Another co-author from The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly, Charlene Raddon is also a talented cover designer. Her first serious attempt at writing fiction came in 1980 when a vivid dream drove her to drag out a typewriter and begin writing. Because of her love of romance novels and the Wild West, her primary genre is historical romance. Kensington Books originally published five of her novels. These were later released as eBooks by Tirgearr Publishing. Currently, they are self-published with new covers designed by the author.
Ghosts are a fascinating subject for all of us. I’ve also had an interest in things paranormal: reincarnation, psychic ability, ESP, the whole shebang. But my real enthusiasm for the supernatural came after I began writing.
In 1971 I was in the process of getting a divorce when a friend talked me into going to a Tarot Card reader. I knew nothing about Tarot, but I say “What the heck!” This card reader proceeded to tell me that I was in the midst of a huge change in my life, that I was probably getting divorced, and that I would soon move a good distance away. She knew all about my past from the cards and was shockingly accurate. But that was all that showed in my cards—my past.
She said there was one final card that indicated a man, but she couldn’t tell me anything without doing another run of cards. That second run showed a man coming into my life. He was, she said, a Leo, never married, no children, within a couple years of my age, and water would play a part in our meeting.
Well, that December, I got my divorce and moved to Utah to live with my sister. A year later, I moved again to another small town in Utah. There I got a job at a club. One night, I was waiting for a group of ladies to sit down so I could take their order. One of them looked at me and said that I had lost someone in my immediate family when I was a teen. I said, “Yes, my father.”
She proceeded to tell me the exact same story the Tarot card reader told me, that I would meet a Leo, never married, no children and water would play a part in our meeting. She also said we would become great friends and friendship would lead to more. I got to know this woman, and it’s still hard for me to believe how psychic she was.
But I never met my Leo.
For a while, during my friendship with this psychic, I, too, started to know things before they happened. Who would come into the club that night. When I would see the guy I was dating, things like that. One day I couldn’t stop thinking about a fellow I’d met a year before. Later I learned he died that day in a trucking accident.
And still, to this day, I don’t know what to believe about the paranormal.
My mother, who was the least superstitious person I know, told me my dad came to see her one night. She woke up, and he stood at the foot of the bed. She spoke to him, and he vanished. She didn’t believe in psychiatry, let alone anything psychic.
Plenty of people have had similar experiences and are uncertain what to make of them. What about you? Have you had any psychic adventures? Share them with us here.
Writing my latest story, A Ride Through Time, for the anthology, The Good, The Bad, and The Ghostly, was a lot of fun. I loved delving into the research on ghost hunting and digging up the little details that helped bring my story alive. I found lists of proper conduct for ghost hunters, what ghost hunters should take with them, equipment and how to use them. I gleefully used all of the information that I could in my tale.
Did I have any paranormal experiences while writing and researching the tale? No, not really, but I’m open to any that might yet appear. Who knows, maybe the spirit my ghost hunter tried to exorcize will come see me.
Yipe! I hope not. He was nuts.
About A Ride Through Time
Ghosts. Murder. Love. P.S.I. Agent Burke Jameson traveled to Eagle Gulch, Colorado, to investigate a report of ghost activity at a house where a murder had taken place in 1881. When his vehicle carrying his P.S.I. equipment dies, and a saddled but riderless mare appears, he mounts up so the horse can take him to her fallen rider. Instead, he is taken to a whole new life he could never have anticipated.
Clorinda Halstead believes she’s a widow. After all, she did shoot her husband, Horace, one violent night in 1881. He deserved it, the jury concluded. Living with the town marshal and his wife, all Clori wants is to be left alone. Then a stranger, Burke James, joins the household, and nothing is ever the same again.
How did Burke find his way through time to the year 1881, and who is haunting the lovely but distant Widow Halstead? Can Burke find the ghost of Eagle Gulch without his P.S.I. equipment? And how will he ever choose between going home to his own time and a life of love and happiness with Clorinda?
Burke’s gaze cut to the house and that eerie deja vu sensation washed over him again. Cold wafted around him like icy arms. He shivered.
Likely scared off the mare with his unprecedented howl at the moon. Nothing more.
Didn’t matter anyway.
What counted was doing his job.
He drew in a deep breath and smelled smoke.
Gray plumes curled up from the chimney, ghostly pale against the darkening sky. Someone must be inside. Why hadn’t he noticed the scent right away? And the faint candlelight behind the lace curtains? Burke prided himself on his powers of observation. Hadn’t done too well this time.
Whoever was here had likely come to check the house’s condition and do repairs. They had set a fire for warmth while they worked. Nothing spooky or dangerous about that. They must have parked in the back. He shook off the niggle of dread on his spine, stepped onto the wooden pallet that served as a porch, and raised his fist to knock.
Plain, unadorned wood.
Where was the plaque proclaiming the place a historic site? And the vinyl-protected display stand that related the Halstead story?
Had the historical society given up maintaining the property? That could explain the house’s poor condition—the peeling paint, the sagging porch roof—but not the missing deadbolt lock that had been there seventeen years ago. Who would ignore badly needed repairs, yet replace a perfectly fine door with one that had never seen a deadbolt?
Whatever was going on here, he’d get to the bottom of it. In fact, he couldn’t wait.
If only Gabe would arrive with the P.S.I. equipment. Burke’s instincts screamed paranormal, louder than ever. His nose itched with urgency. He looked at Spook. The Vizsla sniffed among the leaves; just a normal dog.
Lifting the cuff of his jacket, he checked his watch. Not an ordinary watch, but a specially fashioned piece of modern equipment that not only gave the time, date and weather but acted as a recorder as well. It contained an EDI meter, an Infrared thermal scanner, an EMF detector, and GPS. Right now, the detector showed red, indicating a disruption in the electronic field. That likely meant a ghost disrupting the frequency. The scanner also showed the temperature continued to drop.
So why had Spook’s highly trained instincts gone offline?
Burke pressed the communication button and texted Gabe. While he waited for a reply, he walked the grounds searching for an injured man thrown from a horse. He found nothing and received no reply. Damn.
On his way back to the house he tried his phone again. Nothing. He would have blamed it on the multitude of trees that had surrounded the place, but they were gone.
He peered through an old, distorted glass pane, past the lace curtains. The furniture appeared much the same—what hadn’t been stolen before the historical society took possession. No sign of occupants but they could be in the kitchen or upstairs. Each floor had two rooms, the living area in the front, kitchen in back, and two bedrooms upstairs.
Flummoxed. Burke felt plain flummoxed.
Hell, where had he come up with that antiquated word? The house and its atmosphere were getting to him.
He glanced at the window again. A face—stark, shadowed, creepy as hell—looked back.
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