Tag Archives: paranormal

An Interview with Mary Morgan, Author of QUEST OF A WARRIOR

16 Wednesday Aug 2017

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A warm welcome to Mary Morgan!  Congrats on your new release, Quest of a Warrior!  It’s getting rave reviews, and I wish you great success with it.  Now, let’s get this interview started!

At what age did you write your first story? Around the age of ten. Prior to that, I was writing short poems about my pets.

Which genre was the first to hook you? Historical Fiction.

What was your first published book? Dragon Knight’s Sword

What’s your favorite part of the writing process? Brainstorming? Research? Outlining? Writing? Editing? Research and outlining the story. I’m obsessed with finding historical details—no matter how small—to fit into my stories.

Those historical details are so important! I also love doing research and outlines for my books. What are you working on now? Currently, I have two projects. In pre-galley edits with a Dragon Knights novella, scheduled for release near the holidays. It’s centered around Fiona’s brother, Desmond O’Quinlan. Fiona is the heroine from Dragon Knight’s Axe, and you were introduced to all of her brothers in that story. In addition, I’m writing the second Fenian Warrior, Rory MacGregor’s story called Oath of a Warrior.

Of all the settings you’ve used (or created!) for your books, which is your favorite? Why? Without a doubt, Urquhart Castle in Scotland! I’ve dreamt of this place for decades and was fortunate to explore the ruins this summer. I’ve always been drawn to the beauty and mystery of Urquhart and of course, Loch Ness. That day will remain etched within my soul.

I know the feeling, that tug on your soul which is undeniable. I also visited Urquhart, back when I studied in Aberdeen. The ruins and loch are the stuff of dreams! Speaking of which, have you ever dreamed about a character you created? No. Yet, Angus MacKay (hero and oldest brother from Dragon Knight’s Shield) did approach me at Urquhart. It was a surreal moment—one where I was all alone in this small stone enclosure, glancing outward at the loch through an arched window. He told me, “Ye have told our tale well.”

Very cool! If you could have a conversation with anyone—dead or alive—who would it be? The great Irish King, Brian Boru (941-1014) of Ireland. Brian led the Irish to the peak of their Golden Age—from poetry, arts, saints, and scholars. A remarkable man.

I’ve long admired Brian Boru, too! If you could travel to any time and place, when and where would that be? Kensington Palace. June 20, 1837, the morning Victoria was told she had become queen. A pivotal point in British history. She was young and sheltered. Yet, Victoria proved them all wrong with her strength and determination.

That would be amazing to witness! If you could step inside any book or series and live there for a week, which would you choose? My own—the Dragon Knights of Urquhart!

If a fairy godmother appeared and offered you one thing—anything at all—what would you request? To heal all those in great pain.

I share that desire.  Now, it’s time to learn some of your favorites!

Sound: Babies laughter
Eye color: Green
Foreign language (whether or not you speak it!): Gaelic
Song: The Celts by Enya
Book: I have many favorites, so I can’t limit it to one, lol! “The Lion of Ireland” by Morgan Llywelyn. “The Mists of Avalon” by Marion Zimmer Bradley. “Outlander” by Diana Gabaldon.  (Ooh! The Mists of Avalon! I have that book in English and Swedish.)
Movie: Braveheart
TV show: The Highlander (Adrian Paul). It’s an old series, but remains my favorite.
Cuisine: Italian
Cookie: Shortbread
US location: Pacific Northwest (Love!)
Foreign location: Scotland and Ireland (Double love!)

And finally, list your preference from the following choices:

Tea or coffee? Both!
Cake or pie? Pie
Halloween or Christmas? Christmas
Nancy Drew or Sherlock Holmes? Nancy Drew
Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters? Jane Austen
A mortal, vampire, ghost, or fae for a lover? Vampire
English gent, Scottish highlander, European count, or all-American guy? Scottish Highlander

A little about Quest of a Warrior

“You met them in the Order of the Dragon Knights. Now, journey to the realm of the Fae and witness their legends!”

