trying to do? I’m trying to introduce a woman. A girl. A child. A person whom I have loved all my life and will continue to love all my life. Though I am so angry with her for leaving us it wasn’t her fault. 

See, I’m guilty as all of us are guilty. 

Bellefrey got caught up in something bigger than her death. She was hidden in the shadows of a great anger and a great brutality. 

Bellefrey died and was found months and months later wearing a green dress and purple shoes with pearls on them. 

No one knows what she was caught up in and no one knows about this great brutality, this great anger that once stalked through our less than fine and noble city. 

I do not have my sister’s blood on my hands. But I do have her gravedirt.

 --- 

 The Wellington one! I completely forgot about this one. It's part of the ridiculous Woodford Napoleon AU where Napoleon ends up in England and there are murder fairies. In this story, things are starting to come through a mysterious mirror that someone shipped to Napoleon for unknown reasons. Arthur shows up to investigate. 

 Another long excerpt:

In the drawing room rests the mirror. It was received a little over a month ago wrapped in brown paper with no information on sender or purpose. It is a heavy, old thing. Age-spotted, warped, the frame is heavy, gilded wood. Napoleon says that for him it’s Tuileries. Has he told Arthur about Tuileries? The sacking of it? 

‘Only that you said vive la revolution and someone asked if you were from the south and you said yes and that is what saved you.’ 

‘Southerners have to stick together,’ Napoleon’s sphinxian smile. Then he goes into himself, how he does when he’s formatting a memory — twisting it into some form of narrative that will make sense to those who were not there. Bertrand told Arthur once, It’s the revolution, we can’t really explain it. How we went about our day but also checked this list that was kept of everyone taken up as enemies. You went every morning to make sure your friends were still alive. Then you had breakfast. 

Napoleon shrugs at Arthur’s patient waiting. ‘It was messy. There was a man’s head on a pike. He had a beard, brown hair that curled, blue eyes. And the floor was scattered with torn drapes, rags that were once kingly gowns, shattered statues, remains of old portraits. A lot of broken glass. Windows and mirrors.’

And as for this mirror? With its growth that says: come come come. Nothing happened the first little while. Oh yes, various and sundry people of the neighbourhood came to view the mirror — to see if they recognised it.

‘And did they?’ Arthur asks. 

Yes and no for all who saw it. Mrs. Topsom said it reminded her of a beautiful manor in the Scottish highlands she once visited as a child. She did not seem comfortable with this recollection. Mrs. Phillips said it brought to mind a book she once read which told the story of a young woman trapped in a tower whose uncle froze time. Lady Preston said it was something from the Assembly Rooms in Bath. 

‘And your household?’ 

Napoleon shrugs. What is there to say on that? Nothing. It was the revolution and it was abdication and it was family homes that are no longer homes of families. 

Arthur shifts his gaze from the pensive face of Napoleon back to the mirror and he looks at it for a long moment. Studies the carvings of the frame — the flowers, vines, mischievous eyes peeking out from behind leaves. ‘I suppose it’s something from Spain, if I think on it long enough. A wealthy home we stayed in, during the campaign.’ 

‘A bit of something for everyone.’ 

‘Yes,’ Arthur agrees. Then he adds, ‘and no.’ 

The main issue with the mirror is this: that there is a staircase growing out of it. 

When Arthur approaches he can hear whispers crawling through his mind. Slithering down the back of his head.  

‘How long have the steps been here?’

‘Week and a half. It formed slowly, so we were able to document it in a thorough manner. Bertrand will give you his notes.’

Arthur hums as he inspects the object, pondering cause and effect. And, more importantly, who sent it to the exiles and to what purpose. There is nothing behind the mirror, only the wall it is propped up against. The stairs themselves are made of oak, and descend as three steps out into their world. Within the mirror they meld into an old stone walkway that climbs into a forest and is lost amongst trees and brush and forest fog. 

There are leaves on the floor. And dirt. Detritus of autumnal life. They crunch beneath Arthur’s boots. Everything smells of decay. 

‘Has anyone touched the mirror?’ Arthur asks. ‘Seen if it’s solid?’

‘We had Sir Hudson Lowe test it.’ Napoleon replies with an air of innocence. Arthur casts him a look. ‘What? Would you rather him disappear forever into the mirror or my good self? And no need to answer. You can save your blushes, we’re alone.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘It’s one of my finer points.’

‘And? Was it solid?’ Arthur asks.

‘Yes and no.’ Napoleon approaches and touches the glass. His palm rests against it for a beat, then it begins to go through to the other side. Napoleon lets his hand sink through up to his wrist before withdrawing. ‘No one has walked through yet.’

With this touch the whispering decreases. Though, there remains the feeling of being watched. It is not that they are hunted, Arthur thinks, but rather they are being inspected. Something is curious about them. 

Reaching forward, he places his palm where Napoleon’s had been. The glass is cool to the touch and when his hand begins to sink through his skin buzzes with frisson of magic, that unfurling warmth crawls up his arm as his hand enters the other side where the air is cool yet humid. That sticky feeling of late winter.

He pulls his hand away.

‘What are your orders?’ Napoleon asks.

‘To investigate.’

The whispers return. Arthur rubs the back of his head. Such an unpleasant feeling, something else in your mind speaking a language you cannot understand in a collection of voices none of which are your own.

‘Maybe we should put a sheet over it,’ Arthur suggests after a moment. ‘Just in case.’

Going over to the window seat Napoleon opens a cupboard beneath to pull out a heavy blanket. He holds it up showing the shredded fabric. 

‘We tried,’ Napoleon says. ‘Mrs. Phillips recommended salt so we put a circle around it but found strange footprints in it the next morning. We tried the blanket, but it was clawed through. We collected iron implements and made a circle around it with those and that seemed to work better than the other options. I still think they got out, though.’

‘And you’re just keeping it here in your house?’

‘Oh yes, it’s fine.’

Arthur rolls his eyes. Trust Bonaparte to think it’s fine keeping a mirror-doorway to the land of fairy in his house with potential creatures coming and going out of it at all hours.

‘We leave food out for them.’

‘They’re not pets!’

‘No,’ Napoleon pats Arthur’s cheek with a warm smile. ‘But that’s what you’re supposed to do to keep fairies happy. Come now, you should know this. Milk, bread, sometimes a brandy.’

‘I give up!’

‘Young Napoleon Bertrand has suggested names for them —‘

‘Good lord.’

‘Ferdinand, Finnegan, and Felipe.’

‘Christ’s blood.’

‘Excellent,’ Napoleon enthuses. ‘You’re cursing like a Catholic. I knew I’d be a good influence on you. Come, we shall have a late supper.’

---

Thank you so much for the ask! <3 <3 

[das meme]

[tinydooms]

Original Short Story: written in early 2016 while I was minding the doors at Handel and Hendrix in London (in my glamorous past life). Content Warnings: demons, assault, demonic sexual assault, murder.

The Death of Andromeda Ashton

Now darling, you know that there is a big empty house on this property, away up past the formal gardens; you can just see it from your window when the leaves are down from the trees. Ashton Manor is its name, so called because my ancestor, Joseph Ashton, built it centuries ago, when Queen Anne ruled this isle. A solid English manor house, with wings stuck on it during the reign of the Georges, built of grey stone and with hundreds of windows peering down at us like so many curious eyes. It is the country seat of the Ashton family and has been for almost three hundred years. But we do not live there. Not anymore.

I can see impatience in your face. I know all this, is what you’re thinking. Patience, dear one, for I am going to tell you why.

They were great collectors, the old Ashtons were, and as the years went on they filled the Hall with all manner of treasures, ancient books and paintings and sculptures from far off lands where strange gods were worshipped and men look nothing like you’d believe. Every generation of Ashtons contributed to the Collection, until one day, one of them brought home something monstrous.

The house is empty now, its windows stare unseeing; its treasures are locked up and guarded by an aging caretaker. All know that it is abandoned, most of its treasures still inside, though some were safely moved to London around the time Queen Victoria died. But never, in eighty years, has anyone broken in to steal anything. There are too many stories about the place. You’ve heard some of them, of course. The crying that can be heard in the east wing. The singing heard on stormy nights. The dark figure that prowls the corridors and the woods by the park, thinning the packs of rabbits that live there. The woman sinking into the lake. Yes, I can see by your eyes that you know of what I am speaking.

Her name is Andromeda Ashton. She lived here many years ago, when the house was an open and happy place. She was the darling petted baby daughter of older parents, born when her elder siblings were almost grown and had thought their parents were passed the age of engendering children. Her eldest sibling, Henry, was already well into his first year at Cambridge, her sisters away at school. The closest brother in age was Edward, seven years older than she, a quiet and thoughtful boy.

Now, because she was the baby, and in no small part because she was a beautiful, intelligent little thing, Andromeda was given license to behave in ways that were most unusual for a girl of her class in that time. She had a governess and a tutor, learned Greek and Latin from childhood, and could always be found prowling the family Collection or reading books by great explorers and renowned antiquarians. By the time she was eighteen, Andromeda was widely considered to be one of the brightest Ashtons for a generation. What a shame, people said, that she was not a boy and could then use that pretty head of hers. What a shame such remarkable intelligence was all for naught.

They need not have feared, for Andromeda had plans for making her mark upon the world, in the form of her family’s Collection. She may not be allowed to attend Cambridge like her brothers or study theology like Edward, but she was allowed and encouraged to contribute something to the Collection. And it would be more than just her portrait, which showed a slim, wind-pale girl with dark hair and eyes, gazing at the painter with a fiery intensity. No, Andromeda had not spent her life reading the tales of antiquarians for nothing.

Now dearie, you know that there are many stories of ghosts and legends in these parts. The hills are as dotted with stories as they are with sheep. On the eve of her nineteenth year, Andromeda began to collect them. With her father’s blessing and the help of her former governess, a project was begun: to compile the county’s folktales. It was no small task. For months, Andromeda could be seen riding from farm to farm, speaking to laborers and landowners alike, and writing down their stories. The Crone of Tetley. The Wailing Well of St. Edmund’s. The Fenbury Witch. She recorded them all, never realizing that she herself would one day become such a whispered story.

“I don’t know how you sleep at night, after hearing these tales,” her mother said once.

Andromeda smiled. “They are not true, Mother! They’re silly superstitions that came about because people in the past had no learning. People tell stories to ascribe meaning to what they do not understand, that’s all. There’s no truth to them.”

This, my dear, was Andromeda’s firm belief: that superstition had given way to science, and that all the ghostly tales of the past, while amusing and interesting, had a rational explanation. It was to be her undoing.

Now, as is sometimes the case with amateur antiquarians, Andromeda began to be curious as to the truth behind these stories. There was one in particular that caught her fancy, and that was of the Chalice of Tilbury St. Bartholomew. What’s that? The what? I knew you would ask; it’s certainly not talked about anymore. Not since-no, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The story goes like this: centuries before, at the time the plague first appeared in England, there was an alchemist who thought he could escape the illness by coming to the countryside. And where did he come? Why here, of course. Tilbury St. Bartholomew, though in those days the name was rather different. It was whispered that this gentleman-I use that term lightly, for he was no such thing-continued his strange experiments in his cottage, and that he not only practiced alchemy, but the dark arts as well. You’re skeptical, I see. So was Andromeda. What were considered the dark arts then is known as science now, of course. But for all that, the villagers were afraid of him. It was said that he conjured devils, and that one such devil was contained in a silver cup he kept with him in his bedroom, ready to do his master’s bidding. Village maidens dreamed of a dark shape coming into their beds at night, bending over them and stroking their hair. The alchemist leered at them in church on Sundays, leading to speculation that his demon was kept for the hunting of women. Unease and unrest grew in the village, yet the alchemist continued his work unmolested.

But when the plague finally came to Tilbury St. Bartholomew-for no part of the country was left untouched-the villagers said it was the judgments of God upon them for allowing an evil sorcerer to live unhampered in their midst. The alchemist was dragged from his home and burned at the stake. The village maidens breathed sighs of relief, for though the plague raged about them, the dark creature came to their chambers no more. The alchemist’s cottage was burned, too, and the silver chalice was lost. No one knew what became of it.

Andromeda, though, had her suspicions. She was a learned young lady, and figured that there had to be some record somewhere of a necromancer and his effects. I don’t know what sort of research she did, but one summer evening, when her brother Edward was visiting from his Cambridge seminary, she asked him to ride out with her. No one knows where they went, but when they came back, Andromeda looked quite pleased, and shortly thereafter presented an ancient silver goblet to the family.

Why did she want it, you ask? Why, if such demonic stories were attached to the thing, would a young lady wish to bring such an object into her home? Come, child, haven’t you been listening? Andromeda was not a believer in such things as demons. She was an active and intelligent young lady, and it rankled that she could not use her brains to their fullest capacity. A book was all very well and good, you see, but a treasure such as this cup was a real asset to the Collection, and it gave her a measure of fame, besides. She wrote the card for it herself. Silver chalice, English, circa 1330. What a find! Everyone in the family and many people outside of it admired the discovery.

All of this is common knowledge. You can find Andromeda’s book in any bookshop in the county, and the local historians will tell you about the silver goblet. They will also tell you that the goblet has been lost under strange circumstances, and when pressed for an answer, they will sigh and tell you it was a great tragedy. For you see, darling, very few people know exactly what happened to the Ashton family in the months following Andromeda’s discovery.

Most of what I know comes from Edward’s personal diaries, and they are to be treated with much caution. He lost his mind that year, you know. But I think he was saner than anyone knew.

Nothing went right for the Ashtons after Andromeda’s discovery. First Mrs. Ashton, who had never been strong after the birth of her daughter, succumbed to illness, soon followed by Mr. Ashton, so that Henry, the eldest son, living in London, found himself head of the family. That was in September. Then there began to be problems with the livestock. Horses went mad, sheep began to die for seemingly no reason, and the gamekeepers reported outrageous amounts of dead rabbits and birds in the woods. The servants began to complain that tricks were being played upon them, for it seemed as though they were being pinched and grabbed at by unseen hands. Edward recorded in the days that followed his mother’s funeral, was the sense of being watched when you knew you were alone, of a cold breath at the back of your neck, the creak of a chair that only creaked when sat in. There was a presence in the house, he said, and everyone knew it. But no one spoke of it.

Andromeda was not spared. Alone in her room at night, as she lay in bed, she felt the gentle caress of fingers across her cheek, in her hair, running over her body, cold as a breath of winter air. She told herself that she only imagined the icy kisses on the back of her neck, on her shoulders and breastbone. They were the products of a fevered mind, surely, imaginations brought about by grief at the death of her parents. She ignored the caresses. What’s that, darling? She must have been very brave? Yes, or very foolish.

