“I know what you think you heard and felt but I swear to you, nobody’s there.” Shehanne Moore.
Sitting there that autumn evening, I couldn’t have been more truthful. Nobody was there. If I’d said to my twelve year old daughter nothing’s there, now I’d have been lying. Something was. And that something was pacing back and forward across her attic bedroom floor, inches from my own toes as I sat on her bed. That something was the house ghost. The presence we’d at that point shared our house with for over that twelve years.
Are you sitting comfortably? Or is your hair beginning to prickle all along the back of your neck?
Firstly I want to thank the lovely Sue Vincent who I admire hugely for so many reasons, for inviting me here today to her wonderful blog.
Secondly, if you’re sitting really comfortably let’s begin at the very beginning. I do like quoting certain songs.
I was so excited to move into our new house. A big Victorian, with lots of space, with views to die for—oops sorry–overlooking the River Tay in a quietly suburban area?
Who wouldn’t be? It was roughly day 3 and I was busy putting the sitting room into some kind of order when my older girl tapped me on the arm. I remember it very distinctly because I tapped her hand back. I clasped it anyhow. ‘Mama’s just coming,’ I said. But the thing was, she wasn’t there. The room was empty. Then I heard her on the landing upstairs. ‘If that’s her up there, then who’s that down here whose hand I just happen to NOT be clasping……’ I can remember thinking
Over the next few days, every time I stood in the bathroom –which was two rooms knocked together– I could feel someone screaming at me to get out. This wasn’t my house.
We had bought the house from my sister, and my niece had often told what I had always thought were fanciful tales of a ghost locking her in her room, of something pacing the attic floor above her head at nights. Come on. But was it possible these weren’t fanciful?
There was the time someone drew our bedroom curtains. I heard them and thought it was my husband but it couldn’t have been because he was outside at the time. The time someone knocked on the bathroom door when I was in the bath–there was nobody there when I opened it. The times Christmas decorations fell ‘up’ as if they were being yanked, not down, things were switched on that were off, things went missing and were later found where you just knew you hadn’t left them, the time a toy portable typewriter lying flat on the floor stood up on its side, the times the linen chest in the bathroom creaked as if someone was sitting on it.
My daughters both asked if I thought the house was haunted. Despite having lived in the house at one stage, my sister refused point blank to water plants for us when we were on holiday, after being told to ’get out’ one day , my niece, would never go upstairs when she visited, then there was the incident of the flying plant and kitchen cupboard contents. We had been getting the bathroom redone and the builder wanted to let his wife see. She fled after a plant flew at her off of the top of the boiler. ‘ To let you understand,’ she said, as if I needed to, ‘that plant never fell, it was thrown.’
So who was doing the haunting and why did we stay?
Well, I guess I just don’t frighten easily. I really loved my house so I always said, ‘I can live with you, if you can live with me,’ although eventually that didn’t prove to be quite the case, when I am most amenable.
A lot of the incidents happened when we had the attic properly converted. We wanted to give our younger daughter a big bedroom. A few weeks after it was finished my sister asked me how my daughter was liking it. I had to say she was sleeping on a couch in her sister’s room, insisting the attic was haunted. I thought she would laugh. My sister is a very sensible lady.
Instead she said, ‘Yes it is’ and they had experienced everything we had. Also, she’d seen this spirit at the foot of the attic stairs one night and it was a soldier. At that time she’d spoken to the old lady next door– this was the 1970s and the lady had lived there almost all her life–she identified the spirit as Robert who had gone to the First World War and never come home.
So, the following week I was teaching a woman who was a newspaper psychic and she came down from the bathroom to say she had seen a soldier. Despite everything, I am actually a hefty sceptic. I said, ‘ Yeah, as you do.’
‘His name is Robert Wann,’ she said, ‘and he’s furious that you have taken his chest of drawers.’
I kid you not. I also kid you not that a few years after this, I had a roofer in to look at a leak in the bathroom roof and he was out of there in ten seconds. His wife was a medium, he had a slight gift himself. ‘You are not alone up there, are you?’ he asked.
