Green Dot Mystery: What REALLY happened at the Myrtles.

Is Myrtles Plantation really haunted?

I found THIS in a library book a few days before we left.


By we I mean me and Emily. Friend, fellow writer, and the only other chick I know with a selection of kaftans.


I find stuff in books all the time. And though June 23rd was already behind us, I felt it was some kind of message. I showed it to Emily who lived in New Orleans and knows about this stuff.

“June 23rd is St. John’s Eve,” she explained.  “It’s the Voodoo High Holy Day.”

I also learned (according to voodoo practitioners) the spirit world comes closest to the living on St. John’s Eve.

So Emily and I drove to Louisiana with high hopes and fun outfits. Real-life hauntings are fairly rare, but the Myrtles is generally agreed (among paranormal professionals) to be legitimately haunted.

Are we the kind of dorks that prance around plantations in kaftans?

YES.  Yes, we are.

IMG_2562We chose the Fannie Williams ( A.K.A Doll) Room because it looked the creepiest online. I mean, who doesn’t want to sleep next to a frozen porcelain child?


I expected to be blasted with feelings upon entering the property, but that wasn’t the case. I will say the grounds and surrounding wooded area felt charged in that static-y way prevalent in ‘haunted’ places. But if I feel that in open air, it probably has more to do with the land than the house.


If a house is built ON that land, then certain rooms will be susceptible to that same crackly energy, spatially consistent with whatever’s happening outside. Does that make sense?


We wanted to explore the property before it got too dark. I don’t know what Emily felt on that initial walk (we separated for objectivity) but I couldn’t block out the past.  It must be the same at Auschwitz or Ground Zero or any other place where history hides its face in shame. And it has nothing to do with ‘ghosts.’

I can’t walk on an old plantation and not think of slaves. Especially the children. And it made me feel gross and consumer-y seeing their old quarters spit-shined into little cabins. Porches lined with rocking chairs overlooking a pond full of screaming frogs.


But was it HAUNTED?

I did some research before we left.

Whereas the Myrtles sustains its reputation on a VERY compelling photo of “Chloe” and her illicit relationship with owner Clarke Woodruff, there’s no actual record of Chloe having existed. —At least no written proof.

The story goes that Clarke Woodruff forced young slave Chloe to be his concubine; and that one day he caught her eavesdropping, so he cut off her ear. Chloe took revenge by mixing deadly oleander into a birthday cake, killing Mrs. Woodruff and her children and BOOM! the place is haunted.

But here’s the deal.

Sara Woodruff (fact) and her adult children (fact) died of yellow fever in 1823 and 1824. So the “Chloe” story, whereas super fun to tell around a campfire and on tours at 15 bucks a pop —-is false.


So who is this ghost in the famous photo?


Is it really a ghost?

I believe it is.

And what about this pic?


If these photos are legit —and I think they are— then something’s wandering this property.

But what? Who? 

Emily and I walked beneath mossy oaks, quiet and thoughtful because old trees have seen a lot and deserve respect. But also because that feeling I described earlier. Like the house and grounds are living, breathing entities and you wanna tread lightly so as not to disturb.


So we took photos. Slapped mosquitos.

Emily collected moss.

I found a penny and put it in my pocket.

And then it got dark.

So now about the room.


Pretty, right?

Apart from a mutual feeling we needed to keep it tidy, there were no overt signs of spirit. Still, we took showers, prayed, and meditated to get our minds right, then headed to the patio for our own private happy hour.


And let me tell you.

Sitting under a bright moon with a dear friend drinking bubbly on sacred ground is a special feeling indeed.


Isn’t it lovely?

I felt super-privileged holding a room key while drive-by ghost hunters milled around whispering, their camera flashes perforating the night. Particularly busy was the corridor where ‘Chloe’ was captured.


Between the crowds and prosecco, I couldn’t tap into the house.

So we talked.

We talked about books, ghosts, angels, poetry, history, travel, intuition, Louisiana heat, and wondered how our night would go. Finally it was just us, the moon, and a thousand frogs challenging the cicadas to we got spirit, yes we do!

Emily stared at the house.

“I want to go on the porch,” she said, emptying her wine.

The porch was an extremely long wooden wrap-around, and dark as hell.

“Let’s go.” I drained mine, too.

We grabbed our cameras and ducked under the chains separating the porch from the public.


We walked up and down.

Back and forth.



Trying to feel.

Then Emily called me over.

“I feel nothing until I walk by this window,” she said. “This one feels different.”

I met her at the tall window.


It was one of those concentrated energy spots. Nothing major. But she was right. We put our hands on thick glass, smeared with condensation — and both felt a low-level vibration. Maybe like a refrigerator humming but way less than that. And as we stood there acknowledging, I’ll admit the feeling deepened.

We peered inside.

Dark furniture outlined a pretty room. If it were a movie, it’d been the perfect time for a face to appear and scare the crap out of us.

“Let’s take pictures,” I said, backing away.

I own no fancy ghost-detector equipment. Just intuition, pen and paper.

(and iPhone).

Please find the two greendots in the following photos.


These anomalies are definitely worth a closer look.

What’s interesting is:

  1. They move in tandem along the porch. Sometimes close, then further apart. But together.
  2. Look at their shape. In the last photo (if you zoom) they almost look like shoes.
  3. There are tiny tracers behind them in each photo.
  4. They’re green.

Is it reflection from a porch light?

Don’t think so.

There are dim lights all along the porch. Plus, reflections don’t move.

Is it green light reflecting from the hanging fern?

(Probably not.)

Is it light catching the bugs?

Mmm . . . maybe?

But I don’t think so.

Please see the ‘orb’ in the left side of this photo.


That’s a bug.

So is this evidence of a ‘ghost’?

I’m sticking with MAYBE and I want to go back.

Anyway, it was time for bed.

I’m happy to report no dolls moved while we were sleeping. The only disturbance was our drunk-ass foyer neighbors coming in late.

The next morning we took the house tour, where a VERY impressive guide took us room to room, relaying house history and a whole lotta lore.

Here, she emulated Chloe eavesdropping on her master.


And I gotta tell you. I started to feel a little bad for the late Clarke Woodruff. Like, obviously I didn’t know the guy. And maybe he did have his way with a slave.

But maybe he didn’t.

Yet this is his legacy. A child-raping, ear-lobbing philanderer.

I found myself wondering what really happened in those bedrooms. Staring at flaking wallpaper and imported chandeliers, I could almost imagine.

And imagine I did.

Knowing Chloe’s story was mostly made-up, I started adding my own details.

We weren’t allowed to take photos in the main house. But finally we got to the hot spot, the room we peered into last night. And our guide confirmed something:

“Every psychic, every medium who’s ever come to Myrtles says this is the spiritual center of the house.” She opened doors to Mrs. Woodruff’s pretty antique parlor.

We oohed and ahhed at the paintings.  The sewing box. The little writing desk. The petit-point settees.

“ . . . a vortex, if you will.”

(I won’t.)

I hate the word vortex.

But it affirmed our feeling that something was UP with that room.

In summary, I think it’s kind of shitty that Mr. Clarke Woodruff goes down in history as a slave-rapist. I mean, what if he was a super nice guy? What if his wife was the asshole?

Coupled with that note I found at the library, a little voodoo history, and our own Myrtles experience, my story was born.

I finished my first draft of Rosie & June a few weeks later, and insecurity crept in while editing, like maybe I took it a little far and shouldn’t publish. But minutes later (literally), a friend texted me from Half-Price books, where she found a signed copy of MINDER.


With that little sign, I published.

I hope you enjoyed Rosie & June Get a Room.

If anyone has theories about the green dots, I’d love to hear them.

As for the Myrtles, I wanna go back and stay in a different room. (You in, Emily?)

Thank you as always for reading.




Rosie & June Get a Room.

Rosie & June

“It’s hotter’n Satan’s nutsack.” Rosie shoved a lollipop in her mouth.

“Satan’s nutsack?” June glanced over from the driver seat. “Really?”

Rosie shrugged, staring between tall pines, blending as they sped past. Louisiana was a convection oven, especially in summer. And they’d spent ample time unsticking thighs from leather seats since crossing state lines. June cranked the a/c HIGH and Rosie tucked her lollipop in an empty can of Big Red. 

“D’you suppose Satan even has testicles?” She examined a cuticle while June checked her phone for directions. 

“I can honestly say,” —she squinted at a passing sign— “I never thought about it.”

“Well, think about it.”

“Should be up here on the left.”  She checked her phone again. 