By late November, the events had become too real to ignore. When serving tea to visitors, Andromeda would feel whispery fingers on her thighs, and moments later her stockings would loosen as her garters untied themselves. Something tugged her hair as she brushed it, or grasped her hand as she reached for a pen. At night, the sensation of someone cuddling close to her became unbearable, until she jumped for a light, gasping. And then she would hear it: a soft, cold laugh.

At last, after one such night, Andromeda swallowed her pride and told Edward what was happening. He was a priest, or nearly so; of course he would help her.

“It has only been since we brought home my goblet that this has happened,” she told him as they walked through the portrait gallery. “But artefacts cannot truly contain demons. Can they?”

Edward rubbed his hand through his hair, eyes straying to Andromeda’s portrait, swinging in its frame against the far wall. “We cannot know what devilry a sorcerer can conjure when he goes against God. I fear we made a mistake in unearthing that cup, Meda.”

“What must we do?”

“We must put it back where it was. As soon as possible.”

They agreed that Edward would write to one of his teachers, Reverent Dr. Padgett, to come assist them in exorcising the demon. The letter was duly dispatched. The reply came by telegram the next morning: Dr. Padgett would arrive that evening on the six-thirty train. They would commence their business immediately.

That afternoon, Andromeda asked the servants to leave the house for the night. She found them eager to do so. None of them liked to say how relieved they were to be away from the house and its unseen occupant. At half past six, the head footman was dispatched to the station to collect Dr. Padgett. In the back of the carriage was his own trunk, for he had no intention of remaining alone with the family in the house once he had safely delivered the doctor. It was a cold, windy evening, and later he said that his master and mistress could not have picked a worse night to be alone in that house.

All of this is fact; you can find the records in the village police archives, if you’ve a mind to. But what I’m about to tell you know, darling, are the words of a madman. You see, the only two people who know what happened in that house are Andromeda and Edward, and the latter was in no fit state to speak coherently of what happened for some months afterwards. Besides, his tale was dismissed by doctors and magistrates alike as being too unbelievable to come from a sound mind.

What Edward said was this: believing that Padgett would soon arrive, he and Andromeda set about making preparations for the exorcism. The house was empty, but the air around them seemed heavy, oppressive. As there were no servants to light the lamps, they sat in near-darkness. Their black mourning clothes must have made the scene even darker. Once or twice, Edward felt as though something touched the back of his neck, but there was no one there but Andromeda, sitting on the sofa by the window, peering out into the windy dusk.

“Perhaps we should bring the cup here,” she said, at last. “Perhaps Dr. Padgett will be willing to go out with us immediately.”

“Certainly,” said Edward. “Shall I go for it?”

“No.” Andromeda stood, smoothing her black skirts. Edward says that her hands were shaking. “I feel certain it has to be me.”

Though neither of them said it, the fact hung in the air that Andromeda was the one to have meddled in what she should not. Still, Edward, being a kind soul, rose from his seat and put her arm through his.

“We will go together. Come now, little sister, chin up. Everything will be all right.”

The silver cup was in one of the many rooms that housed the Collection, deep in the bowels of the cold house. I’ll show it to you one day, if you like, through the window. Night was falling fast as they walked through the halls, the strong wind driving dark clouds before it as it screamed around the manor. The lamp in Edward’s hand flickered in the draught, and his diary says that it was with some relief that they gained the Collection rooms. Leaving Andromeda by the door, Edward moved across the room to light the lamps, thinking to bring some cheer to the evening, if cheer were at all possible.

It was as he was lighting the lamps that Edward heard the screams. He ran to the door to see Andromeda lying in the corridor, beating at something unseen with both hands. He ran to assist her and all at once found himself picked up and flung back into the room he had come from. Undaunted, he picked himself up and made to run to his sister, only to again be thrown down by the unseen creature. It must have been terrible, fighting such a force while Andromeda’s shrieks echoed through the halls. Edward says that she twisted this way and that as though grappling with something. He made for her a third time--and this time, Andromeda was thrown down on the floor, gasping, and the thing, the monster, the demon, grabbed Edward by the neck and dragged him back into the Collection room. He was sure it would kill him. But it did not. A moment of white hot pain, and Edward found himself pinned to the floor with an arrow through the leg. Where the dart came from, he did not know. He could not move. Apparently satisfied that the young priest would prove no further nuisance, the thing returned to Andromeda. Helpless, crying with pain and horror, Edward heard his sister’s screams renew, growing more and more awful until they were drowned by a low, terrible laugh. Then there came the sound of a body dragging, and Andromeda’s shrieks faded as she was carried away.

Dr. Padgett, arriving an hour later, found Edward, alive but in a terrible state. Having asked his driver to wait at the door, Padgett was able to send for a medical doctor, and a search was made for Andromeda. It did not take them long to find her, for though the wind continued to buffet the county, there was no rain. You know where they found her, of course, my dear, for you can see her there still, some nights. She was in the lake, just under the water, her dark hair a loose cloud around her, her heavy black frock covered in hundreds of tiny gashes, her shoes and stockings gone. Her eyes were closed, her skin bleached of color in the green water. She was quite dead.

For months afterwards Edward screamed in the night, howling that the monster had come for him. Certainly in the mornings he was covered in scratches that had not been there the day before. A team of doctors agreed that his mind had been shattered by his sister’s murder, for they did not believe that anything but a mortal man could have done such a vicious thing to the Ashton children. The best thing for him, they told Henry, was to retire to the coast in the care of a nurse. And so Edward never returned to Ashton Hall.

And the cup that had started the horror? Dr. Padgett conducted a search for it, but it was nowhere to be seen, though Edward swore it was in the room when they were attacked. No one knows what became of it. Perhaps it had gone, and the demon with it. I see the doubt in your eyes, dearest, and I have to agree with you.

Ever after, the servants whispered that there was something still haunting the rooms and corridors of the hall, and the gardeners swore they saw Andromeda slipping out of the lake on icy winter nights. Henry’s family certainly never felt comfortable in the Hall, and so it was shut up. And so it has remained for these eighty years, and who knows if we will ever return to live in it? But one thing I know for certain: on nights when the wind blows and the moon is dark, shapes can be seen moving in the windows of the Hall. And out in the lake, a dark-haired Victorian lady floats just underneath the water. Watching. Waiting.

[tallstales]

Day 11 Haunted Places in New England (13 Days of Halloween)

New England is home to some of America’s oldest colonies and so it only seems natural that it is home to some old spirits. Let’s take a tour state by state of 13 of the most popular haunted locations in New England.

Maine

The Wood Lighthouse - Saco Bay, Maine

In 1808 a lighthouse was built in Saco Bay, Maine at the request of President Thomas Jefferson. That lighthouse, though full of history is not the infamous haunt that stands today. After falling to disrepair, it was replaced by a stone and granite tower that still stands today. it is in this newer structure that a violent tragedy would take place.

Based on reports, in 1896 a tenant renting the lighthouse or possibly squatting there, was approached by the landlord regarding the subject of paying rent. An argument took place which resulted in the shooting and death of the landlord. After realizing what he had done or possibly panicking over the consequences of his actions, the tenant went into the lighthouse with his gun and killed himself.

Keepers who have lived in the Wood Island Lighthouse since say that unexplained shadows frequently appear as well as unusual moaning sounds. Other reports say that sometimes locked doors fly open and gunshots are heard. The light was also know to turn on and off by itself. It became such a problem in fact, that in 1972 to save the lighthouse keepers from dealing with the possibly haunted light, it was replaced with an automated light.

Goose River Bridge - Rockport Harbor, Maine

A spirit with spirits can be found on The Goose River Bridge on Pascal Avenue near picturesque Rockport Harbor. The Goose River Bridge is allegedly haunted by William Richardson, a town resident who lived there around the time of the Revolutionary War. There are at least two stories about Richardson’s death that circulate to this day amongst the locals. The first is that British sympathizers murdered Richardson in 1783 because they were enraged by his drunken celebration of the American victory. The second is that he got so drunk celebrating the American victory that he fell from the Goose River Bridge to his death. Either way, if you catch a whiff of ale in the air by the bridge and happen to see this celebrating apparition, legend has it that he’ll offer you a drink from his pitcher. I wonder what the tab would be for 200 years worth of ale.

Vermont

Emily’ s Bridge - Stowe, Vermont

In Vermont there is another haunted bridge but one without a such a friendly spirit. If you travel through Stowe, Vermont it is likely that you will eventually pass over the Gold Brook Bridge. At least, that’s what your GPS will call it, but locals have renamed it something different. Emily’s Bridge has been nicknamed such after a tragedy befell the location. A girl named Emily had planned to meet her lover at the covered bridge, where they would then run away together to elope. According to the story, her beau man never showed, and a brokenhearted Emily commited suicide. The method has changed over time and story teller, some saying she hanged herself from the rafters of the bridge, others saying that she drove off the bridge in her carriage and others still saying that she flung herself from the bridge.

One thing that remains consistent are the experiences. Visitors have reported long scratch marks appearing on their vehicles, hearing footsteps and spotting a white apparition. Some pedestrians have even reported experiencing scratches along their skin. The most common thing among these witnesses? They apparitions and disembodied footsteps seem to be experienced by all types, but the scratches always seem to be inflicted upon men. Maybe Emily is still blaming her lover after all these years. Or maybe, her lover did show up on the bridge that day and Emily didn’t kill herself at all. We’ll likely never know.

University of Vermont - Burlington, Vermont

Established in 1791, the University of Vermont was the fifth university founded across New England. The school welcomes thousands of new students every year, but according to legend it seems like many of them never actually leave.

Over the years, many homes were bought and absorbed into the campus. One of these homes is now the Counseling Centre. Once owned by Captain John Nabb, the building still seems to house his spirit. Staff of the Counselling Centre say that he is still there and makes himself known by knocking over buckets and slamming doors and windows. The nearby Public Relations building is also said to be haunted by its former resident John E Booth who is said to make various banging noises all over the building. But it doesn’t end there. The most haunted house on the campus is said to be The Bittersweet House where many people have reported seeing full body apparitions. It is believed that one of the ghosts there is Margaret Smith who was widowed at a young age and spent the rest of her life as a recluse until she died in the house in 1961.

Not all of the ghosts at the University of Vermont are former residents, there is reported to be a far more tragic spirit in the Converse Residence Hall. A young med student called Henry is reported to have committed suicide in the building in 1920 and many say he is still there, manifesting himself in the form of poltergeist activity.

With all of these separately haunted buildings on campus, I would say this makes the university of Vermont the most haunted place to visit in Vermont and probably a paranormal investigators dream!

New Hampshire

The Mount Washington Hotel - Bretton Woods, New Hampshire

The Mount Washington Hotel was built by Joseph Stickney from 1900 to 1902 and for a time was the largest wood structure in New England. Sadly, Stickney wouldn’t get to spend much time in his hotel as he died a year after completion, but surprisingly he is not who is reported to haunt the place. Instead the hotel is allegedly haunted by his widow Carolyn.

Soon after the death of Carolyn in 1936, hotel staff began seeing strange things around the hotel. Reports were made of her descending the stairs for dinner, as well as lights inexplicably turning on and off all over the hotel. Photographs have also been taken by the staff with the shadowy figure of an elegant lady looking through the windows or standing behind them. Carolyn’s old room, number 314, is reported to be the most haunted room in the hotel. This isn’t at all surprising considering some of her furniture including her four-poster bed is still in use in the room.

The Chase House - Portsmouth, New Hampshire

The Chase House in Portsmouth, New Hampshire was built as a home for orphaned children. As you can probably guess, it has some spooky tales to tell regarding the ghosts of little orphans some may be more gruesome than you’d expect. The most reported ghost to haunt the premises isn;t the result of a tragic illness or accident but of a poor young girl who hanged herself in her bedroom. Her apparition is seen wandering the hall and in her old room and there have also been reports of disembodied screams from within the room. Doors in the building have also been known to lock or unlock on there own and the electricity allegedly turns on and off as well.

Massachusetts

Danvers State Hospital - Danvers, Massachusetts

The Danvers State Hospital opened in 1878 as the Danvers State insane Asylum. The impressive Gothic architecture shapes the building like a bat with expanded wings and makes for a sufficiently eerie exterior. Underground tunnels weave beneath the building to up the creep factor of the interior as well. But what’s really scary here is the history. Typical of asylums for the period, Danvers housed more patients than they should have causing poor treatment and overcrowding. Historians belief that Danvers may have been the birthplace of the prefrontal lobotomy. Unfortunately that’s not where the mistreatment of patients ends. There was a distinct lack of adequate care and treatment with those actually receiving any sort of treatment being subjected to brutal methods such as shock therapies, drugs and straitjackets from the staff as well as your more average human violence like beatings and rape from inmates and staff alike.

The hospital was closed in 1985 and was left completely abandoned. People interested in the paranormal would try to enter the building but with no success. As of 2005 you can now live on the property in renovated or completely new apartments and condos. That being said there are still graveyards for patients. if you walk down a hill you will come across many markers, most of them remain nameless. Hopefully the rent is cheap?

Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast - Fall River, Massachusetts

“Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” So goes the catchy rhyme that anyone from New England is sure to have memorized. Whether or not Lizzie actually killed her parents is a matter that is still debated today, but you can stay in the very house where the couple met their gruesome fate. The Lizzie Borden house is now a bed and breakfast and museum and is also said to be very much haunted.

Guests lucky enough to snag a reservations at this constantly booked up B&B can sleep in John V. Morse room, where Lizzie’s mother was murdered. Downstairs visitors can see the couch where her father died. Overnight guests get an extensive tour that lasts about an hour and half of the house including the basement and a full of history and the murder case. To those who don’t want to sleep in the room where someone was ax murdered, the museum also offers a 50 minute tours visitors.

Those who have decided to stay the night have reported hearing a woman crying, heard unexplained noises and have even woken up with scratches all over their bodies. Also frequently reported are the apparitions of Lizzie herself as well as the murdered John and Abby wandering the home.

Hawthorne Hotel - Salem, Massachusetts

The Hawthorne Hotel in Salem, Massachusetts has been ranked as one of the top 10 haunted hotels in the United States. It was also recently investigated by The Atlantic Paranormal Society, better known as TAPS or The Ghost Hunters.

Since its opening 1925, the Hawthorne has collected numerous ghosts. Witnesses have reported hearing what sounds like a child crying incessantly when there are no children around. Guests in room 325 have felt the sensation of someone’s hand touching theirs when no one is there.