The thing is I had never taken anyone’s chest of drawers but his wife did come out to the house and she had the same story. The little room that had been taken away when the two rooms were knocked into the bathroom by my sister’s husband– not by myself– had been his. He also had no idea what any of us were doing in his house and wanted us all to get out.
The time had come, not for us to go but for him, really, and this lady agreed to help. Let me kid you not about this either, a black pall descended on the room. I have never experienced the likes and I hope never to again. If ever any doubt lingered, or lingers to this day that there is another world there, that moment dispelled it.
Before anyone asks, we don’t live there now. We live in a ghost free Edwardian house!
I did look for Robert’s name on the local war memorial. It wasn’t there. Nor was it further along the road at the other war memorial either.
Obviously the psychic got it wrong.
A few years ago I was editing a local history magazine. A local author asked if we would review his new book. It was about the local war dead. The name was there all right. Not on the memorials but on a plaque inside the local church.
When it comes to writing, none of my published books feature ghosts. That’s about to change with the one I’m working on now. As to whether she’s good, bad, or indifferent, you’ll have to wait and see. I will too.
About the author
When not cuddling inn signs in her beloved Scottish mountains alongside Mr Shey, Shehanne Moore writes dark and smexy historical romance, featuring bad boys who need a bad girl to sort them out. She firmly believes everyone deserves a little love, forgiveness and a second chance in life.
Shehanne caused general apoplexy when she penned her first story, The Hore House Mystery—aged seven. From there she progressed to writing plays for her classmates, stories for her classmates, plays for real, comic book libraries for girls, various newspaper articles, ghost writing, nonfiction writing, and magazine editing. Stories for real were what she really wanted to write though and, having met with every rejection going, she sat down one day to write a romance, her way.
Find and Follow Shehanne Moore
Books by Shehanne Moore
Click the titles or images to go to Amazon
The only thing he hates more than losing at chess is marriage…
For Splendor, former servant to the London’s premiere jewel thieves, pretending to be someone else is all in a day’s work. So when she learns of a chess tournament—a men’s chess tournament—with a ten thousand pound prize, pretending to be a man is the obvious move. The money will be enough to set her fiancé up in his own business so they can finally marry, and more importantly, it’ll pay off her bills and keep her out of debtor’s prison. But she doesn’t plan on her opponent, the rakish Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, being a sore loser—and a drunken one, at that. But before she can collect her prize, she finds herself facing the most merciless man in London across a pair of dueling pistols at dawn. Chess may be Splendor’s game, but she’s never fired a pistol. And dressed as a man with ill-fitting shoes on the slippery grass and borrowed glasses that make it hard to see, she’s certain she’s finally tipped her own king.
Bitter divorcee Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, is the ton’s most ruthless heartbreaker. And he’s got three pet peeves: kitchen maids, marriage…and losing. So when he realizes the “man” opposite him has entered the chess tournament under false pretenses, he’s in the perfect position to extort the little chit. But that’s before the exasperating woman begins to slip beneath his skin, and soon all he can think about is slipping beneath her skirts. But the confounded woman is engaged to someone else, and worse—she’s nothing but a former kitchen maid, just like the one that lured his father into the marriage that ruined the family name. And his ex-wife taught him more than he cared to know about why marriage was the worst kind of checkmate of all…
Read Carolee Croft’s review of Splendor here.
Only one man in England can identify her. Unfortunately he’s living next door.
Ten years ago sixteen year old Sapphire, the greatest jewel thief England has ever known, ruined Lord Devorlane Hawley’s life. Now she’s dead and buried, all the respectable widow, Cassidy Armstrong, wants is the chance to prove who she really is.
But not only does her new neighbor believe he knows that exactly, he’s hell-bent on revenge. All he needs is the actual proof. So when he asks her to choose between being his mistress, or dangling on the end of a rope, only Sapphire can decide…
What’s left for a woman with nowhere left to go, but to stay exactly where she is?
And hope, that when it comes to neighbors, Devorlane Hawley won’t prove to be the one from hell.
Read Pam Lasos’s review of Loving Lady Lazuli here.
He saw her coming. If he’d known her effect he’d have walked away.