“Do you think there will be ghosts?”


Should be, anyway. Their trip was conceived during last night’s episode of America’s Haunted Hotels and spontaneously executed. Rosie and June huddled on their grandmother’s old couch, knee to knee, full of Chardonnay and M&Ms, mesmerized. 

Let’s go,” Rosie whispered, her pretty face blue with nighttime tv. The creaky stairs. The upside down keyholes. (The slave girl caught on camera!) And more they aired, the faster they chewed (though separating some because blue dye gave you cancer). “ . . . I feel strongly we should go, Junebug. I’ll pay for gas.”

June looked at her cousin.

“For reals. Let’s book it.” Rosie shook her knee for emphasis. “That room with the dolls. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be available.” She reached for the laptop.

“Okay.” June drained her glass. “But—”  She peered down the dark hallway.

“But what?”

“Come pee with me first.”

* * * * * * * *

Rosie and June were born 6 months apart, to sisters currently not speaking. 

Rosie’s mom called June’s a Bernie-Loving Socialist Retard on Facebook, so that was that. But the girls had been inseparable since birth. June was called ‘June’ because all her life her momma wanted a gemini, then Fate delivered. You coulda called her May, her sister muttered, lighting a Kamel. (Rosie was named after Rosanne Cash).

Diapers to sippy cups, Blue’s Clues to backpacks, the girls were inseperable despite their mothers, and pinkie swore Best Friends Forever in 1st grade. 

Rosie accepted asparagus under the table so June wouldn’t have to choke it down. June slapped Melanie whats-her-face when she called Rosie fat in 4th. They playacted Grease together (Rosie let June be Sandy) and swapped bracelets. Stickers. Sun-In’d each other’s hair. Always went easy on each other in Truth or DareTraded clothes. Secrets. Quizzed each other for the spelling bee (Rosie won with Halcyon).  Grew boobs at the same time. Started periods 4 months apart. 

While their mothers argued, blamed, and reunited year after year, the girls remained tight. June stood guard when Rosie french-kissed Jonathan behind the Sac-n-Pac in 9th, and Rosie forgave June when she slept with him in 11th. They tried pot together, traded essays, attended the same college, though majoring separately (June: Political Science) (Rosie: Jewelry Design).  

. . . but their lives continued in tandem. 

Twin Flames, June’s Mom smiled.

Liberal bullshit, Rosie’s mom lit another Kamel.

The only thing their mothers shared was premature grey and the loud absence of husbands. Which meant the girls also shared a lack of fathers (never discussed) and they stayed out of trouble, mostly. There was that time they carved ❤ DiCaprio ❤ in their wrists with safety pins and June’s got infected but—

Omigod.” Rosie clicked the website. “The Doll Room.” She looked at her cousin. “It’s available.” 

June drained her Chardonnay, popping a blue M&M because she suddenly felt brave.

Do it.”

* * * * * * * *

The sign was old, in need of paint.

~Welcome to Myrtles~ 

Home of Mystery and Intrigue!

They slowed over gravel, siding up to the old white house, majestic and secretive like antebellums often were.


“It’s smaller than I thought.”

Turn around.

Hmm?” June popped the trunk and opened her door, hoping for a breeze.

“I didn’t say anything.” Rosie checked her teeth in the mirror. “Ready?”

They walked toward the house, everything mossy, green and white.

“Christ, it’s hot.” 

“You should drink water instead of Big Red.”

“Imma be drinking beer in a minute.” 

June eyed the long, wooden wrap-around porch and clean sash windows, imagining a bevy of Belles fanning themselves, snapping for iced tea, when movement diverted her gaze to the second floor.

A dark hand released the lace curtain. 



She squeezed her keys and Rosie grabbed her elbow, pointing to the famous spot. “Look, Junie! The breezeway!” 

Their sandals slapped up steps to guest reception where an older woman stood behind the counter, counting change.  “Ya’ll made it!” she declared.

They dropped their bags. “Barely.” June grabbed a pamphlet to fan herself. “We almost melted on I-10.” 

“Well, you’re here now.” She pushed a large brown book forward. “You all just sign here.” She looked at her watch and smiled, watching June sign her name in cursive.  “I’ll show you girls your room.” She walked from behind the counter skirts swishing, leading them back to the porch.

“Just up these stairs.”

“Why is the key hole upside down?”


“To confuse the spirits,” the woman smiled, pushing the green door open. “Ya’ll be careful on these stairs now.”

Rosie elbowed June, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The very steps they watched on tv last night!


 . . .which meant those creep-o portraits would be at the top of the stairs.


“That’s General Bradley,” the woman nodded. “Our original owner.”


“Why so glum, Mister?” June smiled. He looked like a founding father, except . . .  miserable. The lady hanging next to him was even worse. 

No a/c,” Rosie whispered. 

Or queso,” June whispered back. And the girls squeezed hands. They were actually HERE. They looked around the foyer. America’s Haunted Hotels accurately captured the house, its clean lines and sparse period decor. But it couldn’t convey the stillness.


“So quiet,” June observed.

“You have the place to yourselves,” the woman said over her shoulder, slipping a long key in the far right door. It croaked open to spacious room, dim with natural light.


“Ohh cool.” Rosie rushed in, making a B-line for the dolls.

“We’re the only ones here?” June followed her in. The room was old-fashioned and airy, washed in creams and pale blues. It might’ve been a nursery, once upon a time.

“It happens sometimes. Towels are in the washroom and extra blankets here, though I doubt you’ll need them.”

Rosie rushed around, twisting knobs and checking drawers. “Is this a closet?” She opened a petite door opposite the bed, crouching to peer inside.

“Storage.” The woman shrugged. “Nanny quarters. Who knows.”

“I saw someone up here earlier.” June eyed the lace curtains. “At the window.”

“No. Just me here.” She nudged a frame straight. “But I’m on my way out. If you need something, call the owner. His number’s in the manual. Breakfast starts at 7.”

Rosie’s head emerged from the closet. 

“Wait. We’re literally here alone?”

“Honey, this isn’t the Hilton. You’re big girls. Bathroom’s down the hall and don’t leave the key if you go roaming,” she warned with a finger. “That downstairs door locks every time it closes and you don’t want to be stuck outside.”

“Because of ghosts?” Rosie grinned.

“No, baby. The heat.” She dropped a key in June’s palm. “Anything else ya’ll need?”

“Don’t think so, thanks.” June stared at the curtain. She definitely saw a hand. A dark one, at that.

“You girls have fun.” She closed the door behind her. They heard her walk downstairs then high-fived.

“Meant to be,” June smiled. 

“For reals.” Rosie lazed on the edge of the bed, falling to her side. “This room’s creepy as fuck.” She stared at the mantle. “D’you suppose they put the dolls in here for affect?”

“Probably.” June approached the two porcelain dolls, staring vacantly, one trapped mid-sentence. She reached out to touch her, but thought better of it. 


“Why dolls gotta be so creepy.” Rosie asked.

“Because you don’t know what they’re thinking.” June turned, eyes frozen, mouth pursed in her best creepy doll impression. “Except I know what you’re thinking.”

Rosie rolled on her belly. 

“What am I thinking.”

“You want a cold beer.”

“Cor-rect.” Rosie slid off the bed, dislodging her wedgie. “But let’s explore before we lose daylight.” 

They patted pockets for keys and phones and left the room. Smile, dude. June blew a kiss to creepy portrait guy on her way downstairs and held the bannister tight. One beer too many and these steps would be suicide. “How is this place empty in summer?”

“Because it’s a thousand degrees.” Rosie bumped the door open with her hip. “Smart people are swimming right now.”  

They paused on the porch, scanning the empty grounds.


“Slave quarters, first?”

Mmm.” June nodded, then — “Actually — you go on ahead,” she paused. “I’ll meet you in a sec.” 

“K.” Rosie walked off, scratching her shoulder. And June breathed deep, fighting the twist in her belly. Only takes 2 minutes to reset your mind, her mom always said. 120 Seconds. Just step away and breathe. And where better to do that than nature. She i n h a l e d  long and deep, watching Rosie make distance thru moss-flanked trees.

True, her imagination was robust. But curtains didn’t push to the side by themselves.  E x h a l e. She stepped on the grounds, following a thin footpath through the trees. Maybe it was that lady getting the room ready. Except the lady was white and that hand wasn’t.  

I n h a l e. And that impulse to leave the moment they arrived? That was weird. She stepped over an anthill. Though ‘leave’ wasn’t the right word. GO, she’d felt. RUN. Getthefuckoutofhere.