The ghostly figure of a woman is also known to wander the 6th floor hallway. Others claim to have seen the woman enter different rooms as well and more still report a feeling of unease on the entire 6th floor and a restless presence that appears to pace the room according to guests who have stayed in Suite 612 of the hotel. Other guests in 612 that have not seen the pacing spirit report to hear footsteps in the room as though someone is pacing back and forth.

A more comedic report, at least to me, is from a guest who claimed someone had managed to get into his room when he heard the sink running and the toilet flush in his bathroom. After being shown there was no way anyone could get into his bathroom the man was resigned to the notion it was a ghost, and he was ok with that notion. I don;t know if I would be ok with that notion but to each their own. It is Salem after all and though this building is relatively young, the history of the city cannot be overlooked.

Connecticut

The Sterling Opera House - Derby, Connecticut

Built in 1889, The Sterling Opera House in Derby, CT is said to be one of the most haunted places in New England. The hauntingly beautiful Opera House remained open until 1945 and served as host to a slew of famous performers such as Bob Hope and Harry Houdini. Today, all that are left to perform or attend are the spirits.

There have been a number of paranormal investigations in the opera house over the years and the evidence gathered during them has included children talking or singing, shadowy spectors, light anomalies and the sudden appearance of child-sized handprints. Although most of the activity seems to center around children, some say that the building is also haunted by the spirit of Charles Sterling who the building was named for.

Dudleytown - Cornwall, Connecticut

Unlike some of the other hotspots on our list, this haunting consumed an entire town! Dudleytown was a village that was once said to be under a terrible curse. The Village was founded in 1738 by The Dudley Family who is the one who were the victims of the apparent cursed. You would think the curse would have ended when all of the Dudleys died soon after settling in Dudleytown, but it is said that the curse went on to infect the rest of the village. After the last Dudley died, the population of the town began to rapidly decrease with death... and it wasn’t a plague or sickness.

No, the deaths were violent in nature. Accidents and suicides wreaked havoc as well as a higher than average number of cases of insanity. The village was completely abandoned in the 1800s and now all that remains are the foundations and some stone ruins. Though access is rarely granted to the remains of this village by its current owners, guests to the ruins report that many of the former residents are still there in the form of ghosts. Many say that when entering the village there is a strong sense of dread. Some have seen orbs of light and unexplained shadow figures in the area.

To add to the strangeness, all visitors seem to notice the same unsettling thing. Though this is an area of overgrown forest, there are no birds or animals to be seen or heard. I think that’s enough warning for me to stay out!

Rhode Island

We’ve already visited my home state of RI on our haunted location hunt this week but here are two bonus locations for our tour of New England!

The Breakers Mansion - Newport, Rhode Island

The Breakers is one of the most popular tourist attractions and wedding venues on Aquidneck Island, but it has a haunted history. This mansion was originally the summer home of Cornelius Vanderbilt II, who was a member of the wealthy Vanderbilt family. It is said that Vanderbilt’s wife, Alice, was known to roam throughout the building, even after her death in 1934. Her spirit has been seen on multiple levels of the house in fine dresses from the golden age. other witnesses have reported the feeling of being watched or followed by something they couldn’t see.

The family currently living there says that Alice is a near constant presence but they will not allow any ghost tours or investigators because they believe she has a right to her own home and they don’t want to disturb her.

Seaview Terrace - Newport, Rhode Island

Closing out our list is the Seaview Terrace in Newport, Rhode Island. Also known as the Carey Mansion, Seaview Terrace is located on Ruggles Avenue in Newport, RI. This historical landmark dating back to 1907 and was a filming location for the gothic horror TV show, Dark Shadows. But it doesn’t just look creepy, the mansion is said to be one of Rhode Island's most haunted locations. Many believe the hauntings that take place here are attributed to whiskey magnate Edson Bradley and his wife Julia. Witnesses have reported apparitions, strange sounds, temperature drops, disembodied footsteps and the sound of a broken organ playing on its own. These odd happenings earned the mansion its own episode of Ghost Hunters.

Though several ghosts are thought to remain in the mansion, the most prominent spirit said to haunt the property is the original owner’s wife Julia Bradley.

Julia loved her home and had no desire to leave it. When Edson wanted to move to from Washington DC to Newport, they had the entire mansion disassembled and rebuilt in Rhode Island, a process that took nearly two years to complete. Julia passed away only a few years later and it seems she still doesn’t want to leave. Her ghost is often seen playing her favorite Estey organ.

One year after Julia’s death, the mansion became an exclusive all-girl summer boarding school, renamed Burnham-by-the-Sea where incidences of smoke detectors going off for no reason, bottles flying off desks and radios turning on and off by themselves were often reported. Others have experienced various strange noises like phantom footsteps, disembodied voices, banging, and even shadows jiggling door handles.

[aconboyindependent2021]

‘Now and Then’ - current state of play

My film is a re-imagining of the site of Brighton General Hospital next to my home. Until around 70 years ago, a workhouse operated on the site (for details, see: Gardner, J, (2012) A History of the Brighton Workhouses). Aspects of the austere workhouse are still evident on the site today. I began to think about the stories of the residents of the workhouse – what did they have to endure? With this in mind, I bought the above book by a local author about the history of workhouses in Brighton.

I have always been fascinated by the idea that traumatic events in a particular location can be recorded and replayed at a later time in history and that this might be a basis for ghosts and hauntings – for example, in the blockbuster, Poltergeist, and the BBC drama from the 1970’s The Stone Tapes (Sasdy, 1972). This is one of the key concepts behind the film.

After a lot of thought, I settled on the story of the workhouse being told by a single woman, Agatha, whose infant child was taken from her illegally and sold to a rich couple living in Brighton. This is a variation on the common Victorian  practice of unmarried women being compelled to give their children to a foundling home.

The film starts with Aggie telling her story in largely neutral terms and comparing the workhouse and the site’s positive use today as a hospital, but it climaxes with Aggie screaming with the loss of her child, and we see that she is a tormented spectre.The film ends with her anguish fading into a sign on the present site, promoting a nursery for infant children.

The film will be around 5-6 minutes long and will consist of edited original footage taken on the site in the present day. The film will be treated with video effects to alter the pacing, colour and atmosphere of the original footage. I have asked for a drama-trained friend to narrate the film as Aggie and will be using original and library sound effects and music motifs, or possibly drones to punctuate the soundtrack.

Now and Then – influences from other artists

1. Brian Percival - About a Girl

Female voice-over revealing a terrifying truth about motherhood at the end of the film. This film gives a cold dead feeling inside from the casual yet downcast demeanor as the leading character talks about her dysfunctional life and especially the ending, where the girl is revealed to have secretly miscarried a baby and we see her dump it into the canal (“I’ve become good at hiding things”). Both my film and About A Girl attempt to humanise the female main character outside of their tragedies.

2. Tobe Hooper - director of Poltergeist Paranormal activity centred around past events and the presence of aggrieved spirits. This was a film that made an impact on me from its non-stop tension, even before the presence of the supernatural becomes apparent. Tobe Hooper, ever since creating The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) has achieved many awards, and after this film, it is easy to see why. It also has a similar plot to my initial idea for my film - where a great wrong done in the past creates a ‘haunting’ by aggrieved spirit(s)..

3. Peter Sasdy – Director of The Stone Tape (1972)

The original idea from the film was stones “recording” traumatic events from the past. While the current draft has drifted away from this concept, it still lives on with how Agatha remembers everything about the past as if she died yesterday, despite the superficial veneer of the current day hospital. However, Agatha is a real soul though in my film.

4. David Lynch - Eraserhead, The Elephant Man His black and white films – particularly The Elephant Man In the latter, view of Victorian England shot in black and white featuring cruelty and time-specific sounds, sights and atmospheres. The film always seems to have a sense of foreboding, even when the scene is uneventful, and with a deeply engaging soundtrack. Eraserhead will always always be an influence due to its deliberate disturbing monochrome style, investigation of altered perception and the anxieties of parenthood.

5. James Gardener- Author of: A Complete History Of Brighton Workhouses A detailed and easy-to-understand book centred around the original workhouse in my area. It includes the Brighton General Hospital Site. It helped give a real-life grounding to my supernatural tale.

6. Richard Boden - director of the Blackadder series 4 finale, Goodbyeee The series as a whole has very little to do with my film, but this is a powerful episode whose fade-out ending and closing-sound inspired the cross-dissolve effects and soundscape in my film - coincidentally both are centered with the cruelty of the past and atmospheric sound. Present and past merge at this point. One of the most popular scenes in TV drama/comedy and understandably so too.

7. Piotr Obal – various films and still images Obal is an independent artist who works with art, music and still photography. Occasionally, he teaches youths how to work at the computer like me (!) when he was helping out with an arts award I was studying for. Below is one of his images that has been an influence on me and the film. I love his Photoshop collages and the wonderful images he posts from his native Poland.

                                                        Work by Piotr Obal

8. Nalini Malani- for her immersive installations, ‘disgraced’ women under partiarchy, history and mythology, miscarriages of justice. I found out about Malini when I was writing my essay on her work in the  Diversity module: what started off as just finding out about an artist for the sake of my writing became a long-lasting admiration and inspiration from an artist who not only knows where she is coming from (from her upbringing hugely affected by India and Pakistan’s partition) but willingly sticks her neck out for those oppressed by society and history, and confidently shows her creations to the world. A particularly relevant aspect of her work is her use of the supernatural and mythology stories and myths to highlight aspects of women’s oppression throughout history.

9. Chris Butler- director of ParaNorman A key influence, supposedly aimed at children, I used the same of the spectre in this moving animation, and I was influenced by its themes about the cruelties of humanity and how we “moved on”. The spectre is a ghost of a falsely accused of being a ‘witch’ who wreaks her revenge on those who persecuted her.

It was also a strong influence that is more powerful at its climax and twist. In-depth look at how prejudice destroys lives that are never regained - even  death provides no relief. Butler is a part of Studio Laika, creating animated films that go beyond the norm.

10. Jacqueline Wilson - the writer of the Hetty Feather trilogy and other such Victorian novels such as Clover Moon.

A part of Jacqueline’s writings is her commentary about how unjust the past could be compared to today: even though her protagonists speak in ways that were customary to Victorians, she keeps them relatable the same way she keeps her modern-day protagonists relatable. The writing style of her books inspired certain characteristics of Agatha’s narration, because it was easy to understand yet engaging.

11. David Lean  - Director of Great Expectations (1946) This film, based on the Dickens book,  also brought to mind the cruel period of the Victorian era, and the acting and emotions continued that spirit and my inspiration around my project. I love that it is black and white as well as dialog-centred - I particularly like the formal style of speech - even to express negative emotions- for example:

“Let me point out the topic that in London it is not the custom to put the knife in the mouth for fear of accidents. It's scarcely worth mentioning, Only it's as well to do as others do”.

Miss Havisham, an almost ghostly older woman, in a similar way to Agatha cannot move beyond the terrible wrong done to her - she was left at the alter and devoted her life to training her adopted daughter, Estella, to get revenge on men.I use s similar obsessive, sing-minded hatred to motivate Agatha.

12. Sunset Boulevard (1950)

This film involve a man becoming the object of affection of a former silent movie star, Norma Desmond who overtake his life little by little until she kills him. Norma suffered with the times when silent movies went out of fashion and she is unable to move on, alone in her great house: people told Norma that she had no value and it had an impact on her psyche. She loses all sanity when arrested for killing Joe Gillis as she believes she is back in show business. The film also explores facades; Norma may live a glamorous if not lonely life, but her mental state torments her, like Aggie has with hers as she wanders around the hospital site driven ‘mad’ with grief and anger.  

13. R D Laing: ‘anti-psychiatrist’

'Here was someone explaining madness, showing how the fragmentation of the person was an intelligible response to an intolerable pressure”

Quote from: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/aug/25/rd-laing-aaron-esterson-mental-illness

 In discussing the concept of my film with a member of my family, I was directed to the psychiatrist/anti-psychiatrist, RD Laing. In the 1960’s and early 1970’s Laing wrote about how a person’s so-called ‘mad’ behaviour was in fact intelligible when their entire situation and experience was taken into account. He and other writers (like David Cooper) talked about the concept of the ‘double-bind’ where a person’s opportunity to make a decision to resolve the way they were being treated was blocked – perhaps by a member of their family saying that it was not in their personality to be assertive or angry.

This reminded me very much of Agatha; she tries to express her outrage at the great wrong done to her, but she is judged as unworthy and undeserving, so the wrong is seen as justified and her punishment for being the ‘low-life’ who would have a child and have to live in a workhouse. It is circular – she is treated badly because she deserves to be treated badly and so this means that her hatred and insanity brings the great wrong up herself.

Laing is largely forgotten today, but his ideas resonate with certain ideas in feminism and anti-racism. ‘Gaslighting’ is everywhere, both back then and now.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NnBonXPLJM

[atamascolily]

lily liveblogs BBC Atlantis 1x02, “A Girl By Any Other Name” (first half)

I actually watched this months ago, but I got interrupted about halfway through, and then there was a global pandemic and I lost my groove. This got super-long, so I’m gonna post it in two parts.

Thanks to @girlwhowasntthere for her help in making sure I could see it, and also for pointing out that Ariadne draws a stone in the first episode (which I totally missed!) so she's not just resting on her privilege there. Good for her!

In the pilot, we were introduced to Atlantis through the eyes of Jason, a dude from our world who has surprising connections to this city of dragons and despots that nobody *cough ORACLE cough* wants to tell him about. But he's managed to pick up two new friends - gruff-but-not-so-secretly soft Hercules, and Pythagoras (yes, that one) - as well as a love interest, an ominous enemy, and Not Die several times in exciting and dramatic ways.

Based on the teaser, it looks like the show is about to introduce another female character, which I am super-excited about, even though the name "Medusa" brings up All Kinds of Questions.

(cut for length and for lots and lots of botanical confusion)

Forest at night. Woman running through the woods while something ominous chases her. Are there forests in Atlantis? I don't remember seeing any in the surrounding wide shots when Jason first showed up from the beach. Where the hell is this supposed to be?

(Side note because I am a Certified Plant Nerd: Where was this FILMED? I'm gonna guess England because BBC and also the leaves look SUPER TEMPERATE, there are definitely maples in there.)

Woman collapses and the camera focuses on her bracelet, which I am sure will be significant later on. We don't hear anything, she starts to get up and I brace myself for a jump scare.

She's got a necklace, too, and I wonder if that's a Plot MacGuffin or if she just has good taste in jewelry.

Ok, so we see her pursuer sneaking up on her, and she turns, and we see it for the first time from her POV and... it's a cave troll! Or something very much like it. She screams, we go to credits.

None of the credits are backwards this time, and I'm so relieved because THAT WAS ANNOYING.

