Happy Halloween!

The "veil" is thin at this time of year. As the Earth speeds on its journey around the Sun, the tip of its axis provides us with a change of seasons. These seasons are also hence accentuated by longer or shorter periods of daylight. Longer for the warmer seasons, shorter for the cold. Ancient Celts and Teutonics (Germanic and Nordic peoples) recognized this and worshiped the Gods that they felt controlled Night and Day. Samhain (Celtic/Gaelic word for November) was when the loss of daylight was starting to be a serious concern... The crops were all in, and the live stock had just been brought in from the high pastures.  It was the end of the agricultural and pastoral year. Animals were selected for breeding, others for slaughter. The ancients saw this change in day light as a "Battle" with the Sun God of life losing at this point to the God of darkness and death. The spiritual fear was that if the Sun God lost- All would be plunged into a terminal night! Plants would not grow and hence live stock would not feed thus all would parish. This struggle of course took place year after year, and even though the people learned they would not be wiped out, they kept this season in mind as a time when "The viel was thin", when people of the dead could come through and visit the living! These customs have held up through time for many thousands of years.  

The little ones still don scary costumes to frighten away evil spirits, then go out for fun and mischief. Young adults still play the games and take the tests to determine their futures and fates. We all take time to remember those friends and relations who have passed on before us. These are some of the ways we deal with the ghosts that are with us every day.

Light a tallow candle
Build the bonfires bright!
Scare away the darkness
For this is Halloween night!

This is Halloween!

THE PHANTOM REGIMENT OF KILLIECRANKIE

Excerpted from:

Scottish Ghost Stories

By Elliot O’Donnell

LONDON:

KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO. LTD.

1911

In its entirety.

CASE VI

    THE PHANTOM REGIMENT OF KILLIECRANKIE

Many are the stories that have from time to time been circulated with

regard to the haunting of the Pass of Killiecrankie by phantom

soldiers, but I do not think there is any stranger story than that

related to me, some years ago, by a lady who declared she had actually

witnessed the phenomena. Her account of it I shall reproduce as far as

possible in her own words:--

Let me commence by stating that I am not a spiritualist, and that I

have the greatest possible aversion to convoking the earthbound souls

of the dead. Neither do I lay any claim to mediumistic powers (indeed

I have always regarded the term "medium" with the gravest suspicion).

I am, on the contrary, a plain, practical, matter-of-fact woman, and

with the exception of this one occasion, never witnessed any psychic

phenomena.

The incident I am about to relate took place the autumn before last. I

was on a cycle tour in Scotland, and, making Pitlochry my temporary

headquarters, rode over one evening to view the historic Pass of

Killiecrankie. It was late when I arrived there, and the western sky

was one great splash of crimson and gold--such vivid colouring I had

never seen before and never have seen since. Indeed, I was so

entranced at the sublimity of the spectacle, that I perched myself on

a rock at the foot of one of the great cliffs that form the walls of

the Pass, and, throwing my head back, imagined myself in fairyland.