The trees grew dense further out where a pond separated the main house from the old slave quarters. Where Rosie was. I n h a l e. She reached the gravel road, exhaling to the trees. She did feel better, though damn she should’ve changed. She yanked her shorts down. Denim had a way of chafing in high heat. And there was Rosie up there, sitting cross-legged on the ground, reclining on her elbows. Eyes closed to the sky in her mauve cotton sundress, flecked with white. All she needed were dragonflies fluttering around her head to make her look like a still from some anime.


Rosie startled.

Hey.” She extended an arm and June helped her up. 

“We shoulda brought water.” June peeled her Mom’s old concert tee (Steely Dan ’76)  from her belly. 

“How do people even live here.” Rosie blew hair off her forehead then reached in her sundress, unlatching her bra. 

Great idea, actually. 

Sweaty boobs were one thing. Sweaty boobs smothered in cotton, constricted by wire was entirely another. June reached under and did the same. 

The frogs offered sympathetic percussion. 

It was Rosie’s mom who took them first-bra shopping in 5th. They ended up with thick white A-cups from JCPenneys while years later, June’s mom snuck them to Victoria’s Secret for some — what she called — real underwear. They held their bras and walked in silence, finally reaching the slave-quarters-now-guest-houses with rocking chairs adorning each porch. 

The cicadas buzzed their rapture.

Seemed kinda wrong to convert slave homes to comfy cottages, June thought, but didn’t say. Tourism aside, these were sacred grounds. And complaining about heat suddenly felt trite as History pulled a dark, hushing finger to its lips.


“People had to work in this,” Rosie said, softly.  “Like, all day.”

A twig snapped behind them.

The girls turned.


“Let’s go.” June touched Rosie’s wrist with a pinkie.

“ . . .  share beds with five other people and no a/c. Can you imagine?” She slapped her ankle. “Damn mosquitos.

They circled the pond.

A large family of ducks watched them pass, their feathered necks synchronized.

“ . . . worked like dogs.”

(Slaves, actually).

But June let her talk.

“ . . . then worked some more.”

They entered the thicket of trees again. The frogs croaked louder.

“ . . . treated like shit then had to wake up and do it all over again.” Rosie reached up and snapped a branch overhead.

A man coughed.

They whirled toward the noise.

To an empty forest, dappled with dying daylight.

“Did you hear that?” Rosie froze. Hello?” She charged forward holding her branch like a wand. “I heard it, June,” she said over her shoulder.

“I did, too.” June looked around, her knots twisting tight. “Maybe it’s the owner,” she said. But no one was there. Only a small clearing with a crumbling bench and aging statue. 

“Then why isn’t he answering?” Rosie called again, this time to the treetops. “HELLO?” 

June glanced back to the house. To the curtains on the second floor.

A branch snapped and June grabbed Rosie’s wrist. —an involuntary response.

“Get your phone,” Rosie whispered. “Something’s here.”


June plopped on the bench, wishing she had a tree to lean against. It was easier to endure feeling watched with your back against something. This is why you came. She pulled out her phone, tapping Instagram with her thumb. To be scared. So quit being a baby. She jabbed the icon a few more times. Ghosts or no ghosts, The Myrtles would provide some pretty pictures. Open, dammit. 

She watched Rosie, circling the statue, running her hand over its folds, head tilted contemplatively.  She tried to open Facebook. A $600 phone needed to freaking work when she pushed the damn button. She tossed the phone aside, bending to pinch an ant off her ankle. Maybe the trees inhibited wifi. I n h a l e. It wasn’t quite as hot now. But air still glommed to her like a wet blanket. E x h a l e. And that cold beer was gonna taste GOOD. She resisted the urge to turn. Maybe it was dusk settling. Or distance from the main road. Or the grand house making her feel like a diminutive in some model, waiting for a giant hand to pluck her into the air — legs dangling — and place her elsewhere.  (A bar would be nice).


She stood behind the statue, head tilted sideways, humming.


June stood, wishing there were other guests. I mean, it was cool and all being there alone. But certain situations were meant for shared experience. Fine Dining. Roller Coasters. Haunted Hotels. Because isolation did weird things to people.

Rosie,” she said louder, blocking images of The Shining family— Wendy, Jack, and Danny (and Tony) from her mind.

Long corridors.

Bloody elevators.

Those twins dressed like dolls.


Rosie stood frozen, facing away. Her stick dangling low. 

“Imagine being raped by the man who bought you.” She loosened her fingers, dropping it to the moss.




She was talking about Chloe. The pretty young house slave made concubine by her owner, the married Clarke Woodruff.

“ . . . taken from Momma. Made a whore. No one to cry to cos everybody gone. But still you gotta work. Harder in front of Missus because she know. And only thirteen. Can you imagine?”

June slapped a mosquito on her arm. No, she couldn’t imagine that.

Rosie straightened, looking all the way up. 

Into the branches.

The show said Clarke Woodruff pulled Chloe indoors to serve his needs, but later severed her ear when he caught her eavesdropping. So out she went again, this time an outcast. Jealous and superstitious, her own people hung her. 

“I can’t imagine keeping that secret.”

“Like when you fucked Jonathan?” Rosie rounded.

Insects buzzed between them.

Dude,” June said, cautiously. “What is wrong with you.”

Rosie yanked out her ponytail and bent down, clawing fingers through damp hair. “Ugh, let’s go inside.” She whipped up again. “I’m hot.” She twisted her hair into a bun.

But June didn’t move. 

In their 27 year history, Rosie only snapped at her once. Once. And that was for leaving her makeup in the car where $300 worth of Clinique melted into a non-refundable peach-rose sludge. “What’s that?” she asked instead.

“What’s what.”

“That thing in your second hole.”

Rosie pinched her right lobe. “I found it by the pond.” She spit on her fingers, rubbing the dainty green earring, crusted with mud. “It’s pretty, right?”

“Gross! And you put it in your ear? It probably belonged to some fat racist with hep C.”

Rosie giggled and they walked toward the house. The lamps had come on; their steps drowned by a crescendo of cicadas.

“What happened back there?” June linked her right arm through Rosie’s left —an involuntary habit since 2nd grade. “Why’d you freak out on me?”

Rosie rest her head on June’s left shoulder (also their habit). “I’m sorry, Junebug. Let’s get in our pajamas and drink beer.” She wiggled her fingertips. “Maybe the ghosties will come.”

The girls crunched along gravel to the porch. 

They did not see the lamps flickering behind them.

Nor the little black girl.

Following silently behind.

* * * * * * * *



I try not to think of dat day, dat day I loss Momma. We was standin’ together a bunch a us outside. There was flies and a man hollerin’ out numbers and white ladies fannin’ theyselves watchin’. The white mens came up and poked on Momma, my sister, then me, squeezing our arms and legs like we was pigs. Talkin’ bout our light skin.

“This one!” 

Some ole man grab my sister and pull her so fass she trip. So he slap her head and tole her to keep up. Momma din’t look as they carted her away. 

Den dey took my brother, talkin’ bout small fingers is good for cotton. He jus turn three. Which leave my big brother swallowin’ deep. Whisperin’ hard to Momma that he love her. And he continue sayin’ it til a tall man push him out the line den chain him to six other mens.  Kickin’ the lass one in the ass so they start walkin’. Momma start shakin’ so I grab her hand.

Den Judge approach. Brown hat. Shiny boots. Black and silver mustache. Walkin’ round the rest of us. Lookin’ up and down up and down like we was bacon. Den he stop in front of me and Momma start whimperin’. Talkin’ to the dirt. Askin’ God to please jus kill her. I squeeze her finger.

* * * * * * * *

We live together yesterday. Me, Momma, brothers, and sister in a big white house with nine other slaves. In all us black faces we’s the only ones coffee colored. Master was nice to Momma, real nice. But things change after Momma deliver my baby brother. I saw his Missus standing by the window, lookin’ in. Lips all tight like a asshole. Den we heard lots of hollerin’ in the big house and next thing I know we standin’ there for sale. Momma jigglin’ the baby.

Judge pull me out the line. 

Look at me, he say.

I look.

He stuck his finger under my lip, liftin’ to look at my teeth. Den he reach up my dress and squeeze a top of my leg, right next to my privates. I felt Momma stiffen.

“This one!” he hollered, cuppin’ my chin. 