I like the juxtaposition of the ocean and the ruins, then the view of the city, because this show is called ATLANTIS, which implies it's really about the city as a whole (or the city as a character) rather than Jason, even though Jason is the protagonist and audience surrogate.

There are some mountains in the background that look like they COULD  have forests, and I will reserve judgement until I see the sets in the daylight, but those mountains look like they ought to be chapparral or the local equivalent, NOT the kind of forest shown in the opening. I'm just saying. I have strong opinions about flora and I will share them.

I am so curious where Atlantis is supposed to be, but I think it's Crete? I'm going with Crete for now until I get more information.

Jason is tossing rocks into a pool because... he's just that bored? Missing the Internet? He's wearing a leather tunic thing and not shirtless, but I'm sure he'll lose it by the end of the episode.

He hears something and gets up and sneaks up on the person coming in the doorway, but I already know it's either Hercules or Pythagoras, and most likely Herc, so I am not surprised when it's Herc. Herc is late AND drunk and Jason is pissed. Apparently, he and Herc are working as security guards for a rich merchant?? (So that answers my question about how they're making money and paying the rent!!)

Jason runs to the Oracle's temple because he's in dire need of Cryptic Exposition and also a Greater Purpose in Life and where better to acquire a Noble Destiny?

"You should not be here," says the Oracle, which is just a classy way of saying GTFO.

"I need answers," Jason demands.

LOL, not happening, dude. She only deals in Cryptic Sayings, not answers. (Although kinda ironic given that the Delphic Oracle’s motto was “Know Thyself”.)

Jason mentions that the minotaur dude claimed he had a great destiny and you can just see the Oracle rolling her eyes, and be all, And you believed him?? LOL.

But Jason DOES  have a destiny, even though it doesn't feel like it so the Oracle has to explain that this, too, is also a part of his destiny, and he should just lean into the suck.

Jason calls bullshit. Oracle explains she's trying to protect him, and "all will become clear", mic drop. Jason walks away bummed, but it's DESTINY for him to be confused right now, and I am sure he will have some sort of Character Development about this by the end of the episode.

Herc fell asleep on the job and wakes up to being licked by a goat, which is probably not the most undignified thing that will happen to him in this episode. Also, somebody stole his keys and robbed the thing he was supposed to be guarding, so I'm sure this will end well.

Cut to Herc trying to explain this to Pythagoras, and Pythagoras is calling bullshit. Pythagoras notes the goat slobber and does the best eyeroll to Jason, I love him.

(Hercules is like the roommate from HELL here. How did he and Pythagoras end up rooming together in the first place?)

There's a knock on the door, but it's not the angry merchant, it's the CALL TO ADVENTURE... an old man who's heard that they killed the Minotaur and wants help locating his daughter. I'm picturing an Atlantis version of Sherlock Holmes starring Pythagoras and Jason and it's awesome.

Herc does not want to touch this with a ten foot pole but Jason is bored and eager to help, and so Herc is going to get dragged into this whether he likes it or not. He tries to reject it on the grounds of money, but it doesn't work. The old man talks about his "duty as a father" to make sure his kid is safe, and that's all he needs to say to get Jason on board, because Daddy Issues.

Jason and a new female character, Corinna, are in the palace, trying to be stealthy and they run into Ariadne, which is... awkward. Jason tries to explain, and Ariadne says it's forbidden for Jason to be here... why? Because he's a man? Because he's a stranger? Because he's on Minos's personal shit list? I need some context here.

Jason quizzes Celandine, a kitchen worker, and learns that Demetria, the missing girl, went to the forest to gather herbs and was never seen again. I don't understand what Corinna's role in all this is , but she persuades Celandine to help Jason out by showing him the place where Demetria went.

Time for another marketplace chase! This time it's the merchant after Herc. Meanwhile, Celandine takes Jason to a forest that's super-arid and looks nothing like the one we saw in the opening. There's rock outcroppings in the background, too. No leaf litter at ALL. All dry ever greens... and then a wide shot showing a hill that looks like chapparral, with a series of mountains beyond THAT that look more temperate and have actual snow capped peaks and those are NOT IN THE CREDITS, NONE OF THIS GEOGRAPHY MAKES ACTUAL SENSE, BUT FINE.

Also, it makes zero sense that Minos would send kitchen servants to the forest WAY outside the city limits... wouldn't it be easier for everyone if they sent special people to do that and the kitchen just picked them up or bought them from poorer folk who did? Where are the roads? Are there any surrounding villages and encampments outside the walls? Shepherds watching their flocks? A road? How do the servants know where to go? What stops them from running away? Etc. Etc.  I HAVE QUESTIONS, OKAY?

Cut to them in a different forest - still evergreen trees, but a different kind. Looks like a plantation. Everything is too neat and open and in rows. There's greenery, but no sign of any herbs or really any kind of understory. LOL.

Are we there yet? Jason wants to know.

These woods are rich with herbs, Celandine says, and I can't tell if she's being ironic or not because I DO NOT SEE ANY, THERE IS NOTHING BUT CONIFERS HERE, CONIFERS ARE NOT HERBS (though they can have medicinal uses!). Then she adds "If you know where to look" and pulls a knife to stab an unsuspecting Jason while he's looking at the ground, so I guess that answers that question.

(For the record, Celandine is a toxic plant that is actually native to n. Africa, and the Mediterranean and western Asia, so I kinda saw that coming from the name and also the ominous music and close-ups of her face.)

Jason wises up in time to Not Get Stabbed, and Celandine runs away. Jason chases after her, and I saw some FERNS this time in the chase scene, but again NO LEAVES or much in the way of forest diversity at all. Celandine drinks something that looks like poison and dies while Jason is interrogating her. The troll-creature lurks in the woods.

Pythagoras IDs the poison as hemlock. (LOL, of course he would know!) The only reason he doesn't mention that it killed Socrates is probably because Socrates hasn't been born yet, but I am sure the writers were tempted. Jason fell asleep in World History, and also every Literature class ever, because he has no idea what a thyrsus is, or who Dionysus and the maenads are, so Pythagoras and Herc get to explain for the audience! Apparently, the satyrs kill any men who crash their clubhouse, so that's what the troll thing is, I guess?

So apparently the maenads just kidnap girls to join their cult? This is not how I remember it, but okay, fine, let's have the all-female religion be EVIL for DRAMA. Does this mean the trio's going to cross-dress?

Demetria (?) is trying to dig her way out of cell, only to get called to a Secret Evil Ceremony that involves blood, chanting, and tearing apart a dude with their bare hands. Oh, wait, no, they just toss him to the cave trolls (LITERALLY LURKING IN A HOLE IN THE GROUND), which is easier to show on network TV, I guess.

Jason breaks the news to Demetria's father, and he's... aghast. "I won't allow it!" he cries. The show has not explained why it's a bad thing to be a maenad... aside from the whole killing people bit, but I mean, the king kills people all the time in the name of the gods, what makes this any different? (I mean, Minos's evil, but still! He's in charge!) Why can't Demetria be a maenad and still work in the palace and visit her dad? Isn't that what Celandine did?? I AM SO CONFUSED.

Also: father trying to control his daughter's actions is historically accurate, but sits poorly with me, even though she WAS kidnapped in this case and doesn't want to be there. But what if she wasn't? So far the show hasn't explained to me why EVERY WOMAN wouldn't want to be a maenad. Hanging out in the woods without any men and a lot of intoxicants sounds... way better than almost anything else they could be doing.

The old man collapses in grief and Pythagoras is also a healer, because he makes an infusion of what sounds like "Magnolia remenalis" (??). Which is odd because that genus is located in the Americas and eastern Asia, and even assuming trade routes from China are a Thing here, that wouldn't likely be a part of the typical pharmacopeia, especially if Pythagoras has no money...? And I know there are a bajillion species of magnolia, but I've never heard of this... and would he call it by a Latin binomial anyway? But if it's not that, what is he TALKING about? THIS IS WHY I HATE WATCHING THINGS WITHOUT SUBTITLES.

The old man guilts Jason into going after Demetria, of course, thanks to Daddy Issues. Herc is pissed, especially when he realizes they put the old man in his bed. I love Pythagoras's little smile when he explains that Herc is in charge of their guest, since he's not going on the Mission of Certain Doom!

Herc is so predictable, lol. He brings up the prospect of faking his own death to get out of his debts, and I CANNOT HELP BUT WONDER if this is going to be relevant later on. Like... faking your death so the maenads don't find you, perhaps? And changing your name??

(dear writers, if you don't want me to guess your plot twist, please don't PUT THE WHAM LINE IN THE TEASER, kthanx.)

OH MY GOD THIS IS THE SAME FOREST WHERE THEY FILMED THE FIGHT SCENE IN THE FORCE AWAKENS ISN'T IT? I *RECOGNIZE* THIS PLACE!!

(yup, definitely England. Puzzlewood, almost for certain.)

Of course, the most appropriate way to spend the night is to make a fire, eat soup, and tell ghost stories about maenads first, right? Right. The forests rustle. There's a cave troll stalking them. (Yes, it's supposed to be a satyr, but it looks like a cave troll from LOTR, okay??) He tosses something in the food, which probably means it will only impact Hercules, lol. Hallucinations, maybe??

Why anyone would trust Herc with night watch given his track record, ESPECIALLY these two, I don't know, but PLOT.

Yep, definitely the old mine in Puzzlewood. I'd bet money on it.

Herc follows a woman who looks like an elf from LOTR, lol... but it's a satyr in drag. (Or a hallucination?) IDK why everyone is making a big deal about the maenads when they mostly just stand around and let the male satyrs handle everything.

RUN, HERC, RUN! He's rescued by... Demetria, who also wants to get away. Somehow the satyrs don't see them? *shrug*

Demetria uses Herc's knife and cuts herself and walks out with a bloody mouth, claiming the satyrs killed Herc and she drank his blood... I mean, won't the satyrs call her on it?? But the ruse works and she leaves with them.

Meanwhile, Jason and Pythagoras slept through the entire night without incident, and I just... the satyrs KNOW THERE ARE THREE OF THEM. How come they didn't just slaughter them in their sleep, or at least attack them??

Also, if the satyrs only eat human flesh, how does the ecosystem even WORK? How many of them are there?? How often do they eat? Are they omnivores or obligate carnivores? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.

[ask-de-writer]

THE HOUSE, (part 1 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

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THE HOUSE

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

© 2020

Written 1990

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

///////////////////////

I am John Peaslee, and I am writing this in the hope that it shall somehow be found and a cycle of greed and evil can be broken. Beware of Flocking Bay Realty Company and the old Wickes place!! But I am ahead of myself. Let me tell what has happened to me and you can judge for yourself.

It began innocently enough. My father died and I inherited a modest fortune. Taking a permanent leave of absence from my dull job, I left New York forever. I went north, up the Atlantic coast. Stopping for a day or a week as the whim took me, I came at last to the small town of Flocking Bay, Maine.

The bay, with its iron gray water and breakers like lead, flanked by headlands topped by hardwoods that became brooding pine forests on the inland ridges, captivated me. I determined to settle in that small New England town. Leaving my rented lodging near the water-front, I went to the Flocking Bay Bank of Maine. There, my funds were transferred and I inquired after a good Realtor.

I was directed to the Flocking Bay Realty Company and spent an unprofitable morning looking at small houses in the middle of town.

“I’ve showed you three good houses for a bachelor or a small family,” the Realtor said. “You don’t like any of ‘em. Tell you what I think. You want somethin’ a bit older, more atmosphere to it. Right, son?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Jason,” I replied, “that’s just what’s wrong with those houses. Good for somebody that just wants a place to live. Not for me. I want a place where I can feel the age of this town in my bones.”

“Hum, none in the current listings, I’m afraid … I can only think of two that might suit …” he muttered softly. More briskly, he stated, “Son, there’s the oldest house in Flocking Bay, the Hilstrom house. It was built in 1658. Actually it was the first house ever built in Flocking Bay. Been continuously occupied by the Hilstroms since it was built. Only hitch is you can’t buy it… yet.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Old Hilstrom was at least 95 when he wandered off six years ago. Hasn’t been seen since. It’s still a year before he gets declared dead so̓’s the place can be sold to settle the estate.

“The other prospect is also an oldie. Built in eighteen an’ fifty two, it’s got gas lights, indoor plumbing, and all the conveniences of when it was built.”

“Gas lights?” I interrupted.

“No kidding, they really let you feel the age of the house. It’s the old Wickes place. It’s not in the regular listings. It’s up to settle an estate. You can get it for a song, if your voice is in the $50,000.00 range.”

“Sounds great if it’s in good shape,” I ventured.

Mr. Jason escorted me to his car. “I’ll let you see for yourself,” was his reply. Only a short drive out of the town proper, an easy walk, waited the Wickes place.

It was all that Mr. Jason had declared it to be. The stone and wrought iron fence was in excellent repair. The yard was immaculate, with roses, pansies, and violets in orderly beds. There was not a crack or weed to be seen in the brick drive that looped through the porte cochere at the front of the house. This last was two sprawling stories of the finest Carpenter Gothic architecture that it had ever been my pleasure to see. The roof was perfect, with not a loose shingle to be seen. Not so much as a cracked window disturbed its perfection.

“How did an estate property come to be so well kept?” I inquired.

“It gets seen to,” was the cryptic reply.

“And the windows?” I pressed.

“What about ‘em?” he parried.

“They’re all there. Aren’t there any rock-throwing children hereabouts?” I wanted to know.

“There’s kids. They mostly stay away, it’s a landmark,” he replied, abruptly changing the topic. “Notice them scale shingles? You don’t find ‘em that good any more. Shall we go in?” The elaborately carved front door opened onto an entry hall with wainscoted walls. The entry gave onto a transverse hall that ran the length of the first floor. To the left of the entry was a formal parlor. Its walls were of flocked paper, disturbed by well-executed but vaguely unsettling paintings that closer inspection revealed to be signed “Wickes.” All the furniture was early Victorian: end tables, settees, and chairs were elaborately carved, the upholstery perfect. The carpet on the floor was a genuine Persian antique.

The room across the entry hall was a sitting room. It, too, was impeccably appointed. The study was done with inlaid desk, escritoire, Mogul carpeting and oak paneling.

And the library! Books rose from knee level to ceiling on all four walls. There were sliding ladders to give access to those above reach.

I will not dwell on the mahogany paneled dining room or the bright copper-filled kitchen, except to say that they looked freshly cleaned. I assumed but did not ask, that some one from the town came in regularly to clean and care for the place. Even the upstairs bedrooms, bath and large ‘workroom’ showed not a spider web or speck of dust.