Lost, thus, in a delicious luxury, I paid no heed to the time, nor did

I think of stirring, until the dark shadows of the night fell across

my face. I then started up in a panic, and was about to pedal off in

hot haste, when a strange notion suddenly seized me: I had a latchkey,

plenty of sandwiches, a warm cape, why should I not camp out there

till early morning--I had long yearned to spend a night in the open,

now was my opportunity. The idea was no sooner conceived than put

into operation. Selecting the most comfortable-looking boulder I could

see, I scrambled on to the top of it, and, with my cloak drawn tightly

over my back and shoulders, commenced my vigil. The cold mountain air,

sweet with the perfume of gorse and heather, intoxicated me, and I

gradually sank into a heavenly torpor, from which I was abruptly

aroused by a dull boom, that I at once associated with distant

musketry. All was then still, still as the grave, and, on glancing at

the watch I wore strapped on my wrist, I saw it was two o'clock. A

species of nervous dread now laid hold of me, and a thousand and one

vague fancies, all the more distressing because of their vagueness,

oppressed and disconcerted me. Moreover, I was impressed for the first

time with the extraordinary solitude--solitude that seemed to belong

to a period far other than the present, and, as I glanced around at

the solitary pines and gleaming boulders, I more than half expected to

see the wild, ferocious face of some robber chief--some fierce yet

fascinating hero of Sir Walter Scott's--peering at me from behind

them. This feeling at length became so acute, that, in a panic of

fear--ridiculous, puerile fear, I forcibly withdrew my gaze and

concentrated it abstractedly on the ground at my feet. I then

listened, and in the rustling of a leaf, the humming of some night

insect, the whizzing of a bat, the whispering of the wind as it moaned

softly past me, I fancied--nay, I felt sure I detected something that

was not ordinary. I blew my nose, and had barely ceased marvelling at

the loudness of its reverberations, before the piercing, ghoulish

shriek of an owl sent the blood in torrents to my heart. I then

laughed, and my blood froze as I heard a chorus, of what I tried to

persuade myself could only be echoes, proceed from every crag and rock

in the valley. For some seconds after this I sat still, hardly daring

to breathe, and pretending to be extremely angry with myself for being

such a fool. With a stupendous effort I turned my attention to the

most material of things. One of the skirt buttons on my hip--they were

much in vogue then--being loose, I endeavoured to occupy myself in

tightening it, and when I could no longer derive any employment from

that, I set to work on my shoes, and tied knots in the laces, merely

to enjoy the task of untying them. But this, too, ceasing at last to

attract me, I was desperately racking my mind for some other device,

when there came again the queer, booming noise I had heard before, but

which I could now no longer doubt was the report of firearms. I looked

in the direction of the sound--and--my heart almost stopped. Racing

towards me--as if not merely for his life, but his soul--came the

figure of a Highlander. The wind rustling through his long dishevelled

hair, blew it completely over his forehead, narrowly missing his eyes,

which were fixed ahead of him in a ghastly, agonised stare. He had not

a vestige of colour, and, in the powerful glow of the moonbeams, his

skin shone livid. He ran with huge bounds, and, what added to my

terror and made me double aware he was nothing mortal, was that each

time his feet struck the hard, smooth road, upon which I could well

see there was no sign of a stone, there came the sound, the

unmistakable sound of the scattering of gravel. On, on he came, with

cyclonic swiftness; his bare sweating elbows pressed into his panting

sides; his great, dirty, coarse, hairy fists screwed up in bony

bunches in front of him; the foam-flakes thick on his clenched,

grinning lips; the blood-drops oozing down his sweating thighs. It was

all real, infernally, hideously real, even to the most minute details:

the flying up and down of his kilt, sporan, and swordless scabbard;

the bursting of the seam of his coat, near the shoulder; and the

absence of one of his clumsy shoe-buckles. I tried hard to shut my

eyes, but was compelled to keep them open, and follow his every

movement as, darting past me, he left the roadway, and, leaping

several of the smaller obstacles that barred his way, finally

disappeared behind some of the bigger boulders. I then heard the loud

rat-tat of drums, accompanied by the shrill voices of fifes and

flutes, and at the farther end of the Pass, their arms glittering

brightly in the silvery moonbeams, appeared a regiment of scarlet-clad

soldiers. At the head rode a mounted officer, after him came the

band, and then, four abreast, a long line of warriors; in their centre

two ensigns, and on their flanks, officers and non-commissioned

officers with swords and pikes; more mounted men bringing up the rear.

On they came, the fifes and flutes ringing out with a weird clearness

in the hushed mountain air. I could hear the ground vibrate, the

gravel crunch and scatter, as they steadily and mechanically

advanced--tall men, enormously tall men, with set, white faces and

livid eyes. Every instant I expected they would see me, and I became

sick with terror at the thought of meeting all those pale, flashing

eyes. But from this I was happily saved; no one appeared to notice me,

and they all passed me by without as much as a twist or turn of the

head, their feet keeping time to one everlasting and monotonous tramp,

tramp, tramp. I got up and watched until the last of them had turned

the bend of the Pass, and the sheen of his weapons and trappings could

no longer be seen; then I remounted my boulder and wondered if

anything further would happen. It was now half-past two, and blended

with the moonbeams was a peculiar whiteness, which rendered the whole

aspect of my surroundings indescribably dreary and ghostly. Feeling

cold and hungry, I set to work on my beef sandwiches, and was

religiously separating the fat from the lean, for I am one of those

foolish people who detest fat, when a loud rustling made me look up.