Eveything happen fast after dat. We ‘pose to be quiet. But Momma cryin’ as Judge lift me in his wagon, raisin’ an arm to the sky, askin’ God what did she do. Den a white lady took my brother from her arms and I seen her run after dat lady and the auctioneer punch her to the dirt. 

Momma cryin’. 

Baby cryin’.

The whole world cryin’. 

I watch til she was a speck that disappear and Judge looked down. Say if I did what I was tole he’d never hurt me. 

Den he whip his horse to run faster.

* * * * * * * *

The Myrtles


The new house smaller den my old one. 


We’s about ten sleepin’ in three rooms behind the kitchen. Judge tole an ol’ slave name Pearlie take care of me. Pearlie skinny and quiet like a ol’ momma dog whose pups all died. But Pearlie don’t have to tell me much. 

White folk’s mostly the same, even if they pretend they not. What they promise God on Sunday ain’t what happens on Monday. But I learn the nicer you is to they kids, the nicer they is to you. And the more you let the mens touch, the less likely they is to hit. 

One day Judge press hisself against me while I was scraping coal.

Missus din’t see. 

But Pearlie did.

You be careful wit dat she say, rubbing fish oil on my lips, cracked from the sun. Pearlie skin like tar, with grey eyes that cut you sideways. Mines green, like Master before. Missus find out, she’ll whip you raw den rub pepper in the holes, she warn. But Judge’s attention got us extra. Fish on Friday. Biscuits on Sunday. Pearlie stop warnin’ after dat.

Den one day Judge say, You come with me, Chloe. Missus need you in the house. 

But Missus wadn’t in the house. Wadn’t nobody in the house.

Judge led me upstairs, den tole me to get in da tub.

I stare at the same water Pearlie boil hours ago for Missus who like smellin’ like roses. They still petals in there.

I ain’t never took a bath, suh.

Well, Chloe.He loosen his belt.You start by taking off your clothes.”

He rub his finger between my bress and I know I’s in trouble. But slaves got no business being shy. My dress fell to my ankles and I sunk myself in Missus’ cole water while he walk to her dressin table, openin’ her jewry box with one hand, fiddlin’ hisself with the other.

You know why I picked you, Chloe? He say, pullin’ out some earrings.

No suh.

The water was so cole my skin prick against it. 

Because green’s my favorite color, he say, kneelin’ beside the tub, danglin’ Missus’  emeralds in front of my eyes. Den he stick dem earrings in my ear and back away.

Wash yourself, Chloe.

So I did and he watch me. Eyes full of words he don’t tell God.

Den he help me out. Tell me to lay on the bed. I stare at the ceilin while he lick me.

Den the door open 

and Missus walk in.

 * * * * * * * *

Rosie & June 

“What’s today?” 

Rosie sat in the velveteen wingback with an unopened beer.

“23rd, why.” 

June took a long slug, handing the opener to Rosie.

“I feel funny.” She opened her bottle with a fizzy sigh then lifted her chin for a drink, tossing the opener in her suitcase. “We don’t start for another week, right?”


“Funny how.”

Rosie slumped back. 

“I dunno. Hot. Closed in.” She stroked the armrest with a pinkie. “Like I need to be outside.”

“Well, go outside. I’m gonna take a shower because I stink.” June raised an arm, gesturing an invitation.

“I believe you.” Rosie swigged her beer. 

“You look for an EVP app on your phone.” June rifled through her bag for toiletries. “And I’ll meet you outside, k?” 

Rosie thumbed her earlobe, staring at the wall. 

“ . . . Rosie.”

She turned slowly, her eyes vacant.

“Dude.” June’s neck pricked. “What’s your deal.”

Rosie stood abruptly.

“I’m going outside.”

“Please do. You’re acting like a freak. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

June stepped into the foyer clutching soap, shampoo, conditioner, moisturizer, lotion, witch hazel and a small pouch of cotton balls and Q-Tips — irritated the facilities were separate. They could’ve given them an en suite since no one else was there. Girls needed nearby toilets for middle-of-the-night peeing.

Her bare footsteps echoed deep within the floor and she imagined owning the place, just for a second. Walking around in fancy taffeta bossing everyone around. Ringing bells for mint juleps. Now they were inside with the lights on, it was kinda fun being alone. Now that she’d gotten over herself.

Years ago, they only watched scary movies at June’s house. Rosie’s mom said horror films incited the devil. But June’s mom said Kubrick was a ground-breaker, popping The Shining in the VCR. So they sat on their grandmother’s couch, knee to knee, eating gummy bears. Rosie sticking fingers in her ears during the scary parts. Then they’d lie awake all night admitting fears: (Rosie: sad clowns) (June: sinkholes) reliving the woman in 237. Rotting in the tub. Chasing Jack down the hall, arms extended. Skin slopping to the floor.


June dropped a shampoo bottle, bent to retrieve it, and stood to the cheerless woman, staring from her portrait.


You don’t help, she muttered, hugging her bottles tight. Whatever else you could say about the Myrtles, there was a genuine feeling of being watched.


June paused, her hand on the shower room door.

The word came loudly. 

Like a thought that maybe wasn’t her own.


Yes, a bath would be nice. But their room didn’t come with a bath. Only a shower. Anyway, she just needed hot water and soap — she whiffed herself — like, nowShe managed to push the handle with her elbow when the adjacent door clicked.

June stared, backing away slightly.

Are you fucking kidding me?

But the door wasn’t kidding.

It opened slightly.

Inviting her in.


* * * * * * * *


Rosie stared at the wall, neck sideways. Braiding and unbraiding the same lock of hair. Humming mindlessly.

Pipes squeaked a few walls away. 

Maybe she needed a shower, too.  Louisiana had a very special way of closing in. She popped her neck left. Then right.

Then her knuckles.  One at a time.

Searching the floor. 

Braiding her hair.

What was she doing, again? What had June asked her do?

Her breath was stale and dry. Like old paper. And her joints ached. 

EVPs. She was supposed to find an EVP app so they could ask Spirit questions. She bent to the floor for her phone.


She sat up.

Back straight.

Eyes opening wide.

Yes, she agreed. Get out.


The small door unlatched, the one in the wall. And Rosie turned slow, lips parting slightly. Ju—” she started, but the word ballooned in her mouth. 

The door swung open.

And she dropped to her knees. 

Crawling forward.

Humming a tune from long, long ago.

The door latched behind her.

* * * * * * * *


June stuck her head in the John Leake room (but only her head).  “Hello?” she called to no one in particular. Because that’s what you did in such situations, right? Just to be sure?She pushed the door open to a dark room dominated by sturdy furniture and felt the wall for a light switch (success) smiling to see an en suite and eureka! — a clawfoot tub. 

She slipped inside, leaving the door ajar in case Rosie needed her. She lined her toiletries and bent over the taps, twisting until steam filled the long, Victorian-style bathroom. Now this was a bath tub. None of that flimsy plastic bullshit their apartment called a tub. This — the water steamed and swirled in enameled cast iron— this was a tub. She peeled Steely Dan over her shoulders then sat on the edge, unstrapping her sandals. God, she stank.

The bedroom door creaked.

“Rosie?” She leaned forward, peering into the room.


June grinned sideways then stood, wriggling her shorts to the floor. This was the experience people wanted. To be freaked out over nothing. Still, asking questions would be fun. She’d seen enough paranormal investigation shows and knew enough Myrtles history to ask the right questions. She made a mental list: 

Is anyone here?

She stepped in the tub — shit! — and hopped out again, cranking the COLD full blast. 

Chloe? Are you haunting the Myrtles? 

She waited a minute then stepped under the cold downpour, marching in place though surely, Chloe wasn’t the only ghost. She sat on the edge, swirling the water with her foot.

If so, why are you still here?

Satisfied, she eased herself in. Surely God’s oppressed people went straight to heaven? She splashed her face, then shoulders then slid under, letting hot water cover everything but her nose, lips, and eyes. 


She considered the Woodruff children —supposedly poisoned by Chloe. The famous picture showed two small figures perched on the roof above the slave apparition. Not quite as compelling as Chloe, but certainly worth asking. 


Are there any children here? She sat up, squirting a pearly mound of shampoo in her wet palm. Legend said Chloe did it on accident. But really, she could’ve done it on purpose. Scorned women did some crazy shit.

She rubbed her hair in circles.

The floor groaned in the bedroom. LOUD.

— and June stopped lathering.



  — then the slow, deliberate creak of another floorboard. 