Fenian Warrior, Conn MacRoich has traveled the earth for thousands of years, guarding the realm between mortal and Fae. His deeds are legendary. Yet, one mistake will force him on a journey to fix a broken time-line. However, on Conn’s quest, he must face a human female who will eventually bring this ancient warrior to his knees.

When Ivy O’Callaghan inherits her uncle’s estate, she never imagines there will be more secrets to unravel, including the one she hides from the world. With the help of a mysterious stranger, she learns to trust and step out of the shadows. However, nothing prepares Ivy when she learns Conn’s true identity.

As the loom of fate weaves a thread around the lovers from two different worlds, will the sacrifices they make lead them to love? Or will their secrets destroy and separate them forever?

A peek between the pages

“Intoxication can unleash the beast within a Fae.” ~ Chronicles of the Fae

Conn fought the bolt of desire spearing a path throughout his body. Her touch spoke volumes—an invitation to taste. Never had he longed to kiss a human like this wee lass. His heart beat loudly, and he found himself unable to move. She was a Goddess of the moonlight. It danced off her face and hair, and he trembled before her. Ivy’s fingers traced down his cheek and across his lips. He was helpless to contain the growl that escaped from his mouth.

The rush of passion overtook him, and Conn slammed the door on his mind. Grasping Ivy around the waist, he hoisted her up on top of the bridge. Her lips parted on a sigh, and he lowered his mouth to feast on something he dared not take. The first brush of her soft lips against his own ignited a hunger he could no longer contain. Taking her moan deep into him, Conn glorified in the sensation of her mouth—one filled with a honeyed sweetness.

The Fae warrior became just a man for the first time. Something primal burst within him. Emotions he had never felt left him dizzy, spiraling to a physical plane. He craved them all. His lips seared a course down her neck, to her throat, and then recaptured the velvet warmth of her mouth.

Where to purchase Quest of a Warrior

AMAZON: https://www.amazon.com/Quest-Warrior-Legends-Fenian-Warriors-ebook/dp/B072HPBMDM/
Barnes&Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/quest-of-a-warrior-mary-morgan/1126404360/
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/quest-of-a-warrior

More about Mary

Award-winning Scottish paranormal romance author, Mary Morgan, resides in Northern California, with her own knight in shining armor. However, during her travels to Scotland, England, and Ireland, she left a part of her soul in one of these countries and vows to return.

Mary’s passion for books started at an early age along with an overactive imagination. She spent far too much time daydreaming and was told quite often to remove her head from the clouds. It wasn’t until the closure of Borders Books where Mary worked that she found her true calling–writing romance. Now, the worlds she created in her mind are coming to life within her stories.

Where to find Mary

WEBSITE: http://www.marymorganauthor.com
BLOG: http://www.marymorganauthor.com/blog
TWITTER: http://twitter.com/m_morganauthor
FACEBOOK AUTHOR PAGE: https://www.facebook.com/MaryMorganAuthor/
FACEBOOK: http://www.facebook.com/mary.morgan.564
GOODREADS: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8271002.Mary_Morgan
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE: http://www.amazon.com/Mary-Morgan/e/B00KPE3NWI/
PINTEREST: http://www.pinterest.com/marymorgan50/
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/marymorgan2/
BOOKBUB: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/mary-morgan

Thanks so much for joining me today, Mary.  All the best with your new release!

The Cauldron Stirred – Giveaway!

31 Monday Jul 2017

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I’m doing a giveaway of my new release, The Cauldron Stirred, on Goodreads.  Enter now through August 15, and you could win one of two signed copies.  If you love Ireland, fantasy, the paranormal, romance, mystery, or all of the above, you might want to check it out.

Good luck to all who enter!  🙂

A little about The Cauldron Stirred:

Ashling Donoghue never dreamed moving to Ireland would rock her perception of reality and plunge her into a mystery that brings legend to life.