Confronting me, on the opposite side of the road, was a tree, an ash,

and to my surprise, despite the fact that the breeze had fallen and

there was scarcely a breath of wind, the tree swayed violently to and

fro, whilst there proceeded from it the most dreadful moanings and

groanings. I was so terrified that I caught hold of my bicycle and

tried to mount, but I was obliged to desist as I had not a particle of

strength in my limbs. Then to assure myself the moving of the tree was

not an illusion, I rubbed my eyes, pinched myself, called aloud; but

it made no difference--the rustling, bending, and tossing still

continued. Summing up courage, I stepped into the road to get a closer

view, when to my horror my feet kicked against something, and, on

looking down, I perceived the body of an English soldier, with a

ghastly wound in his chest. I gazed around, and there, on all sides of

me, from one end of the valley to the other, lay dozens of

bodies,--bodies of men and horses,--Highlanders and English,

white-cheeked, lurid eyes, and bloody-browed,--a hotch-potch of livid,

gory awfulness. Here was the writhing, wriggling figure of an officer

with half his face shot away; and there, a horse with no head; and

there--but I cannot dwell on such horrors, the very memory of which

makes me feel sick and faint. The air, that beautiful, fresh mountain

air, resounded with their moanings and groanings, and reeked with the

smell of their blood. As I stood rooted to the ground with horror, not

knowing which way to look or turn, I suddenly saw drop from the ash,

the form of a woman, a Highland girl, with bold, handsome features,

raven black hair, and the whitest of arms and feet. In one hand she

carried a wicker basket, in the other a knife, a broad-bladed,

sharp-edged, horn-handled knife. A gleam of avarice and cruelty came

into her large dark eyes, as, wandering around her, they rested on the

rich facings of the English officers' uniforms. I knew what was in

her mind, and--forgetting she was but a ghost--that they were all

ghosts--I moved heaven and earth to stop her. I could not. Making

straight for a wounded officer that lay moaning piteously on the

ground, some ten feet away from me, she spurned with her slender,

graceful feet, the bodies of the dead and dying English that came in

her way. Then, snatching the officer's sword and pistol from him, she

knelt down, and, with a look of devilish glee in her glorious eyes,

calmly plunged her knife into his heart, working the blade backwards

and forwards to assure herself she had made a thorough job of it.

Anything more hellish I could not have imagined, and yet it fascinated

me--the girl was so fair, so wickedly fair and shapely. Her act of

cruelty over, she spoiled her victim of his rings, epaulets, buttons

and gold lacing, and, having placed them in her basket, proceeded

elsewhere. In some cases, unable to remove the rings easily, she

chopped off the fingers, and popped them, just as they were, into her

basket. Neither was her mode of dispatch always the same, for while

she put some men out of their misery in the manner I have described,

she cut the throats of others with as great a nonchalance as if she

had been killing fowls, whilst others again she settled with the

butt-ends of their guns or pistols. In all she murdered a full

half-score, and was decamping with her booty when her gloating eyes

suddenly encountered mine, and with a shrill scream of rage she rushed

towards me. I was an easy victim, for strain and pray how I would, I

could not move an inch. Raising her flashing blade high over her head,

an expression of fiendish glee in her staring eyes, she made ready to

strike me. This was the climax, my overstrained nerves could stand no

more, and ere the blow had time to descend, I pitched heavily forward

and fell at her feet. When I recovered, every phantom had vanished,

and the Pass glowed with all the cheerful freshness of the early

morning sun. Not a whit the worse for my venture, I cycled swiftly

home, and ate as only one can eat who has spent the night amid the

banks and braes of bonnie Scotland.

A Day In The Life Of a Ghost

Alive or Dead?