June’s breath shallowed, her chest hammering. The way it did when fear was real

Hello?” she managed, lowering her hands, white lather forming an island over her crotch. The Myrtles lost it’s hospitable charm right then. And her nudity felt wrong

When the boogey man jumped out in the movies, it was fun. That fear you felt — was thrilling. You gripped the person next to you, heart thumping, and laughed because you were safe. There in the theatre. Or on the couch. Together.

But this . . . 

Her mouth formed to call Rosie. But she knew it wasn’t Rosie. 

Rosie didn’t sneak.

Rosie bounced. 

Rosie had slightly less chill than Tigger.

The bathroom door creaked open an inch and she watched it unblinking, her bathwater a warm sheet of glass. 

You’re being ridiculous, she watched the doorway, too scared to blink. Just get clean and get out. She took a deep breath and bubbled under with the same fuckitness employed when bungee jumping or enduring that air-puff thing at the eye doctor. Just get on with it. She reached up to rinse when a shadow passed over.

A hand shot underwater, holding her down.

She opened her eyes.

And she clutched the wrist, screaming.

Warm water filling her mouth.

A (woman?) loomed over. Distorted by liquid.

Pressing her down.


Cold fingers circling her throat.

June arched and kicked, clawing the arm. Inches from breathable air. 

And the woman laughed at the naked girl.

Thrashing like a rabid dog.

So pretty in the tub.

* * * * * * * *

Mrs. Sara Woodruff.

Don’t talk to me about sin. 

Could I have whipped her? Sold her? HUNG her?  Why, yes . . . take your pick. I could’ve done any of them — with clear conscience, too. But my husband’s reputation precluded such action. Woodruffs were kind folk. Generous folk. Christian folk. Woodruffs didn’t use the word nigger. Why, we barely called them slaves. Help, my husband suggested, his mustache freshly waxed, stuffing tobacco in his ivory pipe. Sipping cognac delivered on a silver tray by a Congolese bought for $246.00. Help, he repeated, waving a manicured hand. Sounded more dignified. 

That twig-legged pickaninny scrambled up from under him fast as lightning but my back was already turned. Skirts held. Chin high. Poison rising. My stairway is chiseled walnut with mahogany inlay. My chandelier Baccarat crystal. And I took the steps slow, gripping the banister tight. I like pretty things, see. Imported things. Just like my husband. I walked thru my parlor. Past my portrait, glove box and writing desk. Blinking back fury. Propelled by anger so foul I was no longer me.

We keep our chins down, women. 

We read. We peel. We pray. We sew.  

Our lips are closed but by God our ears are open.  And I’d heard enough whispers to know there are ways to fix this sort of problem. 

My husband chased me downstairs. 

Onto the porch. 

Across the gardens. 

Onto the dirt toward the slave rooms.

But he stopped when I walked into the kitchens, which I knew he would. 

Men didn’t go in kitchens. 

I shut the door behind me.

Pearlie looked up from a dead chicken, a bunch of feathers in her fist, then stood from the table. 

Leave, I told the others. 

She lowered down, pushing a cleaver aside and folded her hands, gnarled like tree roots. Staring at me with knowing eyes.

Pearlie was old.

Pearlie was wise.

Pearlie was Haitian.

I calmly told her what happened. Then what I needed.

Look at me Pearlie, I ordered when her grey eyes dropped to the floor.

* * * * * * * *

She led me to forest that night. To the place they met in secret. She handed me herbs then cut my ear and ring finger with a kitchen knife, telling me what to say.

You best say it out loud so he know you mean it. She pressed a small glass of rum in my hand. Now you drink one sip den leave him da other.

I left it under a tree.  

And that night dreamt of a tall black man with a top hat and skeleton face, beckoning me in the forest with a crooked finger. I followed until he stopped and pointed to an oak branch twisting thick above my head. Where Chloe hung herself four days later, before breakfast.

I smiled in my teacup.

You work. Pray. Keep a nice house. Tithe. Host the parties and write the goddamn thank you notes. Make sure your name means something and for what

—hahahhaha ahhhh. NO.

You catch your husband face deep in the help then talk to me about sin.

* * * * * * * *


Black magic come back on you. Pearlie din’t tell Missus dat part. Evil love to attack. Voodoo pay no mind to rules or who it hit. It jus work and keep workin til spirit be satisfied. Thas why bad happen to good people.

Missus tole Pearlie I need to suffer. So Pearlie took Missus to the forest, made her pick the herbs, mix the blood and the right words to say. Missus axe her to do it but Pearlie refuse. Say it would change the outcome. I don’t know if Missus saw her earrings on me. But I know they was on me when the magic found me. Plantin’ itself in my belly, spreadin’ like spilled ink. I seen what black magic do, so I climbed up a tree and hung myself to make it stop. But voodoo don’t work like dat. It stop when it want to. I been dead twelve days when my eyes opened again. Still swayin’. Flies swarmin’. No one bothered to cut me down. 

Fate gave Missus yellow fever fourteen years later. 

But voodoo woke her up again.

Pearlie din’t tell her dat part neither.

* * * * * * * *


Water sloshed to the floor as June emerged, holding her throat. 

Legs unsteady as a fawn’s, she fell to the carpet, backing away like a crab. The hands . . .  the fingers . . . she could still feel them.

Holding her down. 

And that woman . . .  laughing.

She grabbed a towel and screamed into it hard. A door slammed nearby. She scrambled across the floor, knees scraping wet carpet. Reached for the smooth white knob and burst into the foyer, meeting the gaze of a woman stepping from The Ruffin Stirling room.

The woman startled, holding a pamphlet to her chest. 

June pulled the towel around her front and a trembling hand over her mouth.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked, but didn’t move forward. 

Daylight cut patterns in the sunny foyer. A man stepped behind the woman she halted him at the elbow.

I—,” June started, but it presented as sobs. 

She backed against the wall, sliding right. Looking around wildly.

Low chatter sounded downstairs. Outside, car alarms beeped and shoes clomped behind a nearby door.

“Do you need help?” the woman asked again, her body-language suggesting anything but aid.

June shook her head, wet hair dropping water down her shoulders as the couple shuffled past, eying her sideways. The man with a protective hand on his wife’s back.

June bolted bare-assed for their room.

“Rosie!” She threw open the door and looked around, simultaneously clawing through her suitcase. She yanked a dress over her head, inside out, then rushed to the window, warm with daylight. HOW was it daytime? She pushed the curtain aside. There were people down there, milling around the property. Slamming trunks and carrying luggage.

“Rosie?” she called again, acknowledging a faint pine smell and another she couldn’t place. A half-drunk beer sat on the floor beside the closet door. “Rosie?” She opened the door, ducking to peer inside. The pine smell was stronger. More acidic. But the closet was empty. And Rosie never left beers half-full.

She spun on her heels, grabbed her phone and clomped through the foyer down the steep carpeted stairs leading outside where sun hit her hard, melting reason on her hysteria.

Rosie said she was going downstairs. 

She could’ve hooked up and spent the night out. 

Was it feasible she met someone in the 30 minutes June was gone? 

Yes. Yes, it was. 

Except — June had (very) clearly lost track of time. And besides, the lady said, they were there alone. She rushed past a woman in period costume readying for her first tour of the day and into reception.

* * * * * * * *

Mrs. Sara Woodruff

Quit with your buts and and your hows — Death isn’t what you think.

Minutes. Hours. Days.

Those are linear constructs for mortal comfort. There’s no such rules where we are, so quit trying to reason.  I was dead what you’d call sixteen years before I opened my eyes again. Still in my bed, sweating with fever. And Chloe, standing in the corner, watching. Some unsatisfying form of the house around us. 

Lord, I could’ve drained the Mississippi my tongue was so dry. And my skin begged for oil. But in death there is no function. Only want and a pitiful desire to make it go away. Chloe saw me reaching and tried to bring water. And then I learned Hate crosses over, too. Her milk and two sugar skin, those twinkling green eyes. I knew the magic worked when she hung herself and celebrated quietly, daring my husband to grieve. 

And now here she was some empty version of herself, still trying to work. 

Me and Chloe. 

Chloe and Me.

We could open doors, but couldn’t feel breeze. Smell biscuits and bacon and roast and cobbler but never take a bite. Close our eyes and wake up what you’d call weeks later, still tired. Always tired. Always wanting. Never satisfied. Watching people come and go. Their sameness and dull noise. Their bigotry and deceit. Watching people sleep, especially the men. Remembering.

Because that part of me wants satisfying, too.  