At seventeen, she’s never had a boyfriend, but she feels an immediate connection to Aengus Breasal, the son of the wealthy Irishman who’s invited her family to stay at his Killarney estate.  For the first time in her life, a guy she likes seems attracted to her.

But Aengus is secretive, with good reason.  He and his family are the Tuatha Dé Danann, ageless, mythical guardians adept at shifting between this reality and the magical dimension known as the Otherworld.  Evil forces from that world threaten the Breasals, the Donoghues, and all of Ireland.  Ashling must open her heart, face her fears, and embrace a destiny greater than she could ever have imagined.

Impetus Toward Ireland

22 Saturday Jul 2017

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One night in the summer before my senior year of high school, I kicked off my bedcovers with a vengeance. I snatched my glasses from the nightstand and glared at the ticking clock.

1:00 a.m. and all was NOT well.

I’d fidgeted for almost two hours, and sleep remained a stranger. Rolling my eyes, I abandoned my bed, then slunk through the house and out the back door.

Humidity hugged my skin like a second aura. With a sigh, I pushed up the sleeves of my nightgown and scanned the backyard. Spanish moss dangled from the oak trees. Moonlight touched the pool. Frogs croaked their hardest, but the sharp drone of crickets stole the show.

“Why am I so restless?” I asked aloud. “How can you yearn for something you can’t even name?”

As though sharing a private joke, the stars above winked.

The night held no answers; the mosquitoes showed no mercy. So I stole back into the house to worship the miracle of air conditioning and find something to read.

In the living room, I searched the shelves until my gaze locked on a book I’d never seen: Ireland – A Picture Book to Remember Her By. I grabbed it and settled on the velvet couch.

From the moment I opened the book, I changed. Waves of emotion rushed over me: love, sorrow, and strangest of all, homesickness. Gratitude flooded my heart and mind, for this was what I’d sought. I turned each page with reverence, melding my being with the images thereon.

It was crazy. I was born and raised in blazingly hot, equatorial Florida, about as far from Ireland and its blissfully cool climate as you can get. Before that night, I’d never considered the Emerald Isle. Not once. Now my whole life seemed to have led me to the discovery that I was somehow linked to that distant land.

Desire and will swelled within me, and I squeezed the book to my chest. I knew what I must do.

I jumped up and raced to my sleeping parents’ bedroom. “Mom! Dad!”

My father grunted, but my mother bolted upright in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you my decision. I’m going to Ireland.”

She squinted. “What, tonight?”

“No, but soon. I have to go.”

Dad rolled over. A rumble of complaint sounded, either from his throat or his stomach.

Mom glanced at the clock, then sank back onto her pillow. “Fine. But let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”

When morning arrived, I did more than talk. Truth be told, I ate far too many donuts, but I must’ve burned off the calories during my impassioned plea. It was Ireland or bust! My unsuspecting parents didn’t know what to make of my new obsession, but Dad informed me my great-grandfather had emigrated from Ireland in 1914. How this fact escaped my notice for 17 years is beyond me, but now that I knew of my Irish heritage, I was unstoppable.

My grandfather had the address of our Irish cousins in County Kilkenny, and I obtained it faster than you can say Éirinn go Brách. Soon after, I became pen pals with one of the cousins, and we exchanged letters, photos, and even a phone call over the next 10 months.

My enthusiasm for Ireland was contagious, and by senior graduation, three round-trip plane tickets waited on my parents’ desk. The Three Musketeers—Mom, Dad, and I—were bound for Shannon Airport.

Excitement forbade sleep on the long flight over, so after we’d shuffled through customs, traded dollars for pounds, and procured our rental car, we drove straight to our bed-and-breakfast in the village of Bunratty and took a nap. When I awoke hours later, Mom informed me I’d spoken Irish in my sleep.

My instincts implored me to pay attention. From the moment I stepped foot on Irish soil, I felt I’d come home. This was no shallow sentiment; it was a gut reaction, a reunion with a piece of my soul.