A Day In The Life Of a Ghost

By Ronald McCalip

Every day is the same

I awake and step into the fog.

A mist where there is no light or dark… no shadows.

It is neither hot nor cold, No better or worse.

Just a constant grey.

The mind wonders.

For all I can tell, it is just me. Me and the fog.

Will I ever find where I am going? Where am I going? Why am I going?

It’s just me and the fog. All I have is what I carry.

I carry my memories, my pain and my faith.

But as time wears on, one by one, the memories are lost in the fog.

Like Planaria under a microscope I venture forth, veering from pain to pleasure

The little bits of pleasure encountered bring sustenance and new memories

Sustenance seemingly keeps one going and thus is spent, while memories are soon to be lost again in the fog.

We arise every day, greeted by our new and old aches and pains.

We start the fight all over, pushing past the feelings, through the thoughts the dreads.

The aches and pains are memories of a sort aren’t they? Not just the lower spine, the neck and the knee, but the trials and tribulations of the past. The heart breaks, the shattered dreams and expectations, the lost hope. Not just what has befallen us, it is what we have done to others and what we have failed to do. The pains sear every part of our being.

Never really burning it all away… Its flames may consume much and once ignited, it’s always present. Always at least an ember… silently waiting for a fanning of the spark.

Even when we think we can live with the numbness that is left, the void acts as an irritant in our being. Somehow giving us knowledge that we are no longer whole.

The memory of the pain always seems to be the last to leave.

Is it because we hold it so close, it is the last burden God lifts from our shoulders?

I wander through the fog until I am weary. I know not how long nor how far.

The fog consumes me and I drift off to sleep.

Every day is the same

I awake and step into the fog.

HALLOWE'EN FAILURE

Over the weekend, I read this neat little bit o prose in an old book called The Book of Hallowe'en by Ruth Edna Kelley, (published in Boston by Lothrop, Lee &Shepard & Co. in 1919.) It is a collection of Halloween customs, legend and lore from around the globe. A majority of our Halloween traditions here in The USA, are from Ireland and Scotland. But here in the "Melting pot" of the USA, everyone can contribute to the mix!

This story is told in African-American dialect similar to that of the much beloved Uncle Remus stories that were very popular with children before the days of political correctness and overly inflamed ethnic and racial  sensitivities. This particular piece was published originally in Harper's Weekly, October 29th, 1910.

HALLOWE'EN FAILURE

by Carlyle Smith

Who's dat peekin' in de do'?
Set mah heart a-beatin'!
Thought I see' a spook for sho
On mah way to meetin'.
Heerd a rustlin' all aroun',
Trees all sort o' jiggled;
An' along de frosty groun'
Funny shadders wriggled.
Who's dat by de winder-sill?
Gittin' sort o' skeery;
Feets is feelin' kind o' chill,
Eyes is sort o' teary.
'Most as nervous as a coon
When de dawgs is barkin',
Er a widder when some spoon
Comes along a-sparkin'.
Whass dat creepin' up de road,
Quiet like a ferret,
Hoppin' sof'ly as a toad?
Maybe hit's a sperrit!
Lordy! hope dey ain't no ghos'
Come to tell me howdy.
I ain't got no use for those
Fantoms damp an' cloudy.
Whass dat standin' by de fence
Wid its eyes a-yearnin',
Drivin' out mah common-sense
Wid its glances burnin'?
Don't dass skeercely go to bed
Wid dem spookses roun' me.
Ain't no res' fo' dis yere head
When dem folks surroun' me.
Whass dat groanin' soun' I hear
Off dar by de gyardin?
Lordy! Lordy! Lordy dear,
Grant dis sinner pardon!
I won't nebber--I declar'
Ef it ain't my Sammy!
Sambo, what yo' doin' dar?
Yo' can't skeer yo' mammy!

--CARLYLE SMITH in Harper's Weekly, Oct. 29, 1910.