* * * * * * * *


One night a white lady stay alone, drinkin’ wine. Cryin’ in her pillow cos her man don’t love her no more. Missus was drawn to dat lady, strokin’ her head while she sleep, whisperin’ hate and revenge. And when dat lady woke with a white streak down the side of her dark head, Missus learn she could touch the livin’. 

Dat lady tore out so fass I doubt she pay the bill. 

But Missus felt a little less thirsty.

And now it go like dat. 

Spirit like offerins.  

And Spirit the only one can undo what been done. I leave pennies and trinkets by the hangin’ tree, hoping he’ll let me go. But he say not yet. Not til Papa satisfied. 

So I wait. 

But a rich white lady? Naw

She desperate. 

And Missus learn Papa eat fear like a child eat cake.

Now who the slave.

* * * * * * * *


“Honey, you alright?” An older woman pulled glasses off her nose.

 The girl was sopping wet.

“Is there anyway to page my cousin?” June white-knuckled the counter. “I haven’t seen her since last night. I just— ” She looked around the gift shoppe, bright and airy, a few people (suddenly quiet) doing their damndest not to stare.  “ —her name is Rosie. Maybe she spent the night with another guest, I don’t know, but something happened—” She started crying again. Remembering the fingers. 

“Honey —” She glanced at the other guests, lowering her voice. “We weren’t open yesterday.”

June straightened, angry but tempered.

“We spent the night in the Fannie Williams room. We booked online. We signed the guest book.” She scanned the counter for the large brown ledger. “The lady watched me sign it and gave me keys.”

“Which lady?” 

The phone rang and she answered, holding a finger to June. Yes. Yes. Would you mind holding?

June looked around as people’s eyes darted back to their breakfasts, spotting the ledger behind the counter in a glass front cabinet. The woman cradled the receiver then leaned in. “Honey. I appreciate what you’re doing but it’s not necessary.” She lowered her voice. “We aren’t open June 23rd. We never open June 23rd.”

“Ma’am,” she said, pointedly. “If you could please just come upstairs. Our suitcases are there and I still have the key. I’ll show you . . . please.”

The woman made eyes with a man sorting postcards that didn’t need sorting. “Be right back,” she told him, stepping from behind the counter.

They walked upstairs, across the empty foyer to the far right room.

“I left the key in there, I’m sorry. I’ll show you the reservation on my phone.”

The woman pulled a key from her pocket and opened the door.

And June rushed inside.

The bed was made.

Their suitcases . . .  


“We signed in,” she whispered, legs draining strength. 

She stared the mantle.

“Those ledgers are antiques, honey. We never open St. John’s Eve or Christmas Day. Just tradition, really . . .  honey? Are you alright?”

June walked to the fireplace.

Insides folding.

To the mantle.

To the dolls.

Reaching for the new one, lips parted.

Mauve dress flecked with white.


The End.  

(Cue this song.)



* * * * * * * *

Hey, y’all. Thanks for reading. In a few days, I’ll publish what really went down at the Myrtles, with original photos. If you’d like instant notification, please sign up to follow this blog.

I welcome your comments, as always.



Q & A: Haunted Beds and HOW DO I CONTROL THIS ‘GIFT’?

Q: Let me start with: I’m not crazy.

I often feel other’s moods, and places or things that have a past. People call me when weird or bad stuff is happening in their life. And I guess that requires an explanation. My neighbor had a sister living with her and thought there might be a spirit or something in the house because her sister wasn’t sleeping well.

I don’t see spirits, but I told her I’d see if I could help ‘feel’ a presence and pray with her. I went next door, into the room she thought the spirit was. Truthfully, I felt like I was suffocating the closer I got to the room. It felt very heavy, like a struggling to breathe, and it got worse as I approached the bed.

I told my neighbor that something wasn’t right with the bed. She explained a child had died in the bed before, under suspicious circumstances. And I later learned the child had suffocated.

I’m writing you because I need advice on how to turn off the feelings/energy or whatever it is called. I work in the medical field and spend a lot of time in hospitals. If I can’t control it can you at least tell me how to manage it so I don’t get overwhelmed by people’s feelings/emotions/illnesses?

I tried meditation, but it seems to make it worse. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. All I know is that I have to be able to deal without it wearing me down. Even being in a room full of people is exhausting. I would appreciate any advice. Again, I am completely sane and I know how crazy this sounds.



Hi Sarah!

All this all sounds completely normal to me.

Spirit often tells us how they died by sharing a physical feeling. Chest pain if they died by heart attack, shortness of breath to indicate suffocation (like you experienced), etc.  But in your neighbor’s case, I think it was the bed you felt.

Is the bed haunted?


Allow me to share a similar story.

I recently spent the night with a friend –and for no reason– woke in the wee hours feeling very anxious.

I went to bed happy. But now my heart pounded. My thoughts raced. I felt fidgety. Most inexplicably, my fingers wanted to shred paper to relieve anxiety.

Eventually the feeling passed and I fell asleep, but not without confusion. I’d slept there many times without incident.

“My sister stayed over before you,” my friend admitted the next morning.

Same room, same bed. And yes, her sister suffered moderate to severe anxiety. And not just that —- she wadded tissues.

“I cleaned up before you came. But seriously, Jenn. There were shredded tissues everywhere.”

She also had a confession.

She didn’t wash the sheets.

Interesting, right?

So this isn’t about a ghost. It’s about energy.

The tingling well-being that spreads among people gathered in prayer.

The heaviness people feel in cluttered antique stores.

Or the tension that lingers after a fighting couple has left the room.

Objects carry residual energy, too. It’s science. Stand next to a campfire, you’ll feel heat. Technically, that’s thermal energy carried through electromagnetic waves, but whatever. Your hot skin proves the energy exists.

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It just changes form, right?

So whatever trauma happened on that mattress is still radiating in some form. In simplest terms, the sister felt it in one way, and you felt it in another.

Can objects be ‘haunted’?



(But that’s another blog entry.)

Onto your second question.

How to control.

Clearly you’re gifted, Sarah. And wise to seek a handle on this.

Hospitals are overwhelming even if you’re not psychic!

I won’t tell you what to do, because everyone is different. I can only tell you what I do.

You mentioned being a praying person.

I am, too. So that’s where I always start.

I pray for help any time I need it, and often out loud.

Prayer and meditation open us spiritually, so you just gotta be super clear about who you’re letting in.

Remember that scene in Ghost when all those spirits lined up to talk to Oda Mae?


The Spirit world is sentient. They hear and listen. 

So you literally have to ask for exactly what you want/need.

I have a widely-respected, professional medium friend who repeatedly asks Spirit and her angels to PLEASE not (visually) present in front of her because it would freak her out and then she couldn’t effectively do her work. And you know what? They don’t.

So before going to work, your prayer might be:

Dear God, thank you so much for entrusting me with this gift. But it really does overwhelm me sometimes. Please help me discern your will. And protect me from unwanted spiritual attention/distraction so I can do my best today. 

— and all beings not here for my greater good please go away.

(or something like that).


You’ll be absolutely amazed how effective this is, saying it out loud.

Go ahead.

Try it.

And remember to mean it.




I’ll wait.




Oftentimes you’ll feel an actual LIFT in the space, like a big air vacuum sucking out the funk. That’s not your imagination. That’s you taking control of your personal space.

Which leads me to your next point:

Feeling overwhelmed in a room full of people.


Don’t I know it.


Like a slo-mo chokehold, right?

I especially feel it in malls, clubs, and casinos — or any situation where people fill emotional voids by artificial means.


So (so!)  many people suffer this and don’t even know why. But it has to do with that energy we talked about earlier.


It is my unwavering belief that we have this ability to help others.

I suspect Healthcare called you for your innate ability to comfort and connect. It’s where you’ll shine the most.

So ask for help each day and let Spirit do their thing.

Then allow yourself to be a vessel through which divine guidance can flow.


And shine on, girl.

HealthCARE needs you.


love,  Jennifer







If YOU reading have a paranormal or metaphysical question, please send it to I’ll archive and answer as appropriate, when I can.







Q & A: Alzheimers and ‘Lost’ Souls.

Q: Hi Jennifer. How can someone, like that ghost you encountered from the 1700’s, still be HERE? Why don’t they find peace? Why are they stuck? —Christina, Houston

That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it.

(She’s referring to THIS experience if you haven’t yet read it.)

My encounter suggests poor Jose’s been stuck in some rocky, Mexican purgatory 300+ years. But that also supposes a linear timeline. (You can read more about the space/time problem here. )

Please remember Heather had a ghosty run-in that night, too.