Ireland’s landscape was as gorgeous as its people were gracious, but my response to its beauty seemed greatest in Killarney. There, while bouncing in the back of a jaunting car, I became one with my surroundings. The cool wind caressed my cheeks and whipped my long, blonde hair into a wild mass which would’ve made any banshee proud. Low-hanging, purple clouds harmonized with rippling lakes, and the gentle slope of mountains accompanied them. Flowering bushes, rustling trees, and fertile soil moist with promise completed the symphony. Each note had perfect pitch. Every phrase was pure magic.

When our driver reined in his horse, my parents jumped from the carriage, eager to tour Muckross House. I shared their enthusiasm but was so caught up in nature’s melody I didn’t want the ride to end. Still, history summoned me, so I followed their lead and strode toward the house.

Abruptly, I hesitated. The lake to my right seemed familiar. The adjacent parkland beckoned, but I had to resist its pull. With our jam-packed schedule, an amble through the woods was out of the question.

Years later, I would explore those woods and discover a surprising piece to add to my life’s puzzle. Once again that night, Mom heard me speaking Irish in my sleep.

In my latest release, The Cauldron Stirred, seventeen-year-old Ashling Donoghue has a similar experience. And she not only visits Killarney, but gets to live there. Ah, the magic of fiction!

Amazon https://amzn.com/B072C1CG5D

Barnes & Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-cauldron-s…/1126456384…

The Wild Rose Press https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/…/5134-the-cauldron-st…

My Path to Motherhood, Part Three

27 Saturday May 2017

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Boys in NICU 001At 5:00 a.m. on the morning of June 3rd, I sat bolt upright in bed.  I hadn’t moved that fast in months, but I had good reason.  Niagara Falls gushed between my legs.

I shook Dan awake.  “I think my water broke.”  I slid off the bed and waddled to the bathroom.

He followed me.  “I can’t believe it.  Six weeks early!”

I shook my head.  “This shouldn’t be happening.”  Then a strange calm settled over me.  “No.  It is happening, so it’s meant to be.  We’ve got calls to make.  The doctor, our parents…”

All at once, the Reiki Master’s words came back to me.  Whoever this is, he’s going to be present at the birth.  Actually, a lot of spirits are.  I don’t know why, but it’s like they’re crowding around, vying for the chance to be there.

No wonder!

We made it to Nantucket Cottage Hospital, and the staff there organized an ambulance to the airport.  By the time it arrived, minor contractions had begun.  One paramedic started timing them, while another strapped me onto a stretcher.

I grimaced.  “I’m sorry you guys have to move me while I’m so heavy.”

The paramedics exchanged grins.  “That’s our job,” one said.

In the space of 15 minutes, they wheeled me into an ambulance and onto a plane.  Then we were in the air.

When we reached the mainland, a second ambulance stood at the ready.  The original paramedics wished me well, and the new team took over.  I felt like we were playing some bizarre game of musical medics, but there was nothing to do but go with the flow.

During the 40-minute ride to Beth Israel, Dan rode in front with the driver.  The paramedic on my left seemed determined to keep me calm and struck up a conversation.

“Were you shocked when the doctor said you were having twins?” he asked.

“No.  I already knew.  There were signs, and I’d had a dream about it.”

He smiled.  “You sound a lot like my wife!”

By the time we arrived at the hospital, we were chatting away like old friends.  Then new hands whisked me onto an elevator, along a maze of corridors, and into the long-awaited hospital room.

My doctor was away—en route to Nantucket, believe it or not—but his colleagues stepped in.  They gave me magnesium sulfate to stop the contractions, hoping to buy another 48 hours.  Their primary concern was the boys’ lungs.

“Every minute counts when you’re dealing with premature birth,” they told me.

Everyone expected the magnesium to work.  Translation:  no epidural!  It actually lengthened my labor, and by mid-afternoon, the contractions were brutal.  First one pain gripped me, then another slammed it home.  Over and over again.

One nurse gaped at the monitor.  “I’ve never seen this before.  It’s like double contractions.”

Dan squeezed my hand.  “Well, you are having twins.”