I had to have the Wickes place. The low price indicated that the estate was eager to sell. Back at Jason’s office, some sharp bargaining began. In the end we settled on a price of only $45,000.00, to be paid in a lump sum at closing. Since my money was already in a local call bank, there was no obstacle. I could scarcely believe this excellent piece of fortune.

In only a few days, my small car was parked in the porte cochere. Each trip in and out of the vestibule to unload my things told me that I was truly home… My clothing, cameras, a bit of camping gear, and a few other odds and ends of personal possessions were all that I had. I passed one of the most restful nights of my life in the massive four-poster in the master bedroom.

It occurred to me that I wanted to find out more about my unusual abode. As the next day was bright and sunny, I set out for a brisk walk into town.

I started at the Flocking Bay Courthouse. There, a clerk was very helpful in searching out tax and transfer records on my property. At first, she seemed a bit startled at which property I was looking up. A few dollars saw to the copying fees for the records that I wanted. She suggested that I might also try the town library.

Fortified with a pleasant lunch from a small café, I walked into the gloom of the library to continue my research. As soon as I identified the object of my quest, Mrs. Alderman, the librarian, pegged me as ‘one of them spook writers.’ Nothing short of force would have changed her mind. It did save me from a lot of rooting about on sagging dusty shelves. She had gathered most, if not all, of the information on that ‘creepy ol’ Wickes place’ into a single bulging file. I saw at once that there were several days worth of studying to do. The library had no copier and Mrs. Alderman refused to allow file materials to leave the library. I did not wholly blame her. The file was the result of much work and most of the things in it could not be replaced. There were letters, newspaper clippings, land records (including my own recent purchase!), an assay, a strange gold coin, court documents, a botanical report, and more. Some of the materials went back to 1851.

Begging some file folders from Mrs. Alderman, I began the task of sorting the file by subject and date. Long before I was done, I had to stop. The library was closing.

I walked home in the deepening twilight. A gentle breeze helped me on my way. The sky became pocked with stars. My mind was in a whirl from briefly seen headlines.

WICKES’ GOLD GOOD AS GOLD … FAMILY VANISHES … BOY GOES MAD …

And more, None seeming to fit any rational pattern. Once home, I spread the papers from the courthouse out on the beautifully inlaid desk in the study. In the soft glow of the gaslight I began to study. Just as a pattern was beginning to emerge, I heard something.

It sounded like a rat or perhaps several of them on the floor above. Seizing the flashlight that I kept in the kitchen, I went to look. As I went up the stairs, I became convinced that the rats were in the attic. It took a few moments to remember where the attic door was.

A comforting circle of light from the flash preceded me up the attic stair. No rats. Also no spider webs or dust.

It ceases to be good housekeeping when an attic has no cobwebs or dust. It is unnatural.

The rats seemed to be beneath me on the second floor. I followed the sound. By the time that I got there, the sounds had gone down to the first floor. Returning to the first floor, I could hear the rats sporting about in a basement that I did not know of.

A quick look around the first floor showed no doors that might lead to a basement. Giving up on the search for the spectral brigade of rats, I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a light dinner. Looking at the dates of sale, I saw the pattern that had eluded me before. Hiram Wickes had built the house in 1852. It was first sold in 1873, next in 1880, then at exact seven-year intervals until 1985. The last date marked my purchase.

I was the seventeenth owner of Wickes’ house. There was only one thing that I could think of that could account for such a regular cycle of sales. The file at the town library would show whether my notion was foolish. But that was for morning. I retired in the master bedroom’s four-poster. I slept fitfully.

In the morning, I walked into town once more. Light puffy clouds were gamboling in the sky like puppies. At a gnarled old oak in the park, I turned left. Dubbing the ancient oak the “Hanging Tree” in my mind, I strode under its branches, straight across the grass to the library.

Mrs. Alderman was pleased with the sorting that I was doing. She set the file before me once more. “You’re the best of them spook writers so far,” she told me. “You’re not just after a haunted house or mysterious disappearances. You’re settin’ the whole story into order. Make a great book, the way you’re goin’ at it.”

“I do hope so, Mrs. Alderman,” I replied.

“I hope that you’ll remember us with a copy of your book,” she fished hopefully.

“If I get published, you certainly will,” I hedged, feeling a bit guilty at the deception, as there was no book in the works. How could I explain what I was doing when I was not sure myself? That morning I finished sorting and started to take notes to try to keep the mass of information straight.

Since Hiram Wickes had built the house, I started with him. Little enough was known for sure. He had been apparently fluent in at least eight languages, and carried on an active correspondence around the globe. He was independently wealthy, although the source of his funds remained a mystery.

He was once jailed briefly, for counterfeiting. He was cleared when it was pointed out that it was perfectly legal to use foreign coin, provided that it was used by weight and not passed as a U.S. coin. An assay proved his coin to be 24 carat gold, exactly 2/5 of an ounce, troy. Hiram always paid for everything with his strange coins, at three to the ounce. He would never accept change. (One of the coins and the assay were in the file.)

In the year 1852, Hiram finished the most modern and up-to-date house in Flocking Bay. Even maids and other servants hired from town could not keep up with the sheer clutter and disorganization he caused. Hiram was not popular with servants. They came and went until 1866. There was no further mention of servants after that date.

Hiram’s disappearance in that year was a nine day’s wonder. His mail had been impounded for possible clues but nothing turned up. No heirs claimed the estate. In 1873 he was declared dead and the house was sold for back taxes.

A quick check of the court records part of the file turned up, not one, but fifty nine(!) court ordered death certificates, and seventeen land sales since 1851. The records revealed a seven year income merry-go-round for whoever would take advantage of it. Flocking Bay Realty Company had handled every sale since 1908. They had always sold the house to folks from out of town …

It was closing time before I had finished putting this picture together. As I crossed the park the wind was buffeting me from the left and clouds roiled overhead. Just at my ‘hanging tree,’ my foot caught on something in the grass. When I had recovered my balance, I saw that I had tripped on a bronze plaque on a low stone.

It said:

“This tree is dedicated to the memory of Hiram Wickes. If ever he returns, may he be hanged therefrom!

Dedicated by Harold Oates.

- 1880 -”

I turned right, up the street, and made for home. I was pursued by clouds like hounds baying wind at my back and slathering rain drops at my heels. I barely beat the storm home. Watching the lightning from the bay window of the dining room, I ate a cold supper in silence. I saw the lights fail in the town and was glad of the gaslights in the house.

Shortly after sunset, I heard the rats again. They were in the basement that did not exist. I resolved to find the basement, if there was one. I figured that it had to have a hidden door or trapdoor. I moved the furniture and carpets of the first floor. Nothing.

Next==>

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Return to Flocking Bay

[myhauntedsalem]

The White Witch of Rose Hall

Built in Motego Bay, this late 1700’s Georgian style building is one of Jamaica’s finest and most famous. The building has a legend, ‘The White Witch’, who is said to still roam the halls.

Magic, ritual, curses and murder are all elements to this tale of human abuse and hauntings.

Built through the 1770’s and into the 1790’s, Rose Hall is considered to be one of the most famous houses in Jamaica. A rich British planter by the name of John Palmer had the house built on his two thousand acre plantation made up of sugar cane, and grazing for about 300 head of cattle.

Built on a hillside with a commanding view of the sea, John Palmer’s home was more like a small village, as it housed the domestic and commercial/industrial aspects of his life. With many servants and his offices the house would have been a hub of human activity.

The plantation had hundreds of enslaved Africans who worked the crops. All lived onsite in their dwellings, which would have been made up of dormitory style accommodation and a few houses for families.

However, even with such a massive property and commanding presence, this story is not so much about the house and land, but more about one of its residents – Annie Palmer.

Annie Paterson was born in England at the turn of the 18th and 19th centuries. She was half English and half Irish and was said to have had a fiery temperament. While she was a child her family moved to Haiti, her father, a merchant had moved there for the business, and life would have no doubt been interesting for the young Annie.

Unfortunately her parents both contracted and died from yellow fever, and Annie was raised by her Haitian nanny. As Annie was being raised, she was taught much about the Haitian culture, and most importantly to this story, Haitian Voodoo.

Annie eventually moved to Jamaica where she met her husband, and owner of Rose Hall, John Rose Palmer.

Living at Rose Hall, so near to the plantation and the workers, with her husband working long hours, Annie soon got bored. As a method of entertainment, she developed a relationship of lust with a young slave. When Annie’s husband found out about the affair, he had the slave killed, and beat Annie with a riding whip.

John Palmer died that night. (Annie Palmer married two other men but these two also died under mysterious circumstances.)

Annie, now the owner of the plantation, began to show a very sadistic side to her nature. She would punish the slaves over the smallest infringements; even a rumor of a slave’s disobedience saw them face her ire. Public floggings were common place, as was torture. At times the slaves would die from such ‘disciplines’, and they would be buried in the middle of the night in unmarked graves.

It was also rumored that the many deaths of babies during the night were Annie’s doing.

Some slaves also found themselves in Annie’s bed. She took many slaves as lovers, but soon those who she showed the most affection to, began to disappear.

Annie became known as ‘The Daughter of the Devil’ and ‘the White Witch’.

Annie met her end when she began to show affections to one of the married slaves. The wife of this slave, obviously, was not happy with such affections towards her husband, and was the first to really stand up to Annie Palmer.

Annie could have simply had this slave beaten or tortured to death, but rather opted to curse the woman. She slowly, over weeks, withered away – either by the curse itself or just from the fear that this ‘devil woman’ had cursed her. She soon died and Annie finally had the husband to herself.

One thing Annie had not counted on was the dead wife’s grandfather. His name was Taboo and was a freed slave, having been released from the plantation many years earlier. Taboo was also a bokor, a priest of voodoo and he sought revenge for his granddaughter’s death.

Annie died in 1831, not as a result from a spell or curse, but was found strangled in her bed. Taboo had done the deed himself, but his arts were not unused. A coffin of stone was created to house Annie’s body, and throughout the construction, Taboo placed markings that were hoped to keep Annie’s body and spirit trapped within.

Unfortunately it is believed the spells and charms did not work, as many accidents befell the subsequent owners of Rose Hall, including a caretaker who was seen to be pushed by the ghost of Annie Palmer, off of a balcony, to her death below.

Rose Hall went to ruin with no one living in the old house. The grounds and gardens began to reclaim the building, as the roof started to fall in and the floorboards and walls gave way.

The house was saved when in the 1960’s and 1970’s it was completely restored to its original look. It was during this time of that the ghosts and hauntings began to make themselves known. Workmen would report that their tools had been moved from where they had been left the night before, and mysterious stains would show up on the newly placed floorboards.

When the workmen’s names began to be called by a disembodied voice, that was it, and many of the local workers refused to go into the building and left their jobs. Soon only workers not familiar with the legends (i.e. all from off island) would work in the Halls restoration.

After the restoration was complete, the owners went on the hunt for the original furnishings that once graced the halls interiors. Eventually they located an old mirror that was owned by the Palmer’s, and soon the antique once again took up position in its former home.

It is in this mirror where a number of visitor experience take place. Many have reported seeing a face in the mirror, out the corner of their eye, or a fleeting glimpse of a woman peering over their shoulder.

As a final note, in 2007 an investigation into the history and legends of Rose Hall was carried out. It was at this time that the researcher found that the book ‘The White Witch of Rose Hall’, published in 1929, was possibly the genesis for much of this legend. Others maintain that the book took its ideas from the true to life legends told of the estate.

Either way it is a fascinating history and as they say it is not always best to allow fact to get in the way of a good fiction.

[aswimmy]

Edinburgh, Scotland :: August 2, 2019

After sleeping like the dead and having breakfast, Thomas and I decided to start our first full day off by visiting the Edinburgh Castle, walking down The Royal Mile, and seeing the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

We walked the 1.7 miles up a gradual hill to the Edinburgh Castle, bought tickets and entered. The castle is on an easily defended hill. It is said that tribal leaders had a “fort” here and traded with the Romans. Guess it grew from there!

Flanking the entryway are William Wallace and Robert the Bruce and the Scottish motto between them roughly meaning, “No one messes with me and gets away with it.”

We walked the spiral walkway up to the highest point to start our tour by seeing St. Margaret’s Chapel, Edinburgh’s oldest building (around 1120). Margaret wwas a queen married to Malcolm III.

Stain glass “portrait” of St. Mary.

Next we took in the amazing views to the north. We could see the Forth of Firth (an estuary leading out to sea) and the “New Town” (a part of town built in the 18th century).

Then we waited in line for about 30 minutes to see the Scottish Crown Jewels. No pictures we allowed of the jewels (and honours). But you can probably good it if you want to see them.

First, there is the crown. It was just a gold circlet when Robert the Bruce was crowned in 1306. It was added to over the years by rulers to reflect the aesthetics of the time. The scepter and sword were gifts from the pope around 1500. The Honours (as they are called) were used to crown everyone until Cromwell’s antiroyalist were heard to Edinburgh. It was said some women hide them amping their skirts and possessions and buried them in a church yard until the coast was clear. They were used again for a bit until The Treat of Union was signed taking away Scotland’s independence. They sat in a lock box in the castle for another century intil Sir Walter Scott searched the castle and found them. They’ve been on display since then.

The part that I dug the most was the Stone of Scone (aka The Stone of Destiny). It’s a plain slab of gray sandstone were as far back as the 9th century Scotland’s kings were crowned upon. In 1296, Edward I of England carried it off toWestminster Abbey. For the next seven centuries British kings and queens were crowned sitting in the coronation chair with the Stone of Scone tucked in a compartment underneath.

In 1996, the current queen agreed to let the Stone return to Scotland as long as it was returned to Westminster Abbey for all British coronations.

Next, we did a quick tour of the royal apartments and saw where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to James IV of Scotland who became King James I of England after Queen Elisabeth I died with no heir. Yes, as an America royal succession boggles my mind. Like, what are the rules for who is next in line if their is no heir and who made these rules??? I even spent some hours in the middle of the night when I was up from jet lag trying to figure the British monarch succession line.

We exited the castle and then walked down The Royal Mile, which is literally a gradual downward slope ending at The Palace of Holyroodhouse. We walked for a bit looking for a place to eat lunch. At this point we were pretty much in “overwhelmed by crowds” mode. The castle had been busy and the first several blocks of the royal mile was insane with tourists and people at the Fringe festival.

Anyways, we found a reasonable place for lunch and then walked the rest of The Royal Mike. It’s lined with restaurants, cafes, pubs and TONS of souvenir shops. As we approached the end we saw the Scottish Parliment building that was built it 1999 when Scotland had their first Parliment since the treaty with the British in the early 1700s. Remember the Scottish Honours (crown, scepter and sword), we they came of for the opening for the first Parliment session and now help open every Scottish Parliment session.