The Ghosts Come Out At Midnight

The Ghosts Come Out At Midnight

By Ronald McCalip

The ghosts come out about midnight

They walk from churchyard to knave

The ghosts walk about at midnight

Both nobleman and the Slave

The ghosts come out at midnight

Both the timid and the brave

The ghosts come out near midnight

Out and away from the foul grave

Some come out to seek justice

Some come back for a need

Some come for forgiveness

Some come to watch us bleed.

The ghosts come out by midnight

Yet they haunt both night and day

The ghosts come out at midnight

The Poltergeists just want to play

The ghosts they walk at midnight

Some are summoned by a friend

The ghosts they walk by midnight

For some, midnight will never end

Some come out and wail

Some come out and moan

Some show up as just a mist

Some reveal only bones

The ghosts arise at midnight

We don’t see them much during day

The ghosts arise by midnight

To see, some would even pay

The ghosts they walk by midnight

Some wish never, they pray.

The ghosts come out at midnight

So sad they never stay.

Some come back for evil

Some come out for good

Some come out because they’re lost

Some are misunderstood

My ghosts, they walk at midnight

Spirits in a bottle are no defense

My ghosts haunt me at midnight

They want their recompense

My ghosts are with me day and night

They are forever with me hence

My ghosts are up at midnight

Sometimes it’s quite intense

Stone Garden

Stone Garden

By Ron McCalip

I lie in a stone garden

With granite over my head

It’s oh so very quiet here

There’s little gossip amongst the dead.

Moss and turf they blanket me

As I lay sheltered from storm

Bindings all so comfort me

Yet they seldom keep me warm.

I slumber now eternal

My putrid corpse a rotting.

Handsome only in a dream…

I hear the Devil plotting.

The battle's far from over.

Tis a war of which I’m done.

My soul’s what stands on trial now

For chances, I have but one

My defense must be perfect

An acquittal, there'll be none.

I await my fate alone.

With my corpse, the sky and stone.

The days and years, they fast fly by

These old bones, they do but crumble

Still now, my soul awaits the judgment day

Till then I can’t even mumble!

I lie in a stone garden

With granite over my head

It’s oh so very quiet here

There’s little gossip amongst the dead.

Ghost House

Ghost House

by Robert Frost

I Dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out. It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me-- Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things, As sweet companions as might be had.

Dear Ancestor-

Dear Ancestor

by Anonymous

Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on polished, marbled stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I’d exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
one hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and come to visit you.

The Veil is Getting Thin-

The Veil Is Getting Thin

by Anonymous

As I went out walking this fall afternoon,
I heard a wisper wispering.
I heard a wisper wispering,
Upon this fine fall day...

As I went out walking this fall afternoon,
I heard a laugh a'laughing.
I heard a laugh a'laughing,
Upon this fine fall day...

I heard this wisper and I wondered,
I heard this laugh and then I knew.
The time is getting near my friends,
The time that I hold dear my friends,
The veil is getting thin my friends,
And strange things will pass through.

The Ghoul

The Ghoul

by Jack Prelutsky

The gruesome ghoul, the grisly ghoul,

without the slightest noise

waits patiently beside the school

to feast on girls and boys

He lunges fiercely though the air

as they come out to play,

and grabs a couple my the hair

and drags them far away.

He cracks their bones and snap their backs

and squeezes out their lungs,

he chew their thumbs like candy snacks

and pulls apart their tongues.

He slices their stomachs and bites their hearts

and tears their flash to shreds,

he swallows their toes like toasted tarts

and gobbles down their heads

Fingers, elbow, hands and knees

and arms and legs and feet-

he eats them with delight and ease,

for every part's a treat.

And when the gruesome grisly ghoul

has nothing left to chew,

he hurries to another school

and waits. . . perhaps for you.

Shadow Dragon - by Sloane Jensen

Shadow Dragon -  A Poem About Evil

© Copyright by Sloane Jensen 2007

The silver moon is full,

the far-off stars are bright,

yet deep is the darkness

of this silent night.

Dark clouds suddenly form,

hiding all the light.

Sinister shadows fall,

obscuring all from sight.

Then, cloaked in blackness,

something evil comes fourth.

As heartless as a stone,

and as cold as the north.