The “twin peaks” went on for hours until just before 6:00 p.m.  At that point, the doctor discovered my cervix had dilated from three centimeters to ten in as many minutes.  The babies wanted out, and nothing in this world was going to stop them.

The nurse who’d refused me pain medication all day gave me a nod.  “I guess you really were in labor.”

You think?!

If the pain hadn’t been so severe, I might’ve laughed, but there wasn’t time.  Connor’s butt was lodged in my cervix, which meant an immediate C-section.

Dan was bustled out of the room and into sterile attire (complete with blue shower cap and booties), and I was rushed into surgery.  Once again, I apologized to the staff for my hefty frame as they hoisted me onto the operating table.

“Don’t you worry,” one of them said.  “We do this all the time, and we’ve moved bigger patients than you.”

I took his word for it and buckled under the force of a new contraction.  Time was of the essence, so an anesthesiologist gave me a spinal, which mercifully removed all sensation from the abdomen down.  Then I met the surgeon in a “hi and good-bye” fashion, and Dan was at my side.

Soon after, a tiny cry rang out.  It was Connor, and the fact that he’d been able to cry boded well for his lungs.  One minute later, it was Geoffrey’s turn to rage against the light, and he did so with utter abandon.

They weighed 3 lbs. 6 oz. and 3 lbs. 9 oz. respectively.  Dan cut their umbilical cords, while I lay like a slug on the table.  Even so, the nurses tried to include me.  They held the babies where I could see them for five seconds, then bundled them off to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU).

Our family had just doubled, and incredible as it seemed, Dan and I were parents.  We were totally responsible for two new lives whose tiny bodies and delicate features were perfectly formed.  They were indeed identical, to each other and to the faces I’d seen in my dream.

Rewind half an hour and travel to Florida.  My parents, who’d been with us in spirit and prayed all day for the babies’ safety, went out to dinner.

A short while into their meal, a toddler at the next table let out a single cry.  He’d been calm and well-behaved before then, and his cry sounded more like an infant’s.

Comprehension seized my mom.  One of the babies was just born.

She asked my dad to check his watch.  It was 6:15 p.m.

One minute later, the same child emitted a second cry, which also resembled an infant’s.  Dad glanced at his watch again.  It read 6:16 p.m.

Mom had no doubts.  “There goes the second one.”

The toddler kept quiet for the rest of the meal.  First thing after dinner, Mom called Dan on his cell phone, and he confirmed the twins had arrived.

“What time were they born?” she asked.

His answer came as no surprise.  “6:15 and 6:16.”

What did surprise us all was a related phenomenon.  Three women who were knitting blankets for the boys stayed up most of the previous night to complete them.  Even though the due date was six weeks away, a sense of urgency compelled them to finish the job.

Everyone and everything is connected.  The events surrounding the boys’ births erased any doubts we still harbored on the subject.

We have a release date!

18 Thursday May 2017

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I just learned the release date for The Cauldron Stirred, the first book in my Guardians of Erin series:  July 21, 2017!  If you’re wondering what it’s about, here’s the scoop:

Ashling Donoghue never dreamed moving to Ireland would rock her perception of reality and plunge her into a mystery that brings legend to life.

At seventeen, she’s never had a boyfriend, but she feels an immediate connection to Aengus Breasal, the son of the wealthy Irishman who’s invited her family to stay at his Killarney estate. For the first time in her life, a guy she likes seems attracted to her.

But Aengus is secretive, with good reason. He and his family are the Tuatha Dé Danann, ageless, mythical guardians adept at shifting between this reality and the magical dimension known as the Otherworld. Evil forces from that world threaten the Breasals, the Donoghues, and all of Ireland. Ashling must open her heart, face her fears, and embrace a destiny greater than she could ever have imagined.

Of Luck and Lore

17 Friday Mar 2017

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Last time, I brought you along for the ghost hunt on my first trip to Ireland.   There are more stories where that came from!  My Irish cousins shared a wealth of information about my great-grandfather, Michael Patrick—who emigrated from Ireland in 1914—and his siblings.  Through fortune and loss, the family became fast friends with Irish luck.  One example concerned Michael’s brother, who missed his boat to America (the Titanic) but arrived unscathed on the Lusitania.

