![\"Aaron](\"https:\/\/d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net\/authors\/1336575303p5\/629566.jpg\")
I Do Believe in Spooks!<\/h1>\nI Do Believe in Spooks!<\/h1>\nby Aaron Paul Lazar<\/p>\n
L<\/b><\/span><\/span><\/span>iving in an antique home has its problems, especially when you\u2019re not a handyman. My father<\/span><\/span><\/span> taught me all sorts of wonderful things when he was alive, including passion for the arts, gardening, nature, gourmet cooking, and a good mystery. But he didn\u2019t know much about mechanical, plumbing, electrical, or woodworking skills. Though I\u2019ve tried to learn over the years with self-help books and advice from friends, I remain singularly <\/span><\/span>unhandy<\/i><\/span><\/span>, perpetually bowing with an unholy need to the whims of the local plumber and electrician.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Take, for example, the twenty-six windows that are crumbling as we speak. The six by nine inch panes are coming loose from their wooden mullions with alarming frequency. Or the floorboards in our bedroom, a lovely old yellow pine, that poke up like teepees when it\u2019s hot and muggy. Yeah, they need to be treated with poly something-or-other, but for now, the moisture makes them swell. Consider the two wells that sometimes work in concert, except for the hundred times a year I have to run down to the cobwebbed cellar and reset the breakers or tap on the pump to make it work.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The disadvantages are many.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n But, there are also benefits, such as the three working fireplaces. Or the soil that surrounds the property, rich and black, untouched by bulldozers. It\u2019s not like the hard packed fill they put in new housing tracts. I don\u2019t need amend this soil. I just need to keep up with the produce and flowers.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Most intriguing of all, however, is the rich history.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Our house was built in 1811 by Dr. John Hunt.<\/span><\/span><\/span> I admit, compared to many homes in Europe it\u2019s just an infant. But in terms of our country and its young age, 1811 isn\u2019t exactly contemporary. Think about it. This house was built and lived in over fifty years before the civil war!<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Imagine the births, deaths, dramas, romances, and heartaches that occurred within these rooms. Did the inhabitants suffer from small pox? Starvation? Were they affluent? How many horses or cows did they own? And how many ghosts linger in these plaster and lathe walls?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Let\u2019s examine the past 100 years. We live on Hunts Corners, named for the original owner of our home. My daughter Allison and I have found his grave and that of his descendants in an ancient cemetery on a nearby hill.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n According to an elderly neighbor, over seven people have died on Hunts Corners. Traffic accidents. Drivers not stopping for the all-way stop signs, or sliding on ice, or drunk drivers plowing right into the telephone pole. Sad to think about. Makes you wonder about their spirits. Did they ascend to Heaven? Or do a few guilty souls remain in the area, confused and wandering, seeking the path to redemption?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Recently, I began to ponder another death disclosed to me by a neighbor. We began to correspond after he read a few of my books. He\u2019s a bright and entertaining young fellow who happens to be a voracious reader. We clicked. And we chat back and forth about books and life and sometimes about the history of our area.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n It seems Hunts Corners has a mystery all its own, stemming from the early 1900s. As the story goes, my young neighbor\u2019s great grandmother noticed something odd one day. (I\u2019ll invent names to protect the innocent or guilty as the case may be.) While going about her daily chores, Mabel McAvey realized she hadn\u2019t seen the young girl who lived next door in a long time. Anna no longer attended school, and rarely made an appearance outside the home. When she finally caught a glimpse of the girl, Mabel noticed a thickening in her middle, well-wrapped by heavy garments. She suspected the girl was with child. In that era, a pregnancy out of wedlock was unthinkable. Shameful. A sin. The family would endure public humiliation if news got out. So Anna was sequestered for nine long months as Mabel spied on her and watched the child grow in her belly.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n When the time came for the baby to be born, there was no activity in the house. No child was seen. No doctor arrived. All was quiet.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Speculation grew. Was the child stillborn? Or worse, was she murdered by a family cloaked in shame? Rumors were that the little baby was buried behind Anna\u2019s house.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Since then, there have been reports of children pointing behind the house, exclaiming about the \u201clittle girl in the weeds.\u201d My neighbor\u2019s six-year-old daughter \u201csaw\u201d her, with no prompting.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDaddy? Who\u2019s that little girl in the weeds? Can I play with her?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n My friend saw no one, and this happened many times. His daughter clearly saw <\/span><\/span><\/span>someone<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span> out there.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n So, although no adults have seen her, I think I might have, last winter.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I rose early to photograph our Christmas lights. They were unusually festive last year, better than all past years. We\u2019d added a few light-up deer to graze in splendor on the snowy lawn, and I was bound and determined to capture the scene during the blackest of night.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n It was a clear, chill morning. Five A.M. Not a breeze stirred. Most households were fast asleep. Few cars passed by.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I brought my trusty Canon Powershot outdoors and took dozens of photos. Later, when I viewed them on my PC, I saw the ghost. There she was, looking straight at me with wide open eyes. Filmy, transparent, but with a clear face and body. Only two shots revealed her, although I took dozens that morning.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n These photos are untouched, straight from the camera card. And yes, I know there\u2019s probably a scientific explanation. Maybe the light from the flash illuminated ice crystals in the air, causing a momentary illusion. Maybe it reflected off my frozen breath that puffed into the night. Maybe – who knows? She sure looked real. Can you see her? In the first photo, she has a long neck like ET and looks rather surprised. In the second, her Casper-like face is hovering over the car. See it?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Last night I woke to a tapping sound. Usually it\u2019s Balto in his bed, scratching an itch and thumping up against the wall. I rose to check, but he lay still, mouth open, breathing evenly.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Could it be my grandson knocking on the door? I looked. No little boy stood silhouetted in the dark. All was quiet.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I tumbled back to bed, ready to snuggle in and resume the great dream I\u2019d been having that took me away to exotic colorful locales and luscious meals.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The tapping resumed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I rose up and stared outside. Headlights flashed by, briefly pouring cones of light into the darkness. Was that a flash of white? A face? Or simply a reflection on the rain-soaked street?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The tapping returned. Rhythmic. Evenly spaced. Over and over again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Something was outside my window. On the second floor. Twenty feet above the ground.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Could it be the little girl, needing to connect with me and spill her story?<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Icy fingers tap-danced down my spine. I burrowed beneath the covers and closed my eyes tight.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do believe in spooks.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n They say it\u2019s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.<\/p>\n Finn McGraw disagrees.<\/p>\n He was just seventeen when he had a torrid summer affair with the girl who stole his heart\u2014and then inexplicably turned on him, just before being sent to boarding school. Finn may have moved on with his life, but he\u2019s never forgotten her.<\/p>\n Now, ten years later, he\u2019s got more than his lost love to worry about. A horrific accident turns his life upside down, resurrecting the ghosts of his long-dead family at the same time it takes the lives of the few people he has left.<\/p>\n Finn always believed his estranged brother was responsible for the fire that killed their family\u2014but an unexpected inheritance with a mystery attached throws everything he knows into doubt.<\/p>\n And on top of that, the beguiling daughter of his wealthy employer has secrets of her own. But the closer he gets, the harder she pushes him away.<\/p>\n The Seacrest<\/i>\u00a0is a story of intrigue and betrayal, of secrets and second chances\u2014and above all, of a love that never dies.<\/p>\n![\"Pic1\"](\"http:\/\/christineamsden.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/10\/Pic1.jpg\")
<\/a>![\"pic2\"](\"http:\/\/christineamsden.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/10\/pic2.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/a><\/p>\nAnd now the latest from Aaron Paul Lazar…<\/h1>\n
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