It rises into the sky

on great silent wings,

gone to spread fear and death

among all helpless beings.

Its true form can't be seen

by any human eye.

Except maybe in the end,

when it is time for us to die.

It has always been with us,

ever since the day of the Fall.

Lurking within the shadows,

seeking to claim us all.

It is continuously watching us,

and our darkest desires it learns.

Sharing with us its agony,

because its soul forever burns.

The shadow dragon is just one

of its many twisted forms.

It can be a devil too,

with razor-sharp black horns.

Its name is legion

and it has many faces.

It schemes and plains

in all dark places.

It hungers longing

after human life.

It smiles gleefully

at human strife.

It lurks deep within

every human heart.

Waiting for the chance

to tear our souls apart.

Its own ugly heart is full

of greed, spite, and hate.

It wants to take us with it,

and all together share its fate.

If it weren't for the love, bravery,

and kindness we try to show every day,

it would have long ago put our world

under its cruel and brutal sway.

Some of us will pray and fight,

turning our hearts again toward the Light ,

when the dread shadow dragon comes

silently out of our soul's dark night.

But some of us will bow before this Beast,

and sit with him at his unholy feast.

Raising blood-filled glasses with a grin,

to toast a world of madness, chaos, and sin.

The Mermaid’s Song

The Mermaid’s Song

October 15, 2012

© Copyright 2012 Ronald McCalip. All rights reserved.

A lonely little fisherman sat upon the shore

Sad because he had no wife at home, to keep the fires warm.

One evening he sat upon the rocks. So sad, he could not sleep.

Then he heard the Mermaids song arising from the deep.

Oh lonely little fisherman

Come make me now your bride

I can make you very happy

In a house beneath the tide.

The Mermaid was very pretty, with skin of purest white…

Her hair was soft and golden brown, her eyes were bluest bright.

Modestly clothed by seaweed and kelp, her figure was pleasing yet strong

But her most enchanting aspect twas, that of her bewitching song!

Oh lonely little fisherman

Come make me now your bride

I can make you very happy

In a house beneath the tide.

Oh a bonnie lass you’d make, my love! My chest would swell with pride!

Alas I canna’ live and breathe beneath the oceans tide!

Surely that would kill me and put me in my grave.

He started then to weep, because he did not feel so brave.

Oh, lonely little fisherman

Come make me now your bride

I will make you very happy

In a house beneath the tide.

Perhaps ye can come up topside, and stay to make my croft a home

While I am out to ply my trade, in my boat upon the foam.

Oh no! That won’t happen! My true love could never let that be!

For my home and my one love, shall ever be at the bottom of the sea!

Oh lonely little fisherman

Come take me for your bride

I will make you very happy

In a house beneath the tide.

With a mournful cry the fisherman dove in and he caught her by her side.

The waves beat out a wedding march as they kissed beneath the tide

Though now his life was short, she kept her word and took him to her bower in the deep

His lifeless body moulders still, at the bottom of her cold, dark ,ocean keep.

Oh lonely little fisherman

How happy we will be!

I will make you very happy

In our home beneath the sea.

There’s a moral to this story, a fishy tale it’s true!

The mermaid’s song is quite beguiling,

Sailor, you know just what she’ll do.

It’s bad enough she’ll break your heart, don’t let her drown you too!

Bleed Out

Bleed Out
October 15, 2012

© Copyright 2012 Ronald McCalip. All rights reserved.

While sadness and despair

Wage war upon the mind

Cold is the steel that glides

Across the skin, so slow.

Like ships upon the sea.

Fiery rage moves even

The thickest of the blood.

Veins sliced neatly open

At neck, forearm and thigh

A blade falls from fingers

Warm scarlet rivers flow

Stealthy, from this body

Life’s crimson waters go.

Finally, sitting in

The sleepy, sticky, pool

Oceans of warm blackish red do cool

Cold now, lies the body

In the pale moon lit night

Oh, never more shall these

Tired eyes use o’ their sight.

Life’s trivial battles

No more torment thy head

Thy temper now is calmed

Now that this soul is dead.