What if the land was responsible for our mutual paranormal experience, and not a ghost?

(bear with me.)

Supposedly, we have several spiritual “hot spots” here on Earth:

Sedona, Arizona

Machu Picchu, Peru

Ayer’s Rock, Australia

Mount Sinai, Egypt

Glastonbury, England

. . . to name a few.

I’ve not been to any of these places. And I’m not a fan of the word “vortex.” ( like, at all.) Makes me think of nutball New Agers and Bermuda Triangle enthusiasts. Still, their theories are somewhat provable by ley lines, plate tectonics, and magnetic fields (all real).

So maybe those locations– as well as the little pueblo we visited in Mexico– have some geomagnetic or spatial components that make the proverbial veil thinner there?

I don’t know enough to take a stance.

But I DO know many describe Sedona’s atmosphere the way I described Tepotzotlán’s: charged.  I also know when I’m about to experience some serious ghost action the air around me crackles like polyester from a hot dryer.

Maybe I need to go to Sedona?


Q: Dear Jennifer, I read that when a person has Alzheimers and they pass, they are in such a confused state of mind that they don’t completely cross over. Do the deceased know how to cross over even though their minds are altered? Thank you for any answers you can help me with. — Vicki, Texas 

Hey, Vicki.

I’m no brain expert. But really, who is. Even top neurologists admit limited understanding. What’s it, 10% comprehension or something silly like that?

I personally feel those suffering with Alzheimers already have one foot on the Other Side.


I witnessed it with my grandfather, his beloved essence evaporating one painful month at a time.

He stared past me like a stranger while I searched his once vibrant blue eyes.

Remember me, Paw Paw? It’s Jennifer. You used to carry me on your shoulders? Remember how we played in the pool? You drove me back and forth to cheerleader practice and brought dinner to  play rehearsals? You drove us to Disney World, treated the world to dinner. You were our living Santa Claus, Paw Paw. Remember your great-granddaughter, Sophia? Isn’t she lovely? Paw Paw, are you in there?

One time, near the end, the fog cleared.

He looked at Sophia, then me.

“Well!” he smiled, some twinkle restoring in his Carolina Blue eyes. “She’s wonderful!”  He looked at me with that wonder reserved for the elderly, curious where time went, his expression saying look how big she’s gotten!

Paw Paw opened his bear arms wide and she fell in.

But his eyes died before the hug finished.

I bit my lip so I didn’t cry.

At least he saw her. Really saw her. That one last time.

Did his brain allow him through those precious seconds?

Or did God.

And was that a gift for me?

Or for him.

I’m no doctor.

But I know in the physical body, the brain rules supreme. What happens after death is spiritual— therefore God’s–domain.

Human rules and vulnerabilities do not apply.

No wayno how are dementia patients bumping into each other in heaven, asking for directions. No. They are whole.

They’re home.


I love and miss you, Paw Paw. I hope your heaven is custom fitted with a recliner and football game, turned up extra loud. 

Thanks for your question, Vicki. Hope this helps.

If YOU reading have a paranormal or metaphysical question, please send it to I’ll archive and answer as appropriate, when I can.




P.S. Has anyone been to one of those vortexy places listed up there and felt something unusual? Let me know!



Q & A: Long Island Medium and the VOID.

Q: Hi Jennifer, I’ve watched the show, “Long Island Medium” and believe that woman, Theresa, is the real deal. I’ve heard her often say, “so and so wants you to know they’re at peace with our father in heaven.” My question is: HOW can a soul be at peace and still be with us on Earth? After a person dies who has God in his or her heart, HOW do they move from the spirit realm to our physical one? —Christina, Houston

Interesting you use the phrase “real deal.” A friend of mine received an unsolicited reading from Theresa and actually ended up on that show. And that’s the exact phrase she used. Real deal.

“So and so wants you to know they’re at peace with our father in heaven” is a comfort phrase for the living. She wouldn’t say that to someone who believed differently, because not everyone defines the afterlife that way.

(And that’s okay.)


As for moving between realms –well– that’s a deeper question.

If I start talking ‘dimensions’ and quantum theory this’ll read science like fiction.

But this I know for sure.

Human rules for space and time DO NOT APPLY to the Other Side. So:

1. Take all your assumptions.
2. Crumple them into ball.
3. (Cue En Vogue.)
4. No, you’re never gonna get it.
5. Never ever gonna get it.


Because our brains are hardwired for linear timelines and compartmental definitions of space.

1 to 10.
A to Z.
Left to right.
Once upon a time, the end.


Pragmatists will NEVER be comfortable with these conversations.

But here’s the deal.

I’ve personally experienced the VOID. That wordless place between space and time.  I KNOW it exists. Though exist might not be the word.

Few years ago, we were watching tv when the living room –and all daytime noises– evaporated.

Like someone flipped a switch.

Radiant peace undulated in my periphery, filling the space like warm liquid. The room was an illusion.

I saw my beloved grandfather across the room, next to my little girl. Not as an opaque person; but a shimmery outline, his flat cap confirming his presence.


I couldn’t talk.
Didn’t have to.

My Grandpa died. But he was right there. And this was COMPLETELY unlike any visit I’d had before.

Was this a place?
. . .  or the absence of one?

Had I slipped into the Divine? Who made this happen?! And why wasn’t he sitting next to me?

We lack vocabulary for these things.

I recall that part in Eat, Pray, Love where Elizabeth Gilbert experienced it, too:

“Simply put, I got pulled through the wormhole of the Absolute, and in that rush I suddenly understood the workings of the universe completely. I left my body, I left the room, I left the planet, I stepped through time and I entered the void. I was inside the void and I was looking at the void, all at the same time. The void was a place of limitless peace and wisdom, the void was conscious and intelligent. The void was God. But not in a gross, physical way–not like I was Liz Gilbert stuck inside a chunk of God’s thigh muscle. I was just part of God.”

I remember reading that bit, and feeling like YA! You go witcha bad author self, Liz! THAT!

People of different faiths who’ve had near death experiences describe the variations of the same.

Who’s to say Spirit can’t come and go as they please? Or that God doesn’t encourage them to pop in and give us love nudges every once in awhile?

My advice?  Try not to overthink the HOWs.

We probably couldn’t grasp the answer anyway.



Thanks for these questions, Christina. I’ll answer the rest of them in the next week or so.

If YOU reading have a paranormal or metaphysical question, please send it to I’ll archive and answer as appropriate, when I can.

Thank you!

Q & A: Mexican Ghosts Speak Spanish

Q: Hi Jennifer. My grandma died last year. We miss her a lot! My mom says she sometimes catches flashes of her, which I believe, but why can no one else see her? Sometimes I think I sense her, but I’m really not sure. When you experience a ‘ghost’ how can you tell it’s not your imagination? –Emily; New Braunfels.

Great question.

But let me answer the last part first.

Imagination is when you’re watching a scary movie and too scared to get up and pee. Intuition is when you open the bathroom door and see a man walk through the wall.

If a ghost, angel, or deceased loved one appears, it’s my experience that (most) everyone in the room will experience something. Even if they later try to reason it away.

HOWEVER. Only those with clairvoyant tendencies would (likely) see it.

Imagine this scenario:

A few friends gather at Peter’s house, drinking and chatting  when a sudden presence fills the room. So strong that Peter stops talking and stares at the wall.

Peter: Wait. What was that. Did ya’ll see that?

Susan: See what?

Peter: A man. There by the window.  I swear I saw something?

Edmund: I dunno, but I just got the chills.

Lucy: Right when you said that, I smelled cigarettes. Did someone say ‘Harold?’

Susan:  Ya’ll are crazy. I’m leaving.

Peter: Please don’t. The queso’s almost ready.

Susan: No, I don’t feel right. Something’s up.  Excuse me a sec.

Susan calls home, learns her son sliced his foot and needs stitches ASAP. Peter researches to find the original homeowner, Harold Smith, a heavy smoker, drank himself to death in 1899. No one likes Peter’s house anymore.

The End.

Okay, that’s silly and oversimplified, but you get the point. ‘Clairvoyant’ is one of those loaded words, but it just means ‘clear seeing’ and is by far the easiest extra-sensory perception to glamorize on film. But spirit detection is rarely down to eyes alone.

IMG_6236 (1)

Intuition/Psychic ability breaks down to:

  1. Seeing
  2. Feeling
  3. Hearing
  4. Knowing
  5. Smelling/Tasting

Peter saw. Edmund felt. Lucy smelled AND heard. And Susan — our skeptic– demonstrates intuition isn’t a woo-woo phenomenon. I personally think clear knowing is the strongest, most trustworthy of the four. Sometimes you just KNOW. You don’t know how. You just do. And inevitably it’s about something really, really important, right?