Then we crossed the street to The Palace of Holyroodhouse where the queen stays we she’s in Scotland. You can tour it when she’s not in town, but we were already castled-out. So we took a couple pictures and walked back to our b&b along the perimeter of Holyrood Park.

We spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing in our room. My body is pretty tired from all the walking and traveling. Thomas went for a run and ran up Arthur’s Seat (800 some feet of elevation, while I knitted. :)

Then we walked to a place for dinner and came back to our b&b. Thomas read while I wrote this blog post. Tomorrow, we’ll have another full day in Edinburgh. I’d like to go to the National Museum of Scotland, go up to Arthur’s Seat (by walking, not running) and visit a local yarn shop I found.

Oidhche mhath! (Scottish Gaelic for “good night”)

[directionlessbuthappy]

Little Lamb pt.3 (final)

part 2 here

When Ivar’s army lands on an island off the coast of Ireland, he is eager to learn more about the land he will soon conquer to the west. With his sites on the mainland, he’s managed to catch himself the perfect little thief that will be his guide, and perhaps an entertaining pet. You.

Warnings: depictions of violence, death, language

Taglist: @idonthavehusbandsihavelovers​ @wish-i-was-a-mermaid​ @cbouvier23​ @steadypiepsychicflower​  @holydream @mblaqgi

The siege of Dublin happened practically overnight.

You played your part beautifully. Dressed in full costume and playing the flouncy, idiot towngirl who was a niece to a local madame, you'd managed to get a lovely young townsman to escort you to the local whorehouse where you'd be offered a job by your aunt. So eager to show you around and lead you down the road to the bell tower, along the large stone walls of the town, you took in the scenery in stride. And when he brought you along the bridge tower and tried pinning you to a wall, you quite enjoyed sinking your butterfly knife into his neck. He slumped down after giving a silent scream. It was almost too easy.

The rope to lift the bridge was concerning. It looked like it required a few people to lift the gate. The guards would be buzzing about now with the boats so close. You had to act fast and took the chaos unraveling along the top of the wall as the best opportunity. It would only take perhaps one or two more people to pull the rope down successfully. You waltzed back to the entrance of the tower and dragged the body of your previous escort over to the pulley system. Using his tied legs as leverage, you were able to pull the iron gate up and out of the river channel. Only, the bridge wouldn't hold up for long. You held on tightly, hands sweating as your body exerted as much strength as you had. You started panicking as the guardsmen overhead began dying rapidly. Blood began seeping between the floorboards that lined the top of the stone wall. You felt it trickle onto the top of your head until finally your muscles unclenched. A hand held onto the rope you were gripping, holding it above where you held and letting you release it without worry. Hvitserk chuckled at how winded you looked.

"You held that all by yourself? A little thing like you y/n?" he chortled. You caught your breath and let your hair out of that awful bun it was pinned it.

"Don’t call me small. Your brother doesn't like small things, and I'd like t’stay alive."

"Alive, or liked?" Hvitserk snorted. You waggled your nose in mocking tone before taking an axe off his belt; he had another one, he wouldn't miss this. With renewed strength you ran off to join the raid. Hvitserk stayed behind to tie off the rope, noticing the "weight" you used to help with the pulling.

"What a clever kvikindi you are..."

...

Your people were proud. Always willing to fight for a good cause or a good time. And yet, the heathen army was also willing to fight for a good time. Defiling the church, murdering, pillaging and taking the treasures of the town was considered a good time to them. You didn't mind it, but seeing innocents killed was difficult to watch. You kept your eyes forward as you followed Ivar into the town center. People ran around in a frenzy, so much screaming and blood. Many were escaping out of town by cart or horse; probably out to hide in the farmlands until it was safe. If ever Dublin would be safe again. You huffed a small, tired breath. Oddly you regretted nothing in that moment. In fact, you were at ease with the Northmen. Life had been ruthless to you, and it made everyone in your homeland hate you, call you a sinner. Yet these Northmen applauded your sins; these evil things you'd done were a part of you. You no longer denied it, just as Ivar's people did not deny that part of them.

Breaching the throne room was easy after the church was raided. Lord McGuinely believed God would protect him as he clutched his iron crown and begged Ivar and his army for mercy. So much for pride... He died with an axe to the head. 

The feast that night was unlike any pub brawl you'd ever seen. Northmen throw a good party. They celebrated the raid in the throneroom; you'd shown Ivar's men how to get into the king's mead cellar. If there was one thing your people knew it was how to ferment; granted, they were skeptical after tasting the absolute shit that was England's wine. Getting them to try your people's ale, though, had then trusting you pretty quickly.

Ivar liked watching you interact with his people. They tried teaching you some Norse while intoxicated. You were a bit drunk too, but being surrounded by folks who could hold their alcohol well had you wondering just how drunk you'd gotten. Hvitserk nodded to Ivar from across the throneroom, going to sit next to his brother while he watched you.

"You're really gonna take y/n home with us?"

"Why not?"

"Well, she’s clever, pretty...but she isn’t very smart," Hvitserk chuckled. You didn't know a lick of Norse; you wouldn't last long back where Ivar and Hvitserk were from if you couldn't communicate with anyone. Ivar turned to his brother with a blank expression; usually, he'd laugh in agreement. 

"She helped us get here. She was honest to her word...and I have never met a woman who does not believe in anything. No God, no gods...she interests me."

"Interests you?” Hvitserk asked, trying not to laugh as he eats. Last time he laughed, he had almost a whole cup of ale coming out of his nose. Not his proudest moment. “Brother, you like her shape and the look of her. What about when she no longer interests you?” He was leaning more towards Ivar sharing you. 

Ivar ignored that implication. "I'll take care of it," Ivar shrugged casually. In truth, Ivar found you alluring, smart mouthed, irritating...but worthy. A worthy warrior who did things smarter than she did tougher or stronger. If you had forsaken the gods and lived, something was keeping you here in Midgard...Ivar wanted to find out what.

The ride home to Ivar's world, a place he called Norway, was misery to you. You'd spent plenty of nights on a boat; you took a fishing boat to get to Lambay only a year ago. Yet the waters along the seas beyond England were much worse than you imagined. You spent most of the trip huddled under a fur blanket Hvitserk had loaned you; it was not exactly the best deal since he tried to share it with you many times. You nearly bit his hand off the last time he "accidentally" palmed your lap.

One night at sea, supposedly the last night since you were nearing land, it was clear for once. No clouds. You'd never seen so many stars on this night. It was freezing as usual; you felt someone sit down next to you. You expected Hvitserk, wanting his blanket again, but instead...you found Ivar.

"...what;s the place we're goin again?" you asked.

"Kattegat. It is the biggest trading city in Norway," Ivar explained. You nodded, curling into your furry haven a bit more. "What was the island we found you on?"

"Lambay. It means "lamb" or...sheep," you shrugged. Ivar chuckles and sits back, watching the sky. "What's funny?"

"Lambs are so small and soft...you are like a lamb."

"I am not a lamb," you growled. He laughed at how offended you were; it gave him glee to push your buttons. "When will we see Uppsala?"

Ivar grinned at you from his seat in the dark. "Excited?"

"You told me you will kill me if I see your gods and still refuse them. So yes, I am 'excited' so to speak," you replied shortly. Ivar snorted and closed his cold blue eyes; the air was so cold it made his eyelids feel warm.

"Do not worry y/n. We'll take care of you until then..." he promised. You looked away from him as he tried to sleep. Staring up into the sky was a comfort. Three stars aligned in a row; you'd been watching them since the sun went under the water.

"Ivar?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

You glanced over at him; his eyes were open again, staring at you. 

"Mercy.”

Ivar didn’t understand at first. The term was ‘miskuun’ where he was from...and yet, from that lonely expression on your face, he knew what you meant.

“The gods showed you miskuun. Not me,” he replied firmly. You leaned your fur lined blanket over, giving him a corner of it to cover himself with. His skin erupted in goosebumps from the warm blast of air you shared; if you could see him in the dark, you’d see his face turn red.

“Then I truly am excited to meet them.”

[tipsycad147]

Witchcraft in the 19th Century

A Recent Witch

Not many years ago there resided in the neighbourhood of Burnley an old woman, whose malevolent practices were supposed to render themselves manifest by the injuries she inflicted on her neighbours' cattle; and many a lucky-stone, many a stout horse-shoe and rusty sickle may now be found behind the doors or hung from the beams in the cow-houses and stables belonging to the farmers in that locality, which date their suspension from the time when this 'witch' in reputation held the countryside in awe.

Not one of her neighbours ever dared to offend her openly; and if she at any time preferred a request, it was granted at all hazards, regardless of the inconvenience and expense.

If, in some thoughtless moment, anyone spoke slightingly, either of her or her powers, a corresponding penalty was threatened as soon as it reached her ears, and the loss of cattle, personal health, or a general 'run of bad luck' soon led the offending party to think seriously of making peace with his powerful tormentor.

As time wore on, she herself sickened and died; but before she could 'shuffle off this mortal coil' she must needs transfer her familiar spirit to some trusty successor.

An intimate acquaintance from a neighbouring township was consequently sent for in all haste, and on her arrival was immediately closeted with her dying friend.

What passed between them has never fully transpired, but it is confidently affirmed that at the close of the interview this associate received the witch's last breath into her mouth, and with it the familiar spirit.

The dreaded woman thus ceased to exist, but her powers for good or evil were transferred to her companion; and on passing along the road from Burnley to Blackburn, we can point out a farm-house at no great distance, with whose thrifty matron no one will yet dare to quarrel.

The Evil Eye

The influence of the 'evil eye' is felt as strongly in this county as in any other part of the world, and various means are resorted to in order to prevent it's effects.

'Drawing blood above the mouth' of the person suspected is the favourite antidote in the neighbourhood of Burnley, and in the district of Craven, a few miles within the borders of Yorkshire, a person who was not well disposed towards his neighbours is believed to have slain a pear tree which grew opposite his house by directing towards it the first morning glances of his Evil Eye.

Spitting three times in the person's face; turning a live coal on the fire; and exclaiming, 'the Lord be with us', are other means of averting its influence.

The Wicken or Rowan Tree

The anti-witching properties of this tree are held in very high esteem in the northern counties of England. No witch will come near it; and it is believed that it's smallest twig crossing the path of a witch, will effectually stop her career.

To prevent the churn being bewitched, so that the butter will not come, the churn-staff must be made of the wicken-tree.

Cattle must be protected from witchery by sprigs of wicken over or in the shippons.

All honest people wishing to have sound sleep must keep the witches from their beds by having a branch of wicken at their bed-heads.

From Lancashire Folklore, 1882 John Harland and T.T. Wilkinson.

Witchcraft in the 19th Century

Witchcraft still keeps its hold on the minds of many of our peasants.

They never doubt it's reaIity, although their conceptions of its effects, and the powers of those who are supposed to practise the art, have undergone much modification since the time when witchcraft was made a capital crime.

At present, reputed witches are supposed to employ themselves much more in doing mischief than in 'raising storms and causing great devastations both by sea and land'.

Witch feasts are now unknown; nor do the 'old crones' now fly through the air on broomsticks; but they are supposed to be able to cause bad luck to those who offend them; to produce fatal diseases in those they desire to punish more severely; and to plague the farmers by afflicting their cattle, and rendering their produce unprofitable.

Sickles, triple pieces of iron, and horse shoes, may still be found on the beams and behind the doors of stables and shippons; which are supposed to possess the power of destroying, or preventing, the effects of witchcraft; and self-holed stones, termed 'lucky-stones', are still suspended over the backs of cows, in order that they may be protected from every diabolical influence.

When cream is 'bynged', and will produce no butter by any amount of churning, it is said to be bewitched and a piece of red hot iron is frequently put into the churn, in order that the witch may be 'burnt out', and that butter may be produced.

To prevent cream from being bynged, dairy maids are taught to sing when churning:

Come, butter, come; Peter stands at t'yate, Waiting for a butter cake; Come, butter, come.

When we see a fire on the top of a hill, we are sometimes assured that the flame is a witch-fire, and that the witches may be seen dancing round it at midnight.

It is firmly believed that no witch, nor even any very ill-disposed person, can step over anything in the shape of a cross. Hence persons are advised to lay a broom across the doorway when any suspected person is coming in. If their suspicions are well grounded, the witch will make some excuse and pass along the road.

The power of a witch is supposed to be destroyed by sprinkling salt into the fire nine mornings in succession. The person who sprinkles the salt must be the one affected by the supposed witchcraft, and as the salt drops down must repeat, 'Salt! Salt! I put thee into the fire, and may the person who has bewitched me neither eat, drink, nor sleep, until the spell is broken.'

During 187I a young man, resident near Manchester, suspected his own mother of having bewitched him, and the above spell was repeated in the presence of the magistrates before whom he was summoned, in consequence of his inhuman conduct to his mother.

There is also a female resident near Burnley, who refuses to live with her husband, because she suspects him of having bewitched her on many occasions.

Witches and Halloween

All-Hallow's Eve, Halloween, etc. (from the old English 'halwen', saints), denotes the vigil and day of All Saints, October 31 and November I, a season abounding in superstitious observances.

It was firmly believed in Lancashire that the witches assembled on this night at their general rendezvous in the Forest of Pendle, a ruined and desolate farmhouse, called the Malkin Tower

This superstition led to another, that of lighting, lating, or leeting the witches.

It was believed that if a lighted candle were carried about the fells or hills from eleven to twelve o'clock at night, and burned all that time steadily, it had so far triumphed over the evil power of the witches, who, as they passed to the Malkin Tower, would employ their utmost effor ts to extinguish the light, and the person whom it represented might safely defy their malice during the season, but if, by any accident the candle went out, it was an omen of evil to the luckless wight for whom the experiment was made.

It was also deemed inauspicious to cross the threshold of that person until after the return from leeting, and not then unless the candle had preserved its light. A Mr. Milner describes this ceremony as having been recently performed.

From Lancashire Folklore, 1882 John Harland and T.T. Wilkinson.

Killing a Witch

Some years ago I formed the acquaintance of an elderly gentleman who had retired from business, after amassing an ample fortune by the manufacture of cotton.

He was possessed of a considerable amount of general information, had studied the world by which he was surrounded, and was a leading member of the Wesleyan connection. The faith element, however, predominated amongst his religious principles, and hence both he and his family were firm believers in witchcraft.

On one occasion, according to my informant, both he and the neighbouring farmers suffered much from loss of cattle, and from the unproductiveness of their sheep.