Luck was one thing.  What really intrigued me was the revelation that our family had encountered the supernatural on both sides of the Atlantic.  I’d had experiences my whole life, but they didn’t start with me.  Here are three which occurred long before I was born.

(1) Michael’s sister, Brigit, was promised to a young man who immigrated to America.  As soon as he saved enough money to set up house, she was to join him.  But once he left, she moved to Dublin, “took up with” a bricklayer, and became pregnant.  Nine months later, she was back home and in the throes of childbirth.  The doctor delivered a healthy baby, then headed off into the night.  A short while later, pain seized Brigit, and contractions began anew.  A second baby was born without the doctor’s aid.  Brigit died soon afterward.

In America that same night, her betrothed awoke and bolted upright.  Brigit stood at the foot of his bed, staring down at him.  She held his gaze for maybe a minute, then disappeared.

The next day, he sent a transatlantic cable to her family, relating the event and asking if she was all right.  They were as shocked by his account as he was by her death.

(2) One night, Michael and his mates were enjoying a round of drinks at the pub.  The door swung open, and another friend burst into the room.  He was wild-eyed, drawn, and out of breath.  Michael ushered him to their table.

The friend dropped onto a chair and raked a hand through his hair.  He glanced over his shoulder, then blurted out his tale.  He hadn’t slept for days.  He’d stolen the golden comb from a banshee, and now she chased him to reclaim it.

The group exchanged dubious looks and scratched their heads…until the man opened his coat.  Popping up from the inside pocket was a sparkling, gold comb.

He jumped up from his chair.  “Did ye hear that?”

The others shook their heads.

“She’s here!  She’s found me.”  He darted out of the pub.

The next morning, he was found dead, spread out on his back, fully dressed, atop his perfectly made bed.  His coat lay open, and his attire was the same as the previous evening in all ways but one.  The golden comb was gone.

Tradition holds that banshees attract humans with gold or silver combs.  Then the banshee spirits the person away to another dimension…which is a pretty accurate description of death.

(3) One soft night, while still in Ireland, Michael plodded home.  The street was deserted until a “little man” appeared atop the stone wall and padded toward him.  A chill ran down Michael’s spine; something wasn’t right.  He averted his gaze.  A moment later, he felt compelled to look up.  The man was gone.  Then a flicker of movement across the road caught his eye.

There, on the opposite stone wall, stood the little man.  He’d traversed the distance in the blink of an eye.  He stared at Michael, who avoided his gaze again.  Seconds later, Michael glanced his way, but the man had vanished for good.

My great-grandfather had no doubt he’d seen a leprechaun.  According to legend, if you keep your eye on one, he can’t escape, but the minute you look away, he disappears.  That encounter stayed with Michael the rest of his life, and his eyes sparkled as he shared it with his grandson, my dad, who later shared it with me.

Is it any wonder a leprechaun pops up in my Guardians of Erin series?  It’s a way to honor Michael’s memory, and it’s just plain fun!  I recently turned in the edits of The Cauldron Stirred (Book One of the series) to my editor.  I’ll keep you in the loop as the book heads toward publication.  Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

An Irish Ghost Hunt

03 Friday Mar 2017

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moon-on-fire-1537514With St. Patrick’s Day on the way, I thought I’d share one of my favorite memories from the first time I visited Ireland.  I was eighteen at the time.  It was my first trip overseas with my parents and the perfect opportunity to meet our Irish cousins, who welcomed us with open arms.  The parents were a little older than mine; their five children, about my age.  They lived near Kilkenny, and while their current home was modern, their old residence still stood on the property.  When I say old, I mean centuries old!  My great-grandfather, Michael, had lived in the house before coming to America, and now his progeny explored the abandoned rooms.