When it comes to doing it all, hard coated ‘wild child’ writer, Brittany Carter ticks every box. Having it all is a different thing though, what with her need to thwart an ex fiancé, and herself transported from the present to Georgian times. But then, so long as she can find her way back to her world of fame, and promised fortune, what’s there to worry about?
Georgian bad boy Mitchell Killgower is at the center of an inheritance dispute and he needs Brittany as his obedient, country mouse wife. Or rather he needs her like a hole in the head. In and out of his bed he’s never known a woman like her. A woman who can disappear and reappear like her either.
And when his coolly contained anarchist, who is anything but, learns how to return to her world and stay there, will And when his coolly contained anarchist, who is anything but, learns how to return to her world and remain, will having it all be enough, or does she underestimate him, and herself?
Read Sarah Potter’s review of The Writer and The Rake here.
(Sceal Award Finalist Books and Benches.)
In 898 AD she wasn’t just from another land.
Wrecking a marriage is generally no problem for the divorce obtaining, Lady Malice Mallender. But she faces a dilemma when she’s asked to ruin her own. Just how businesslike should she remain when the marriage was never consummated and kissing her husband leads to Sin–a handsome Viking who wants her for a bed slave in name only?
She came from another time.
Viking raider Sin Gudrunsson wants one thing. To marry his childhood sweetheart. Only she’s left him before, so he needs to keep her on her toes, and a bed slave, in name only, seems just the thing. Until he meets Malice.
One kiss is all it takes to flash between two worlds
But when one kiss is no longer enough, which will it be? Regency London? Or Viking Norway? Will Malice learn what governs the flashes? Can Sin?
Where worlds collide can love melt the iciest heart.
Read Carolee Croft’s Review of The Viking and The Courtesan here.
Rule One: There will be no kissing. Rule two: You will be fully clothed at all times…
Widowed Lady Fury Shelton hasn’t lost everything—yet. As long as she produces the heir to the Beaumont dukedom, she just might be able to keep her position. And her secrets. But when the callously irresistible Captain James “Flint” Blackmoore sails back into her life, Lady Fury panics. She must find a way to protect herself—and her future—from the man she’d rather see rotting in hell than sleeping in her bed. If she must bed him to keep her secrets, so be it. But she doesn’t have to like it. A set of firm rules for the bedroom will ensure that nothing goes awry. Because above all else, she must stop herself from wanting the one thing that Flint can never give her. His heart.
Ex-privateer Flint Blackmoore has never been good at following the rules. Now, once again embroiled in a situation with the aptly named Lady Fury, he has no idea why he doesn’t simply do the wise thing and walk away. He knows he’s playing with fire, and that getting involved with her again is more dangerous than anything on the high seas. But he can’t understand why she’s so determined to hate him. He isn’t sure if the secret she keeps will make things harder—or easier—for him, but as the battle in the bedroom heats up, he knows at least one thing. Those silly rules of hers will have to go…
Read Witless Dating for Over Fifty’s review of The Unraveling of Lady Fury here.
To love, honor, and betray…
To get back her son, she will stop at nothing…
For five years Kara McGurkie has preferred to forget she’s a woman. So it’s no problem for her to swear to love and honor, to help destroy a clan, when it means getting back the son she lost. But when dire circumstances force her to seduce her fiancé’s brother on the eve of the wedding, will the dark secrets she holds and her greatest desire be enough to save her from his powerful allure?
To save his people, neither will he…
Callm McDunnagh, the Black Wolf of Lochalpin, ruthlessly guards heart and glen from dangerous intruders. But from the moment he first sees Kara he knows he must possess her, even though surrendering to his passion may prove the most dangerous risk of all.
She has nothing left to fear except love itself…
Now only Kara can decide what passion can save or destroy, and who will finally learn the truth of the words… Till death do us part.
Read Paul Ruddoch’s Review of His Judas Bride here.
If you have had a strange experience or encounter that you would like to share, please get in touch with me at firstname.lastname@example.org (or my usual email if you already have it) and we can discuss a guest post. If you would like to share your story but remain anonymous, we can discuss that too. If you would like to share your beliefs and opinions on the nature of these strange experiences, I would be happy to talk about a guest post too. Through sharing with respect we may learn to understand our world and each other a little better.