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Alyssa Richards

Mystery, Thriller, and Suspense

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More WWI Ghost Soldiers Find Their Way Home

September 1, 2014 by admin 2 Comments

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Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about the trenches we visited while we were in Ypres. Quite a few WWI ghost soldiers were there as well. Just below Hill 60 are the trenches that were used by the allied units. They are – or were – filled with the ghosts of WWI Soldiers.

We started our tour by walking through a museum filled with WWI artifacts. Considering the building was located just below Hill 60, I wondered if they collected many these items from the area around them. Perhaps they were excavated from the land.

Inside the small museum were mannequins wearing uniforms, carrying weapons. Some were posed in odd positions, as if they were being treated for a missing limb or other war wound. It was a bit much.

Some rooms held German uniforms and those rooms held a darkness that was hard to shake, even long after we’d left the area.

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Once we found our way out to the trenches, it was truly like walking into a living cemetery.

Through my eyes I could see thousands of young boys still living life in the trenches. Ghost soldiers who had yet to leave. Many were wounded, some sat around smoking cigarettes. Most didn’t realize they were dead and were still fighting the war that had ended 100 years ago. No one knew how to get home.

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The trenches are reinforced by metal sheets now, the sand bags that once held up the dirt walls are long gone. We wound along the trenched path, staying above ground most of the time. Another tourist was out there with us and she complained the whole time that she couldn’t breathe. She thought maybe she was having an asthma or anxiety attack. But that’s often the feeling people have when they’re surrounded by so many ghosts.The heaviness is almost unbearable.

When I felt I had a good understanding of how many soldiers were still there, I began to cross them over to the other side. In groups they went, sticking together as they had for the last century.

Often when I cross spirits over,  they begin to think of husbands and wives, children and other loved ones they miss. Those they know they’ll see again. But these boys were too young for wives. Their final thoughts before crossing over were of their mothers. These sweet boys missed their mothers.

After I’d crossed several thousand souls over that morning, we began to head back toward the museum, back the way we came in.

We ended up walking with the female tourist who had come in with us. “I don’t understand it,” she said as she looked around the trenches. “When we first got out here I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t even look across this area without cringing. There was just this thick, depressing energy here. I thought my asthma was acting up. But now that energy – it’s lifted. It’s light here, and -. I can breathe. I don’t know what happened.”

I smiled as we walked together. “I know what you mean.”

It’s always nice to have a little validation from those who can’t see what I see. Most can feel it when there’s a shift. And I love it when they comment on it.

Later that night we toured the Menin Gate and waited for The Last Post Ceremony to begin. We climbed the steps, studied the countless names on the walls. Servicemen from several countries and family members of the deceased soldiers began to line up with poppy wreaths in their hands, ready to place them at the gate.

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http://www.greatwar.co.uk/events/menin-gate-last-post-ceremony.htm

I have to say that I rarely cry around death. I’ve been surrounded by the dead since birth, it doesn’t hold the same mystery and fear for me that it does for most. At the very least, ghosts have given me that wisdom. Life definitely goes on.

It was emotional when the bagpipes began to play, though. There’s just something about bagpipes that calls to the soul. But when the bugler played The Last Post, well, read on.

So, here is the part that got me. As the bugler began to play The Last Post, I leaned forward and asked the woman in front of me its meaning:

She said, “The ‘Last Post’ bugle call symbolizes the ‘end of the soldier’s day’ in so far as the dead soldier has finished his duty and can rest in peace.”

And that’s when I lost it.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day, or those beautiful boys. Thank God they’re home and can rest.

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I didn’t know the history of The Last Post. In case you didn’t either, here is a brief bit of its history:

The tradition of the final bugle call of the day signalling the end of the soldier’s day dates back to the 17th century when the British Army was on campaign in the Netherlands. There was already a Dutch custom in existence called “Taptoe”. This was a signal at the end of the day to shut off the beer barrel taps and the name comes from the Dutch “Doe den tap toe” – “turn the tap off”. From that time the British Army adopted a routine of also sounding drum beats as the officer on duty made his rounds in the evening to check sentry posts and to call off-duty soldiers out of the pub and back to their billets. When the bugle call of ‘Last Post’ was sounded at the final sentry post inspection this was the final warning that everyone should be back in their billets.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Ghosts

Morning, Espresso. Morning, Ghost. My Normal Paranormal Life.