History was alive there, in the people as well as the structure.  My cousins spoke of Oliver Cromwell as though he’d invaded Ireland three weeks (instead of three centuries) before.  I soaked it all up and was eager to learn more about the history of the area.

On the second day of our visit, my parents and I set out alone for some sightseeing.  We’d driven only a short distance when we noticed a castellated manor house set back from the road in beautifully landscaped, walled grounds.  Ever the intrepid photographer, my father was determined to get a picture of the place.  A view from the street marred by iron gates wasn’t good enough, so he found a side road and parked the car.  He marched onto the grounds, and my mother and I trailed behind.

I love my dad, but there are moments when he seems to channel Clark Griswold, Chevy Chase’s character in the Vacation movies.  This was one of those moments.

He made his way to the front lawn and paused.  Then he lifted the camera and seemed poised to capture the perfect snapshot of the manor’s façade.  All at once, two Dobermans tore around the side of the house.  Snarling like the hounds of hell, they raced toward him.  My father flinched and assumed a deer in the headlights look, then spun on his heel.

An abrupt command rang out and stopped the dogs in their tracks.  The homeowner, who strolled around the corner, appeared to be in her early sixties.  With inborn grace, she approached my father as my mother and I reached the scene.

Apologies ensued and in the end, the woman invited us to tour her home.  It was originally a medieval manor house but had been rebuilt in 1708.  Decorated with antiques, the structure oozed history.  We admired its elegance, but its owner struck us even more.  She was amiable as could be and deft at handling the large ring of tinkling keys she housed in her pocket.  Handle them she did, for all rooms had to be unlocked before we could enter, which seemed a little strange.  A lot stranger was the fact that she locked the door behind us every time we crossed the threshold, both into and out of each room.

Of all the rooms, one stood out.  Family portraits—paintings and photographs—covered the walls and adorned every piece of furniture with a flat top.  At first, the owner favored us with stories of her ancestors.  Then she indicated a black and white, circa 1950s picture of her deceased sister on the nearest table.  In both hairstyle and dress, the sister reminded us of Jackie Kennedy.  I made a mental note of the photo before the sound of jingling keys foretold our imminent exit.

At the end of the tour, we expressed our humble gratitude and returned to our cousins’ company.  They were excited by our recent adventure and divulged that no one except the owner had been in that house for years.  The property had a mysterious past shadowed by ghosts, fairies, and murder.

Was there a better place to investigate the paranormal?  In our opinion, no.  Were we up for the challenge?  Hell yeah.  Just before midnight, the lot of us set out in two cars for the manor’s extensive grounds.  We had no intention of trespassing; this time, we would stick to the road.

Absent any street lights, the said road and its environs were only visible by the grace of the moon’s glow.  I was just commenting on the fact when a peculiar sight stopped me in mid-sentence.  Outside the car, to our left, a woman in full riding gear (high boots, tan pants, black coat and hat) urged her horse onward.

One of my cousins twisted in his seat.  “Why is she out ridin’ in the middle of the night?”

No one had an answer, so we kept driving.  Farther down the road, we spotted the woman again.  This time, she was on foot, walking her horse in the field.

We continued on, but as we rounded another bend, my cousin made an odd, strangled sound.  “There’s no sense to it.  How did she get there so fast?”

I shrugged, then frowned as a new thought struck me.  “Isn’t it dangerous to ride in the dark?”

My father hit the brakes.  The second car halted behind us, and everyone hopped out.

“It isn’t right,” another cousin said.  “How could she be here one minute and there the next?”

Nonplussed, we peered down the road, seeking a distant outline of both horse and rider, for we’d all seen the same thing.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

We whirled around and there, not five feet away, was the woman.  The horse was nowhere in sight.

Our senses reeled.  Her presence seemed impossible, yet there she was.

Perhaps it was nerves, or the absurdity of the situation, but my father blurted out the bald truth.  “We’re looking for ghosts.”

She regarded him for a long moment.  “They say you can spot them sometimes at night.”

I cleared my throat.  “Have you seen any?”