The cream was bynged (soured) in the churn, and would bring forth no butter.

Their cows died mad in the shippons, and no farrier could be found who was able to fix upon the diseases which afflicted them.

Horses were bewitched out of their stables through the loopholes, after the doors had been locked, and were frequently found strayed to a considerable distance when they ought to have been safe in their stalls.

Lucky-stones had lost their virtues; horse shoes nailed behind the doors were of little use; and sickles hung across the beams had no effect in averting the malevolence of the evil-doer.

At length suspicion rested upon an old man, a noted astrologer and fortune- teller, who resided near Newchurch, in Rossendale, and it was determined to put an end both to their ill fortune and his career, by performing the requisite ceremonials for 'killing a witch'.

It was a cold November evening when the process commenced. A thick fog covered the valleys, and the wild winds whistled across the dreary moors. The farmers, however, were not deterred.

They met at the house of one of their number, whose cattle were supposed to be under the influence of the wizard; and having procured a live cock-chicken, they stuck him full of pins and burnt him alive, whilst repeating some magical incantation.

A cake was also made of oatmeal, mixed with the urine of those bewitched, and, after having been marked with the name of the person suspected, was then burnt in a similar manner.

The wind suddenly rose to a tempest and threatened the destruction of the house.

Dreadful moanings as of some one in intense agony, were heard without, whilst a sense of horror seized upon all within.

At the moment when the storm was at the wildest, the wizard knocked at the door, and in piteous tones desired admittance.

They had previously been warned by the 'wise man' whom they had consulted, that such would be the case, and had been charged not to yield to their feelings of humanity by allowing him to enter. Had they done so, he would have regained all his influence, for the virtue of the spell would have been dissolved.

Again and again did he implore them to open the door, and pleaded the bitterness of the wintry blast, but no one answered from within. They were deaf to all his entreaties, and at last the wizard wended his way across the moors as best he could.

The spell, therefore, was enabled to have its full effect, and within a week the Rossendale Wizard was locked in the cold embrace of death.

From Lancashire Folklore, 1882 John Harland and T.T. Wilkinson.

http://www.pendlewitches.co.uk/witchcraft/

[taibu]

Zenyatta-week 2018 Day 5. Travels

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I have no idea lel. Take this as one of those stories-with-very-non-linear-plots, mmkay? I honestly had no idea what to do to this one haha. Warnings: ANGST. Like holy fuck there is a lot of angst in this one. Mentions of Mondatta's death. Mentions of panic-attacks. Omnics cry coolant-tears. They can also dream because BUTTERFLY-VOICE-LINE BITCHES. Interactions can be taken as Genyatta but can also be seen as platonic if you like that better.

Travels Tekhartha Zenyatta had seen most of the world with his own optics. He had seen the mountains of Nepal, buzzing streets of India, industrial sheen of Korea, wonderful shrines of China, and the cherry trees of Japan. He had seen America, great and powerful. He had been in the calm forests of Canada. He had resisted the heat and moisture of the Amazon. He had seen the people of Africa, poor and hungry. He had admired the pyramids of Egypt. He had traveled trough Europe and felt like he had been in every nook and cranny there was. The old castles of German. Fields of Poland. Factories of Russia. He had seen the snowy mountains of Sweden, camped in the fresh forest air in Finland. And he loved them all. They all had their charm to themselves that made the place unique, and that fascinated Zenyatta. How people were so different, and yet so similar in each place. How they worked, how they lived, the social structures, nature and technology. The omnic found appreciation for each centimeter for the world. Expect for one place. One place he could not enjoy no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many times he went there, the pain was always the same. King's Row, England. He didn't have to explain himself to anyone when they found out he didn't fancy the place. Everyone knew why. And if they didn't, all they had to do was to look around a bit and they understood. Hate towards omnics was everywhere in the city. Writings on the walls, posters torn and painted on, omnics being told to go and stay underground. Zenyatta had seen many places where omnics were treated like enemies, but somehow King's Row seemed like a lost cause to him. That no matter where he turned, everyone wanted him crapped. Maybe it was the dim lighting of King's Row's streets, maybe it was the stares of the people, maybe it was the hateful shouts thrown his way... Or maybe it was that golden statue of Mondatta in the middle of it all. Zenyatta had officially visited the statue twice. Once with the Shambali, once with Genji. Both times it was clean and polished by the staff of the King's Row's City Hall, just for him and his fellow visitors. But when he would visit it without informing the City Hall, he would find the statue littered with graffiti. Hurtful things written all over it, covered by peace- and equality-posters only for them to be covered up too. Zenyatta would stand there, sometimes for hours if he could, just reading the texts and trying to understand the hate behind them. He never truly could. When some punks had then came with the intentions to destroy the serenity of the statue even more, who was Zenyatta to stop them? If he beat the young ones up, it would only create more discord between the omnics and human here. It was just hard sometimes, to watch the only thing you have left of your brother being destroyed over and over again... Mondatta was not here. He was buried in a morgue in the Monastery, under another huge statue of himself, this time made out of humble stone, not gold. His body rusted away in the stone-chamber, where the higher monks would visit once a year to bring incense and flowers. But Zenyatta would never be able to visit that place again. He had visited it once, on Mondatta's funeral. That was the last time he saw his brother's physical being, and it was inside that cold stone room... He could not even fathom the idea of seeing him now. Rusted and faded... Zenyatta wanted to remember Mondatta as a shining, tall and strong figure. He wanted to remember his voice, deep and booming, yet calming and serene. He wanted to remember his touch, strong yet gentle. He wanted to remember his embrace, his soothing words of comfort, his promise that everything was going to be okay, that they would be free one day, that they would forever be together- Zenyatta woke up with a jolt in his systems. He could hear the little mechanic voice in him repeat the same warning of overheating over and over again. Zenyatta sighed and turned the warning off. The cool air of the night would cool his systems up soon enough. It had been like this for a while now. Zenyatta would have dreams of his past travels, beautiful places, beautiful memories. Only to end up in King's Row, and eventually the damn omnioum he was created in and trained to do his job, beaten and spat on. It would not be so bad if it wasn't for him appearing in the dreams every time, as vibrant and feeling and sounding so damn real. Zenyatta could still feel the touch of his brother's hand on his shoulder. His sensors didn't notice his own hand trailing on that spot as if to reach for Mondatta until he indeed didn't feel anything on his fingers except for his own shoulder. Empty. Cold. Zenyatta's machinery hiccuped. He curled into a ball and let the coolant drip from his optics as the little voice in him started blaring the warning again.

"Master?" Zenyatta didn't remember falling back into rest-mode. Hearing Genji's voice woke him up from it as he slowly onlined his optics to find himself still laying, curled up into a ball, one hand resting on his empty shoulder. "Good morning, Genji." he mustered out of his voice-box. He was surprised it came out so calm and soft. So normal. "Master, is everything alright?" the cyborg asked, sitting next to Zenyatta in a lotus-position. The omnic held back a sigh. He had so hoped Genji would not notice his sorrow. Not anymore. He got up, slowly, to make sure he would not seem too eager to get out of the situation. "I'm quite fine, my student, thank you for asking." the omnic chimed, putting his legs into lotus-position as well and slowly floating up just few inches. He hated to lie to Genji, to anyone really, but he didn't want to bother his student with his own problems too much... He had already done enough. It had been six months already. Since they got the news from Mondatta's fate. They had been visiting a small village with only one working tv, situated in a local pub. The news were on when they sat there, Genji enjoying a stiff drink and Zenyatta drinking some oil. Zenyatta was just about to tell one of his favorite jokes when his audio-receptors caught the faint sound of the Tv saying "Earlier today, Shambali's leader Tekhartha Mondatta was assassinated on King's Row". Everything had been a blur since then. He could only remember few moments from here and there. Genji's voice calling his, either by "master" or the very rare case his actual name. Feeling of being carried and gently put down on something soft, most likely a bed in the local cheap motel. Waking up screaming and crying. Being held close and hearing soothing words, though Zenyatta could not remember what the words said exactly. He also remembered a song. Well, more of a rhythm of the song, since he could not remember the words. It had taken Zenyatta two whole weeks to start functioning properly again. And when he did, he begged Genji to tell him it had all been a bad dream. Genji didn't say anything. He simply sighed. Sad. Hollow. Mourning. They were in Nepal, and Zenyatta later found out that the Shambali had send a drop-ship to pick the two up after Genji had informed them of his situation. Zenyatta felt awful to have caused so much trouble, but Genji, and everyone else he had apologized for, told him that his reaction was completely justified. Mondatta was gone. He was never going to come back. He had died. Zenyatta repeated this to himself many times a day, trying to cope with the thought. His dear brother, first one who showed his love and affection, first one to call him family, first one to protect and care for him. His rock, his mountain. Was gone. Zenyatta often found himself overheating on the floor, sobbing and hiccuping as his processors were coping with his mental progressing. Each surfacing memory, each familiar scent, feel and even color could trigger what must have been the omnic-equivalent of a panic-attack. And each time Genji would find him, hold him, sooth him with words, and... hum. That same tune Zenyatta remembered from those two painful first weeks. The funeral was absolute pain. Not the fact that he would have to stare his offlined brother for what must have been the longest day of his life, listen to visitors giving their condolences, having to shoo off media and reporters trying to break their way to the private funeral. It was fighting back every processor inside him telling him to run to his brother, hold him, beg him to get up, get up and live, damn it! He could not die! Not like this! He was supposed to live long and happy! With his brother! With his family and friends!! Thank the Iris for Genji. Dear, strong and sweet Genji. He was always there, right besides Zenyatta. He would stand there, giving moral support. He would land his hand on his shoulder, like he had, or arm for reassurance. When a reporter would ask for an interview, Genji would take a freedom to ever so kindly kick their asses off the monastery. When there was a quiet moment, or when Zenyatta needed one, Genji would pull him behind the corner and embrace him. That gave Zenyatta enough mental energy to power trough the day. Zenyatta refused the leadership the first thing next morning. He didn't want to linger in the place any longer than he absolutely needed to. He gave hasty goodbyes to everyone and left to continue Genji's training. He need to. His soul begged him to MOVE. Months flew by and the panic-attacks stopped. Memories started to fade. Pain started to go numb. But the dreams. They stayed. And Genji knew they did. He must have seen it. Many times by now. It didn't help that they often shared a tent or a spot on the soft grass to rest in. Genji was indeed still part human and needed at least 8 hours of sleep. And Zenyatta needed to recharge his machinery. Genji refused to sleep far away from Zenyatta. He wanted to be close. And part of Zenyatta was glad. Feeling the cyborg's presence helped him power off for the night. But it didn't take away the nightmares. "Master." Genji said, with a serious tone. "Please tell me if something is bothering you." Zenyatta stayed quiet a second too long to seem truly innocent. "I do not quite understand what you me-" "Don't lie to me, Zenyatta." The serious tone and the usage of the real name made Zenyatta float down on the grass and sigh. He felt his walls come down again. "Master, I know you have nightmares every night. I know they are about Mondatta. And I know they bother you." Genji said. "It hurts me to watch you suffer, master." the cyborg then said, almost like a whisper. "And not being allowed to help..." Zenyatta didn't really realize what he was doing before his arms already were around Genji's neck and his faceplate resting against the cyborg's shoulder. But it felt right so he didn't abort the move. "I'm sorry Genji." the omnic stuttered. He was overheating again. "I just... don't want to cause you more trouble... You've done so much to me already, I can't possibly ask for more!" Genji didn't wrap his arms around the omnic which made Zenyatta panic for a second, had he stepped over his boundaries? Instead the cyborg held the monk's shoulders with his strong hands and gently pushed them apart only so he would face Zenyatta. "Master. You helped me find peace with myself and my new body. You helped me forgive my brother, the mad who I have hated more than ten years of my life! You showed me wonderful things on our travels! You made me whole, Zenyatta." A pause. "Helping you become whole again is the least I can do to pay back to you." Now Genji embraced the omnic, who found coolant falling from his optics again. This time due to a different emotion than sorrow.

"Genji?" "Yes Master?" "Can you... do something for me?" "Anything!" "Can you... sing that song? The same you did when..." Silence. A small laugh from Genji. "Of course..." Hearing the familiar tune soothes Zenyatta. He lays his head back in Genji's lap. It feels weird, having their roles switched like this. But it's nice so the omnic doesn't complain. This kinda reminds him of when he and Mond- His core freezes for a slit second. But Genji's voice brings him back. Zenyatta's fans kick in and start bringing in the cool air around him. Omnic's way of taking a deep breath, you could say. Zenyatta looks up to the cyborg. He feels safe. He feels happy. True, it will still hurt. For the rest of his life it will hurt. Each time he thinks of Mondatta. Each time he goes to King's Row. Each time he thinks of home. But now Zenyatta knows that he isn't travelling the path of life alone. Zenyatta let's his systems go offline while he listens to Genji's voice. And he dreams again. But this time it's different. Zenyatta is on one of the fields of Poland. Mondatta is there, sitting and gathering flowers for a flower-crown he is working on. Besides him Genji lays and looks at the clouds while chewing on a string of hay. Zenyatta feels the embrace of the Iris in him again. He feels happy. He sits between his brother and student and gently leans on Mondatta's shoulder. Mondatta simply puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. Zenyatta reaches to touch it. He wishes he could smile. It's there. He can feel it. END

[blackkudos]

Muddy Waters

McKinley Morganfield (April 4, 1913  – April 30, 1983), better known as Muddy Waters, was an American blues musician who is often cited as the "father of modern Chicago blues".

Muddy Waters grew up on Stovall Plantation near Clarksdale, Mississippi, and by age 17 was playing the guitar and the harmonica, emulating local blues artists Son House and Robert Johnson. He was recorded in Mississippi by Alan Lomax for the Library of Congress in 1941. In 1943, he moved to Chicago to become a full-time, professional musician. In 1946, he recorded his first records for Columbia Records and then for Aristocrat Records, a newly formed label run by the brothers Leonard and Phil Chess.

In the early 1950s, Muddy Waters and his band—Little Walter Jacobs on harmonica, Jimmy Rogers on guitar, Elgin Evans on drums and Otis Spann on piano—recorded several blues classics, some with bassist and songwriter Willie Dixon. These songs included "Hoochie Coochie Man", "I Just Want to Make Love to You" and "I'm Ready". In 1958, he traveled to England, laying the foundations of the subsequent blues boom there. His performance at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1960 was recorded and released as his first live album, At Newport 1960.

Muddy Waters' influence was tremendous, not just on blues and rhythm and blues but on rock and roll, hard rock, folk music, jazz, and country music. His use of amplification is often cited as the link between Delta blues and rock and roll.