Every person alive has at least one of these gifts whether they ignore it or not. Those with a decent command of all four are the world’s ‘psychics’ or ‘intuitives.’ Those who claim they do and tell people lies for money and attention are charlatans.

Know the difference.


Now I’ll share something that really happened.

Picture it. Estado Morelos 2008.

My mom, our friend Heather, and I traveled to Mexico for a family wedding and shared a room in this hotel overlooking scenic Tepoztlán.



Pretty, right?

It was also FULL of Spirit. Like, everywhere. In the streets. In the market. In church. The entire city felt charged. Not haunted. Just charged. (Frenchman St. in NOLA’s French Quarter feels similar.)

I felt it. Heather felt it. Mom felt it. But it was in our hotel room we encountered a pushy, dead Mexican.

I woke in the middle of the night because I felt –I dunno– something.

Imagine squeezing a balloon. Not enough to pop it, but enough to think you might. That’s what woke me– something pressing against my subconscience. I opened my eyes and pulled up on my elbows.

The room felt still.

I remember being hot. There was no a/c so they’d given us fans, but really, they just made noise. We’d opened balcony doors to stave off heat, but there was no wind either. Only moonlight, a whirring fan, and the distant chirping of foreign bugs. I kicked off the covers. And that’s when I noticed the bottom of my mattress, sunk down.

Like someone sitting there.

I yanked in my feet. Let me assure you the mattress was hard as a damn rock. It’d take something with mass to make it sink that deep. I stared at the empty (yet occupied) space with a pounding heart.

The air got crackly.

Oh hell no, I thought. LEAVE.

But that guy —I could tell it was a guy— didn’t budge. And he was super happy I acknowledged him. Because then he started talking. FAST.

A quick word about Spirits talking: Rarely do you hear them outside yourself –like you’d hear someone next to you–talking. You hear it inside. But it’s completely different from your brain voice. Does that make sense? It’s almost like a super loud thought, yet you know it’s not coming from you.

The cool brown tiles felt good against my feet. I slipped to the bathroom and shut the door, quickAnd do you know that cabrón followed me to the toilet?!  I wasn’t imagining things either because rapid unfamiliar Spanish zipped through my conscience like ticker tape. I caught a few words.

. . . mil setecientos . . .

“Go away!” I whisper-hissed, too scared to look up in case he manifested in front of me.

. . . José.

“Váyase José!” I waved toilet paper at him.

. . . de cólera, he implored.

“Eres muerto, Jose!” ( Jesus Cristo! How do you say go to the light en Español!?) My mind raced. “Vaya con Dios!” I still wouldn’t look up.

“Who are you talking to?” I heard my mother.

And then he was gone.

I re-entered the room to Mom and Heather, wide awake.

“There’s a damn ghost in there telling me he died of cholera in the 1700s.” I plopped defensively on my now un-sunken mattress.

And then it got interesting.

In full disclosure, I need to let you know Heather is a professional medium and my trusted go-to when I want a reading. She’s also a big ol’ chicken who gets really uncomfy outside the loving presence of angels and deceased loved ones.

Poor girl had been lying there hours. Unable to sleep. Overwhelmed by images of bones, mountains, native people, and snatches of conversation from long ago. And she couldn’t shut it off.

“They obviously don’t sage here,” she sighed, sitting up, fluffing her pillow.

Everyone knows how bad it sucks to lie there exhausted in the wee hours, mind churning like a hamster wheel. Let me tell you it’s 1000 times worse as a psychic. It’s like a movie reel shining bright, constant, moving pictures behind your closed eyes. And you can’t do CRAP about it except wait for it to be over.

Mom later confessed she’d seen a man hovering over Heather in the doorway, but didn’t say anything.

We turned on the lights and waited several hours for breakfast.

( P.S. Local Mexican coffee mops the floor with Folgers.)

That same trip,  Mom and I hiked two, steep, dangerous hours to the top of an ancient pyramid and encountered –I have no choice but to believe– an angel.


But I’ll save that story for another time.

Next time you say prayers Emily, ask Grandma to let you know she’s there. Maybe you’ll dream about her that night. That’s a form of clairvoyance, too. In the meantime, believe your momma.



If you have a question regarding paranormal or metaphysical phenomena, please send it to I’ll archive and answer as appropriate, when I can.

Thank you.








Beneath a London Pub.

One of my weirdest run-ins with the Other Side happened in London, 2000. I still don’t know how to classify it. Nothing like it’s happened since. What makes it super odd is that the SAME thing happened to my mom when she visited in early 2001.

In the exact same spot. A whole year later. And I hadn’t told her a thing.

Keep reading.

Christopher and I were still dating back then. He knew the West End as well as any cabby; and on days out we explored pubs, markets, museums, and parks. Proud to show me his city, he dragged me around London’s alleyways by the hand, always walking faster than me. One afternoon he took me to a stunning old pub called Lord Moon of the Mall.

London has a gazillion beautiful pubs, but this one’s probably top 10. It wasn’t one of those low-beamed ceiling, crackling fireplace, pint-with-the-neighbor cozy kinda pubs. No. We walked into an expansive room of a hundred small tables canopied by towering, ornate ceilings and grand, arched doorways. Patrons unwound beneath giant bookshelves and the watchful eyes of portrait Noblemen, peering from their giant gilded frames.

We ordered beer from a long, polished bar and found a cushioned spot in the back room. A barkeep removed empty pints and dirty ashtrays from our table so we could get on with our date. Back then we were still getting to know one another, so we talked about everything but the future we didn’t realize we’d share. I wasn’t in touch with my ‘gift’ yet, so we didn’t talk about that either.

A few beers in, I had to pee.

The loos were downstairs.

I distinctly remember walking downstairs happy happy. Up there was a guy I REALLY liked, and here we were, out on a beautiful day in London’s belly.

I descended a narrow, carpeted stairwell then reached a little hallway.

And that’s when it happened.

The din of a crowded pub, the entire world around me — GONE.

Sadness consumed me whole. It was dark. Women were crying. Reaching out. But not just women. Wailing. On both sides of me. It was too dark to see. They felt hidden, forgotten. Their collective, profound desperation entered my cells. I was still present me –I mean I wasn’t someone else from another time– but the pub was gone.

I stood there frozen, eyes filling with tears. (Sometimes now, when I’m deeply tapped in, I sorta get sucked in a daze while getting info.) It was like that in that downstairs hallway, but body-wide. I physically couldn’t move.

Excuse me.

Annoyed Londoners skirted around me. The noises came back. Clinking glasses, laughter upstairs. Christopher!

Pardon me.”

The sadness sucked away. Like a vacuum. The darkness gone. Just like that.

And I was TOTALLY in the way. I shuffled to the bathroom stunned, like what in the F dash dash dash just happened?!? My confusion amplified by having been extremely jolly just moments before, upstairs chatting with my future husband. Now tears streaked my cheeks, my senses fatigued by something horrid –I suspected–from a long time ago.

And yes, I was sober.


A year later, my family came to visit, and we took them to that pub. What happened before wasn’t really on my mind. –Not until we had to go the bathroom.

Mom and I walked downstairs.

We reached the hallway.

She paused, a strange look on her face.

I didn’t say anything. I kinda just waited for it. Thankfully, it didn’t remove her from the premises.

“I don’t like it down here,” she frowned. “Do you feel that?” She looked up and around, touching the dark wood panelling.

No, I didn’t. Not this time.

“Let’s go,” she shuddered, pulling me into the bathroom. “I don’t like it down here.”


That was 15 years ago. I called her this morning to ask if she remembered that day. She did –a bit.

“I didn’t like it at all,” she recalled via FaceTime. “I felt apprehensive walking down there. Then immediate fear. It was dungeon-like, I remember.”

Now, I’ve visited that pub several times since then. That creepiness only happened once. And I still don’t know how to define it.

I don’t know the history of that building, nor the land it was built on. God knows every patch of London has a past. Maybe someone reading knows.

Also, selecting an image for this post was difficult — a picture of the pub would conjure a warm fuzzy desire for cold beer and international travel, so that won’t do. Plus, I never ‘saw’ those trapped, wailing people.

Feeling was enough.

Author’s note: I’m visiting London next month. Maybe I can pop in and snap a photo of that hallway.