August 28, 2014 by admin Leave a Comment

IMG_4356Morning, New York. Morning, Espresso. Morning, Ghost. Yes, that’s my normal, paranormal morning.

http://instagram.com/p/r1TpKOzZEk/?modal=true

Usually they show up armed with stories ready to share.

Apparently being a good listener has its drawbacks.

Sipping my favorite Italian espresso, staring out at the park. Listening to my own thoughts and preparing for my day.

When suddenly someone is behind me. A male. Recently deceased.

There’s a unique vibe about those that haven’t been dead that long. A freshness to their energy, a curiousness. They’re also still pretty guided in that stage. There’s still room for them to go on home quickly.

So, this guy didn’t have a story to share. Which was unusual. He just stood there behind me. Staring. Waited for me to say something to him.

I don’t usually have anything kind to say to strangers who wander into my home.

Not many people would.

But something about him seemed – vulnerable. Sad.

So, I was gentle with him.

From reading his energy – without looking at him – I would have thought him older. 80’s, maybe. But when I turned to look at him his appearance was younger. His hair was dark. His skin unwrinkled.

This is often the norm when an older person dies. They begin to appear as they did when they felt their best in life. Usually their 30s or 40s. They appear as they saw themselves.

Usually ghosts want something from me. Sometimes they want to share their story. Sometimes they have unfinished business from their life and they think I can help them. Sometimes they just need to connect with someone since most of their existence is spent not being heard, seen or noticed.

But this guy – he didn’t want anything.

I found that unusual until I opened my email and discovered why.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/397020523373410067/

There was an email my mother had forwarded me from one of her relatives.

Her cousin had died the night before.

I had been praying for him and his family.

He died while on the ventilator. Suddenly his BP just crashed and there wasn’t anything they could do to help him.

Before being put on the ventilator he had told his wife he didn’t want to leave her.

I had never met my mother’s cousin. That is, until he appeared in my kitchen this morning. (I get to meet a lot of interesting people this way…) I guess he knew to find me because I had been thinking about him. Ghosts can follow your thoughts. They see everything.

He was worried about his family. Sad to leave his wife of 60 years.

There’s often a kind of shock that happens when a spirit leaves its body. But with a little time, they begin to soften.

Once he has a little more time around his loved ones, is able to see and feel the love they have for him. He’ll adjust. And probably cross over just fine.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Ghosts

Ghost Stories – World War I Soldiers Find Their Way Home

August 27, 2014 by admin Leave a Comment

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A collector from Brussels purchased several pieces from Blake’s gallery last week. We traveled there together to make a romantic getaway of it, and as a side trip, we stopped in Ypres. Little did I know that I would be starring in ghost stories – World War I soldiers find their way home.

If you’ve never been, Ypres is an extraordinary experience. Ypres was nearly destroyed in WWI and every piece of land is a former battlefield. And, as you might imagine, there are lots of soldiers left behind. Young boys who were 19 over 100 years ago.

http://www.toerisme-ieper.be/en/page/334-349-355/hill-60-an-authentic-great-war-site-in-the-ypres-salient.html

We started our visit at Hill 60, a battlefield that lined the Western Front. As I stepped onto the soft green grass, echos of soldiers yelling commands filled my ears. I turned in their direction and saw hoards of soldiers running toward me in full regalia. Rifles drawn but not ready to fire.

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They wanted help.

Stranded for more than 100 years, these boys were looking for a way home.

http://www.beneathhill60.com.au/background.htm

“She’s here!” they yelled. “She’s here!”

As quickly at they ran to me I guided them to the other side. When one unit crossed over, another charged me and I crossed them over as well.

I had the strangest feeling that I was returning to my friends and brothers, helping those who had been left behind. I don’t specifically remember a past life in WWI. But there are flashes of memories here and there. I definitely felt these men were my brothers in arms. Maybe I had been there.

I stayed with the same process until no one else ran toward me and the area was empty. A silent breeze blew over the hill. And now that all was quiet on the Western Front, I knew it was time to leave.

 

 

Filed Under: News

Psychics, Ghosts and Psychometry

August 6, 2014 by admin 1 Comment

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Outtake of The Fine Art of Deception – a paranormal romance series with psychics and ghosts!