Early life

Muddy Waters birthplace and date is not conclusively known. He stated that he was born in Rolling Fork, Mississippi in 1915, but it is believed he was actually most likely born in Jug's Corner, in neighboring Issaquena County in 1913. Recent research has uncovered documentation showing that in the 1930s and 1940s, before his rise to fame, he reported his birth year as 1913 on his marriage license, recording notes, and musicians' union card. A 1955 interview in the Chicago Defender is the earliest he claimed 1915 as his year of birth, which he continued to use in interviews from that point onward. The 1920 census lists him as five years old as of March 6, 1920, suggesting that his birth year may have been 1914. The Social Security Death Index, relying on the Social Security card application submitted after his move to Chicago in the mid-1940s, lists him as being born April 4, 1913. His gravestone gives his birth year as 1915.

Muddy Waters' grandmother, Della Grant, raised him after his mother died shortly after his birth. Grant gave him the nickname "Muddy" at an early age because he loved to play in the muddy water of nearby Deer Creek. "Waters" was added years later, as he began to play harmonica and perform locally in his early teens. The remains of the cabin on Stovall Plantation where Waters lived in his youth are now at the Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale, Mississippi.

He had his first introduction to music in church: "I used to belong to church. I was a good Baptist, singing in the church. So I got all of my good moaning and trembling going on for me right out of church," he recalled. By the time, he was 17, he had purchased his first guitar. "I sold the last horse that we had. Made about fifteen dollars for him, gave my grandmother seven dollars and fifty cents, I kept seven-fifty and paid about two-fifty for that guitar. It was a Stella. The people ordered them from Sears-Roebuck in Chicago." He started playing his songs in joints nearby his hometown, mostly in a plantation owned by Colonel William Howard Stovall.

Career

Early career

In August 1941, Alan Lomax went to Stovall, Mississippi, on behalf of the Library of Congress to record various country blues musicians. "He brought his stuff down and recorded me right in my house," Muddy recalled in Rolling Stone, "and when he played back the first song I sounded just like anybody's records. Man, you don't know how I felt that Saturday afternoon when I heard that voice and it was my own voice. Later on he sent me two copies of the pressing and a check for twenty bucks, and I carried that record up to the corner and put it on the jukebox. Just played it and played it and said, 'I can do it, I can do it.'" Lomax came back in July 1942 to record Muddy again. Both sessions were eventually released as Down on Stovall's Plantation by Testament Records. The complete recordings were reissued on CD as Muddy Waters: The Complete Plantation Recordings. The Historic 1941–42 Library of Congress Field Recordings by Chess Records in 1993 and remastered in 1997.

In 1943, Muddy headed to Chicago with the hope of becoming a full-time professional musician. He lived with a relative for a short period while driving a truck and working in a factory by day and performing at night. Big Bill Broonzy, then one of the leading bluesmen in Chicago, had Muddy open his shows in the rowdy clubs where Broonzy played. This gave Muddy the opportunity to play in front of a large audience. In 1944, Muddy bought his first electric guitar and then he formed his first electric combo. He felt obliged to electrify his sound in Chicago as he stated "When I went into the clubs, the first thing I wanted was an amplifier. Couldn't nobody hear you with an acoustic." Muddy's sound reflected the optimism of postwar African Americans. Willie Dixon mentioned "There was quite a few people around singing the blues but most of them was singing all sad blues. Muddy was giving his blues a little pep."

Three years later in 1946, he recorded some songs for Mayo Williams at Columbia Records, but they were not released at the time. Later that year, he began recording for Aristocrat Records, a newly formed label run by the brothers Leonard and Phil Chess. In 1947, he played guitar with Sunnyland Slim on piano on the cuts "Gypsy Woman" and "Little Anna Mae." These were also shelved, but in 1948, "I Can't Be Satisfied" and "I Feel Like Going Home" became big hits, and his popularity in clubs began to take off. Soon after, Aristocrat changed its name to Chess Records, and Muddy's signature tune "Rollin' Stone" also became a hit that year.

Commercial success

Initially, the Chess brothers wouldn't allow Muddy to use his working band in the recording studio; instead, he was provided with a backing bass by Ernest "Big" Crawford or by musicians assembled specifically for the recording session, including "Baby Face" Leroy Foster and Johnny Jones. Gradually, Chess relented, and by September 1953, he was recording with one of the most acclaimed blues groups in history: Little Walter Jacobs on harmonica, Jimmy Rogers on guitar, Elga Edmonds (also known as Elgin Evans) on drums, and Otis Spann on piano. The band recorded a series of blues classics during the early 1950s, some with the help of bassist and songwriter Willie Dixon, including "Hoochie Coochie Man", "I Just Want to Make Love to You", and "I'm Ready." These three were "the most macho songs in his repertoire", wrote Robert Palmer in Rolling Stone. "Muddy would never have composed anything so unsubtle. But they gave him a succession of showstoppers and an image, which were important for a bluesman trying to break out of the grind of local gigs into national prominence."

Along with his former harmonica player Little Walter Jacobs and recent southern transplant Howlin' Wolf, Muddy reigned over the early 1950s Chicago blues scene, his band becoming a proving ground for some of the city's best blues talent. While Little Walter continued a collaborative relationship long after he left Muddy's band in 1952, appearing on most of Muddy's classic recordings in the 1950s, Muddy developed a long-running, generally good-natured rivalry with Wolf. The success of Muddy's ensemble paved the way for others in his group to break away and make their own solo careers. In 1952, Little Walter left when his single "Juke" became a hit, and in 1955, Rogers quit to work exclusively with his own band, which had been a sideline until that time. Although he continued working with Muddy's band, Otis Spann enjoyed a solo career and many releases under his own name beginning in the mid-1950s. Around that time, Muddy Waters scored hits with songs "Mannish Boy" and "Sugar Sweet" in 1955, followed by the R&B hits "Trouble No More," "Forty Days & Forty Nights", and "Don't Go No Farther" in 1956.

England

Muddy toured England in 1958 and shocked audiences (whose only previous exposure to blues had come via the acoustic folk blues sounds of acts such as Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee and Big Bill Broonzy) with his loud, amplified electric guitar and thunderous beat. His performance at the 1960 Newport Jazz Festival, recorded and released as his first live album, At Newport 1960, introduced a new generation to Muddy's sound.

Grammy

In 1971, a show at Mister Kelly's, an upmarket Chicago nightclub, was recorded and released, signalling both Muddy's return to form and the completion of his transfer to white audiences. In December, he took harpist Carey Bell and guitarist Sammy Lawhorn to England to record The London Muddy Waters Sessions, which featured Rory Gallagher, Mitch Mitchell, and Georgie Fame. Soon after, he won his first Grammy Award for They Call Me Muddy Waters, an album of old, but previously unreleased recordings. Another Grammy followed for London Sessions, and yet another one for his last LP on Chess Records: The Muddy Waters Woodstock Album, recorded in 1975 with his new guitarist Bob Margolin, Pinetop Perkins, Paul Butterfield, and Levon Helm and Garth Hudson of The Band.

The Super Blues Band

However, following his last big hit, "I'm Ready", in 1956, Muddy was put on the back shelf by Chess. In 1967, he joined forces with Bo Diddley, Little Walter, and Howlin' Wolf to record the albums Super Blues and The Super Super Blues Band, containing Chess blues standards. In 1972, he went back to England to record The London Muddy Waters Sessions with Rory Gallagher, Steve Winwood, Rick Grech, and Mitch Mitchell, but their playing was not up to his standards. "These boys are top musicians, they can play with me, put the book before 'em and play it, you know," he told Guralnick. "But that ain't what I need to sell my people, it ain't the Muddy Waters sound. An' if you change my sound, then you gonna change the whole man." Muddy's stated, "My blues look so simple, so easy to do, but it's not. They say my blues is the hardest blues in the world to play."

Final shows

In 1981, Muddy Waters was invited to perform at ChicagoFest, the city's top outdoor music festival. He was joined onstage by Johnny Winter, who had produced Waters' most recent albums, and played classics like "Mannish Boy", "Trouble No More", and "Mojo Working" to a new generation of fans. This historic performance was made available on DVD in 2009 by Shout! Factory. Later that year, he performed live with the Rolling Stones at the Checkerboard Lounge; a DVD version of the performance was released in 2012.

In 1982, declining health dramatically curtailed his performance schedule. His last public performance took place when he sat in with Eric Clapton's band at a concert in Florida in the summer of 1982.

Personal life

Muddy Waters' longtime wife, Geneva, died of cancer on March 15, 1973. Gaining custody of some of his children, he moved them into his home, eventually buying a new house in Westmont, Illinois. Years later, Muddy travelled to Florida and met his future wife, 19-year-old Marva Jean Brooks, whom he nicknamed "Sunshine". Eric Clapton served as best man at their wedding in 1979.

His sons, Larry "Mud" Morganfield and Big Bill Morganfield, are also blues singers and musicians.

Death

Muddy Waters died in his sleep from heart failure, at his home in Westmont, Illinois, on April 30, 1983. Throngs of blues musicians and fans attended his funeral at Restvale Cemetery in Alsip, Illinois, to pay tribute to one of the true originals of the art form. John P. Hammond told Guitar World magazine, "Muddy was a master of just the right notes. It was profound guitar playing, deep and simple... more country blues transposed to the electric guitar, the kind of playing that enhanced the lyrics, gave profundity to the words themselves."

Legacy

Two years after his death, Chicago honored him by designating the one-block section between 900 and 1000 E. 43rd Street near his former home on the south side "Honorary Muddy Waters Drive". The Chicago suburb of Westmont, where Muddy lived the last decade of his life, named a section of Cass Avenue near his home "Honorary Muddy Waters Way". Following his death, fellow blues musician B.B. King told Guitar World, "It's going to be years and years before most people realize how greatly he contributed to American music". A Mississippi Blues Trail marker has been placed in Clarksdale, Mississippi, by the Mississippi Blues Commission designating the site of Muddy Waters' cabin.

His influence is tremendous, over a range of music genres: blues, rhythm and blues, rock and roll, hard rock, folk music, jazz, and country music. He also helped Chuck Berry get his first record contract.

His 1958 tour of England marked possibly the first time amplified, modern urban blues was heard there, although on this tour he was the only one amplified. His backing was provided by the trad jazz group of the Englishman Chris Barber.

His use of amplification has been cited as "the technological missing link between Delta Blues and Rock 'N' Roll." This is underlined in a 1968 article in Rolling Stone magazine: “There was a difference between Muddy’s instrumental work and that of House and Johnson, however, and the crucial difference was the result of Waters’ use of the electric guitar on his Aristocrat sides; he had taken up the instrument shortly after moving to Chicago in 1943.”

The Rolling Stones named themselves after his 1950 song "Rollin' Stone" (also known as "Catfish Blues", which was covered by Jimi Hendrix). Rolling Stone magazine took its name from the same song. Hendrix recalled that "the first guitar player I was aware of was Muddy Waters. I first heard him as a little boy and it scared me to death". The band Cream covered "Rollin' and Tumblin'" on their 1966 debut album, Fresh Cream, as Eric Clapton was a big fan of Muddy Waters when he was growing up, and his music influenced Clapton's music career. The song was also covered by Canned Heat at the Monterey Pop Festival and later adapted by Bob Dylan on his album Modern Times. One of Led Zeppelin's biggest hits, "Whole Lotta Love", is lyrically based on the Muddy Waters hit "You Need Love", written by Willie Dixon. Dixon wrote some of Muddy Waters' songs, including "I Just Want to Make Love to You" (a big radio hit for Etta James, as well as the 1970s rock band Foghat), "Hoochie Coochie Man", which the Allman Brothers Band covered (the song was also covered by Humble Pie, Steppenwolf, and Fear), "Trouble No More" and "I'm Ready". In 1993, Paul Rodgers released the album Muddy Water Blues: A Tribute to Muddy Waters, on which he covered a number of Muddy Waters songs, including "Louisiana Blues", "Rollin' Stone", "Hoochie Coochie Man" and "I'm Ready" in collaboration with a number of guitarists, including Gary Moore, Brian May and Jeff Beck.

Angus Young, of the rock group AC/DC, has cited Muddy Waters as one of his influences. The AC/DC song title "You Shook Me All Night Long" came from lyrics of the Muddy Waters song "You Shook Me", written by Willie Dixon and J. B. Lenoir. Earl Hooker first recorded it as an instrumental, which was then overdubbed with vocals by Muddy Waters in 1962. Led Zeppelin also covered it on their debut album.

Muddy Waters' songs have been featured in long-time fan Martin Scorsese's movies, including The Color of Money, Goodfellas, and Casino. Muddy Waters' 1970s recording of his mid-'50s hit "Mannish Boy" (also known as "I'm a Man") was used in the films Goodfellas, Better Off Dead, Risky Business, and the rockumentary The Last Waltz.

The song "Come Together" by the Beatles mentions Muddy Waters: "He roller coaster/he got Muddy Waters."

Van Morrison's song "Cleaning Windows", on his album Beautiful Vision (1982), includes the lyric "Muddy Waters singin', I'm a Rolling Stone".

In 2008, actor Jeffrey Wright portrayed Muddy Waters in the film Cadillac Records, about Chess Records and its recording artists. Another 2008 film about Leonard Chess and Chess Records, Who Do You Love, also covers Muddy's time at Chess Records.

In the 2009 film The Boat That Rocked (retitled Pirate Radio in the U.S) about pirate radio in the UK, the cryptic message that late-night DJ Bob gives to Carl to give to Carl's mother is "Muddy Waters rocks".

In 1990, the television series Doogie Howser, M.D. featured an episode called "Doogie Sings the Blues" with the main character, Blind Otis Lemon, based on Muddy Waters, with references to his influence on the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, along with the performance of "Got My Mojo Working" by Blind Otis Lemon. He is also referred to as the original "Hoochie Coochie Man".

Awards and recognition

Grammy AwardsRock and Roll Hall of Fame

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame listed four songs of Muddy Waters among the 500 Songs That Shaped Rock and Roll.

The Blues Foundation AwardsInductions

U.S. Postage Stamp

Discography

Studio albums

Muddy Waters Sings Big Bill Broonzy (1960)

Folk Singer (1964)

Brass and the Blues (1966)

Electric Mud (1968)

After the Rain (1969)

Fathers and Sons (1969)

The London Muddy Waters Sessions (1970)

Can't Get No Grindin' (1973)

"Unk" in Funk (1974)

The Muddy Waters Woodstock Album (1975)

Hard Again (1977)

I'm Ready (1978)

King Bee (1981)

Wikipedia