The hint of a smile touched her lips.  “No.  But you never can tell.”

My parents, cousins, and I exchanged glances and awkward giggles.  Then we turned back to the woman.

She had vanished.  Her entrance and exit were as silent and preternatural as the grave.

Back at my cousins’ house, jerpoint-abbey-1-1624034we gathered around the large kitchen table and nursed mugs of hot tea between our chilled hands.  Only then did my parents and I recall the manor’s portrait room and the owner’s remembrance of a beloved sister…a sister she had lost.

Our agreement was instantaneous.  The midnight rider looked exactly like the woman in the picture.

Speaking of Ireland, I’m close to finishing the edits of The Cauldron Stirred, the first book in my Guardians of Erin YA series.  I’ll keep you posted during the production process!

 

When Art Imitates Life

12 Thursday Jan 2017

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stairway-on-the-beach-2-1178704-1920x1440            When I was nine, my paternal grandmother died of cancer.  She and I were close, so I dreaded the open-casket funeral.  As it turned out, the experience was quite different from what I expected.  I studied her made-up face with more curiosity than sorrow.

             That’s not Grandma in the coffin, I thought.  It’s just a shell.

The air was heavy with whispers, sobs, and the scent of flowers, but I sensed my grandmother hovering at the back of the room, watching us all.  When my grandfather broke down in front of the casket, she rushed to his side, faster than those of flesh and blood could.  This awareness of her continued presence made the whole event seem like a bizarre play.  Unsure of my role in it, I said nothing of my impressions.

The next time I saw my grandmother was months later in a dream.  She looked much the same as she had in life, though bliss appeared to have smoothed the minimal lines on her face.  We sat together in a well-appointed bungalow, into which drifted the sound of waves crashing on a shore.  We played cards and marble solitaire, and while we didn’t speak, our hearts communicated volumes.  Love and peace enveloped me, but I knew our time together was brief.

Suddenly, she smiled at me, and I heard her thoughts.  Come.  I want to show you something.

We stepped outside where the sky glowed with the rosy hue of twilight.  I followed her along a path of stones to a beach that seemed to stretch into infinity.  Then I noticed the ocean and did a double take.

The water was golden and full of light.  The waves crested, but instead of curving over, they extended–as though over a box–before colliding with the sand.  My mind registered the image of a square, then a cube, and finally something like a hypercube (or tesseract) rotating on a single axis.

Abruptly, I awoke.  I leapt out of bed, snatched a pen from my desk, and wrote in my dream journal:  Grandma in a cottage at the beach.  Square waves.  Fourth dimension.  In a daze, I climbed back into bed, burrowed under the covers, and fell asleep.

At nine years of age, I had no formal knowledge of geometry or physics.  When I observed what I’d written the next day, the idea of a fourth dimension was foreign.  But in the moment I emerged from the dream, it made perfect sense.

The fourth dimension holds meaning for mathematicians and metaphysicians alike.  In geometry, a tesseract (made, in principle, by combining two cubes) is the four-dimensional analog of the cube, just as the cube is the three-dimensional analog of the square.  In spiritual studies, the fourth dimension is linked to a higher frequency or vibration of energy, interpreted as the astral plane (the realm we enter during astral travel and at physical death).  Apparently, we become conscious of it when beings from higher dimensions intersect with our three-dimensional reality.

Maybe my grandmother paid me a visit.  Maybe I traveled via the astral plane to visit her.  All I know is our first reunion was as beautiful and as deep as the shining waters she revealed.

This experience and others like it inevitably find their way into my writing.  In The Novels of Ravenwood series, some of the characters are aware of other dimensions.  They receive information through visions or dreams, sometimes from a loved one who’s crossed over.  It’s historical romance with a dash of magical realism.  Medievals with a hint of the mystical.  I hope you enjoy Flight of the Raven and Soul of the Wolf (soon to be released).  I’m currently writing the third in the series, Shadow of the Swan.

Flight of the Raven is available now on Amazon.  Click here!

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