* * *
I picked up Paintings of the Louvre from the coffee table and flipped open to the Italian School section. I traced my fingers over the Canaletto paintings on the page and wished on every star that I could touch them in person. Just for a moment.

Because I had been born with a gift. Several gifts, really. But the gift of psychometry was easily my favorite. All I had to do was give any item a light touch, and its story began to pour forth. With art, even through standard-issue white cotton gloves the energy traveled like lightning through my circuits, showing me a chronological movie of the object’s life, the artist’s personality and mental process, the highs and lows of their life, how and why the art was created and so on.
Sheer nirvana.
There really was no end to the details I could see about the art, its history and its creator, as long as I had the hunger to know them.
And that I had. Because connecting with art was the only meaningful connection I had with people.
(Of course I could see the history of other objects, too. But those histories weren’t nearly as much fun to see.)
If I got this job, not only would I be happy every day of my career, but maybe I could even make a career for myself authenticating art. That was my theory, anyway. No one had to know how I did it. Then my masquerade as normal would succeed.
The city lights twinkled. Only a few cars drove by. I sank into the silence and safety of my home, and began to mentally prepare for my day. I shifted my body weight, and brought my legs under me.
Sometimes it took me a minute to realize who still had a body and who was masquerading as though they did. They all looked the same to me. Which only made me question my sanity. And sometimes my intelligence.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I whispered into my empty apartment and dug my nails into my pale hands as the truth hit me. It was never a welcome surprise when I did figure it out. “Not today. Not this morning.” I turned away from the window and held my breath. Not breathing always made me think I could fool them into believing I wasn’t here.

I don’t know why. They were dead. Not stupid.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/397020523373194375/

The Fine Art of Deception Alyssa Richards

Filed Under: Ghosts

The Morning of Addie Montgomery’s Interview

August 6, 2014 by admin 1 Comment

The Fine Art of Deception Alyssa RichardsOuttake from The Fine Art of Deception – A Paranormal Romance Series

I turned and examined the face that looked at me from the mirror and gave an exasperated sigh. Sleepless nights made me look more pale than normal and gave my blue eyes the appearance that they were lit from within. Hopefully that would fade before my interview. Otherworldly wasn’t the look I was going for today.

There would be no more sleep in my immediate future. So I climbed into the marble-encased tub that sat in the middle of the room and soaked in a hot, lavender-infused bath. After which I wrapped a thick, vanilla-colored robe around my still damp skin, grabbed a bowl of sliced fruit from the fridge, made a strong espresso and padded barefoot toward my favorite room of the house for comfort.

It was a quiet turret nestled on the side of what used to be my grandfather’s New York City town home. My favorite place to calm and distract myself from memories and other things I couldn’t seem to escape. There was something about the curved, paneled walls, the antique windows and deep book shelves my Grandfather had put in that made me feel happily insulated from the outside world.

A bowl of pink grapefruit slices tucked dangerously in the crook of my arm, my attention was divided between my cell phone screen, the cup, and the citrus, in an effort to balance, and I tried not to stress about how many carbs I was about to ingest. Skinny was the only look that worked in this city. There was no tolerance for love handles among the clothes designers. Their creations were my passion, an art form of its own and my favorite diversion.

The pomegranate scent from last night’s candle still touched the air. I guess it hadn’t been that long since I’d blown it out. I lowered myself with a slow exhale onto the overstuffed couch that rested on the side wall as I gazed through the curved windows at the dark, wet streets illuminated by street lamps.

A fresh rain washed away the city’s sins of yesterday. The streets and the air above them felt clean and ready for new beginnings. Horns that blared incessantly throughout the day were on mute at this hour. The city that never slept was not quite awake at 4 o’clock in the morning.
But I was.

My mind functioned like an early morning emissary, sometimes bringing me insights and answers like a beacon through the darkness of my sleep; other times nagging me, reminding me of problems that still needed answers. Like I needed reminding.

I sipped my espresso to force the caffeine into my system. With enough of it flowing in my veins I would be able to at least distract myself from those problems for a while.

I glanced up at the black mantel clock that sat on the second shelf and watched the second hand drag what was left of the night into daylight. Today was the morning of my interview. An interview that had to go well, because today was the first day of my new life. The life I’d dreamed of all my life. Especially since my former one went all to hell.

