Fodder for paranormal plot bunnies are easily found all over the UK. Every county claims to be The Most Haunted – headless horsemen, black dogs, grey ladies, highwaymen, Roman soldiers, monks, nuns, poltergeists – you name it and you can bet it will have featured in a book or article somewhere. There are a lot of websites and blogs dedicated to researching the phenomena with all kinds of equipment and esoteric gizmos, not to mention TV ‘reality’ shows of questionable authenticity…
Yet there’s no smoke without fire. Even though I’m as psychic as your average house brick, I’ve had the occasional weird experience. I’ve travelled England and Wales a fair bit, taken digital photos where I can for pleasure and latterly for research as well. Several times something odd has appeared on some photos. Those well-known phenomena, orbs. I am on the fence about what caused them to appear on some photos but not others – dust motes, water droplets, paranormal manifestations, who knows? But for what it’s worth, here they are…
Back in September 2008, I had the rare chance to be part of a small group given a tour of the underground rooms and tunnels beneath Bristol Temple Meads railway station. It is a wonderful 19th century edifice, and the many tunnels proved to be life-savers during World War 2, despite the Luftwaffe’s best efforts. Some are still in use, while others have been more or less abandoned. It was a fascinating few hours, and a couple of the photos proved intriguing. I’ve cropped and enhanced them for the sake of the blog, but the orbs are visible. Very much so in one case. I’ve cropped and enhanced that shot to show the orb as clearly as I can – it might be a water droplet, but seems to be perfectly round rather than pear-shaped.
In June 2012, I visited Erddig Hall, near Wrexham, North Wales. This is a beautiful house, with a charming history – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erddig – and nothing officially listed about ghosts. I followed a few links, though, and found a mention in someone’s blog of unspecified ghostly tales told by that person’s relative who had worked there. At the time, I didn’t know that. So the photos taken at the foot of these stairs and in this bedroom took me by surprise. The orbs are faint, but in the over-enhanced photos, they are fairly clear.
These days I inspect every photo I take with great care, but I’ve not found any more orbs. So far.
Chris Quinton – a Bio
Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she’d ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web.
Chris’s reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes male/female novels in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she embroiders, quilts and knits. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor.
She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, two hyperactive dogs and sundry goldfish [the psychotic but geriatric mice have gone to The Great Cheese In The Sky].
Her Facebook is https://www.facebook.com/chris.quinton.14
BUY LINK – http://bit.ly/16osuqM
Jubal is the last Carlyle, and lives near Seattle, far away from his Abenaki ancestors. A letter from a lawyer draws him and his best friend, Sal, to Vermont and the town of Whitewater. Soon they are right in the middle of the old conflict that drove Jubal’s parents away just before his birth.
Whitewater is suffering and not just from the economic downturn. Unleashed by one man’s obsession to call back the spirit of his dead wife, and by the well-meaning but flawed actions of another, dark forces are bringing depression and hopelessness.
Jubal’s father had neither the talent nor the wish to attempt the task of driving back the incursion, but Jubal knows he has to try. He must find a way to reverse the process before the malaise spreads. But he has no knowledge, no training, just instinct – and Sal. Always Sal, who is rapidly becoming far more than a friend with benefits. The dangers they face are insidious, and more than their lives and sanity are at risk.
“Was wondering when you were going to wake up,” said the voice.
Since his head currently felt as if an axe was embedded in it, coherent thinking wasn’t an option. Jubal managed a slurred, “Shut up,” and tried to open his eyes. It didn’t happen. His lids seemed to be glued shut. Not that it fully registered with him. The mere effort had been enough to send the pain soaring to a new level.
“You don’t want to think about moving just yet.” The deep voice sounded wryly amused. Jubal decided he hated the guy, whoever he was. “You got a minute or so.”
“Wha…?” he groaned. At the same time he became aware of bruising pressure across his chest and legs. A hard and jagged cage-like something enclosed his body. He heard the pings of cooling metal, the steady drip-drip of leaking gasoline. Smelt it as well. Not good. His memory surged back in a nauseating rush.
He’d been returning home after his shift at the forest ranger station, looking forward to getting out of the deluge that hadn’t let up all day, and into a hot shower. Friday night with the rain lashing down, he’d had the back roads leading from Seattle’s Capitol State Forest to himself. Until a deer had come out of nowhere, dashed in front of him in a flash of glistening wet hide and black eyes. He’d slammed on his brakes and—nothing at all after that.
“You don’t want to hurl either,” the man said. “Trust me.”
“Help me, for fuck’s sake!” Jubal snarled. He tried to raise his right arm so he could scrub at his eyes, but the pain struck again and he nearly passed out.
“Can’t.” The man didn’t sound regretful, just matter-of-fact. “You gotta do it yourself. And if I was you, I’d start right about now. Bastard’s struck a match.”
“Mother-fuck—” A faint crackling sound started up and another smell assaulted his nostrils. Something was burning.
Panic exploded through Jubal in a scorching tide. He tried to simultaneously shove off whatever was pinning him, roll over and get to his feet. He failed at all three. The agony was oddly distant, but the whoosh of flames and heat was not. His fear became a savage beast that clawed at his brain, at any vestige of self-control that remained. There was only the all-consuming need to be somewhere else—
Something tore deep inside him and Jubal howled. He must have blacked out for a while, because the next thing he knew the biting weight had gone from his body and his arms were free. Rain pattered on his upturned face, sliding its chilled fingers across his skin. He had just enough time to register the texture of the earth and grass beneath him before the gas tank exploded. A wave of heat scooped him up and dropped him into a puddle.
E-Books by Chris Quinton – all available at All Romance eBooks and Amazon
Game On Game Over
Home and Heart
The Psychic’s Tale – 1st part of The Fitzwarren Inheritance Trilogy by three authors