Today was my new beginning, a day when I could put my painful history behind me and embrace the next big move, the one I’d dreamed of and prepared for. I’d learned my lesson. Keep my gifts tucked away. Don’t let people know what I see. They couldn’t handle it. Got it.

My eyes drifted across the copy of Marc Chagall’s Paris Through the Window which my Grandfather hung on the opposite wall. I’d left it where he hung it. In fact I hadn’t changed much of anything in the town home since he’d left. I wanted everything to be perfect for him in case he returned.

I thought about how Marc Chagall and my Grandfather had become friends in the 1960s, how he’d let the artist live here for a few years. He was so grateful to my Grandfather for the friendship and the housing that he gifted the original to my Grandfather who placed it in the Guggenheim. But not before he painted a near-identical copy.

Some kids dreamed of being a teacher or a fireman. I dreamed of working with art. Any kind of art: jewelry, paintings, drawings, sculpture – anything and everything. The way my father and Grandfather had as an art dealer and a restoration and authentication specialist respectively. Each spent endless hours of my childhood taking me through museums and galleries, introducing me to famous artists and their creations, educating me on the intricacies of fine art and antiques. I even majored in Art History in school in preparation for a passionate career in the field.

But when my father and my grandfather disappeared, both suddenly and under mysterious circumstances, leaving all of us broken hearted, my family began to think that my following our patriarchs into the art world might be a bad omen for our family. So, I backed away from my dream.

I eyed the velvet-lined, silver keepsake box that sat on a shelf under the Marc Chagall painting. Inside was a multi-strand necklace of pearls my grandfather brought back to me from one of his many European buying trips. I hadn’t been able to wear them since his disappearance. Too painful.

At least I was set financially, since my grandfather left me more than enough money in an inheritance. But I’ve always wanted to build a life for myself, to make my own way. So now, if I finally got to do what I loved, then maybe all I went through at Centaurian will somehow have opened a door for me.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/397020523372828108/

Filed Under: News

Austen’s life is at the heart of her romance novels

July 13, 2014 by admin Leave a Comment

IMG_4479Somehow it doesn’t feel right to call Jane Austen’s literature – romance novels. Though I think perhaps they are the first true romance novels. And maybe the best in that their popularity has lasted almost 200 years. I’ve read each one of her books and often wondered where her inspiration came from. Today, as I held her ring in my hands, I was learning the answer to that question firsthand. Literally.

Traveling on the energy trapped in her ring, I had danced from ball to ball, and had taken long walks with the man she called Thomas. As I looked through her eyes and felt her feelings, it was clear, at least to me, that both of them had found their soul mate. Each found within the other both a mirror and an understanding for who they were. Something they wanted to embrace for the rest of their lives.

Jane began to feel so bold about her connection to Thomas that she often threw caution to the wind, thumbed her proverbial nose at society’s rules and perceptions. They sat close to one another at gatherings, playing cards and touching one another in ways that were considered intimate to the society of that time.

I watched Jane as she sat at a small, round, wooden table, just large enough to hold paper and quill. She penned letters to her sister Cassandra telling her in all confidence and happiness that she would receive a proposal from Thomas any day now. I watched her read letters from Cassandra who cautioned her to be careful. Warned her to reign in her behavior.

But Jane didn’t listen. She knew what she felt in her heart and she knew what she and Thomas shared. Of course this would be her future. Thomas loved her.

I walked as Jane as she and Thomas strolled along a grassy path in the light of day. When Jane watched a flicker of disappointment skitter across Thomas’ features, and Jane’s heart seized in response, I knew the end of their love affair was near.

 

“Addie,” I heard Thomas say as he looked into Jane’s eyes. He caressed her face with his hand and I felt her draw back in fear.

“Addie -”

“What?” I asked.

Thomas’s face slowly melted into Henri’s features. “I’ve been calling you,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I was concentrating. Lost in my own world,  – or something like that.” I looked down and still saw Jane’s dress on my body. A cream colored empire waisted dress with a blue sash tied in the back. I took a deep breath as Henri took the ring from my fingers.

“You’re crying,” he said as he wiped a tear from my cheek.

I felt the wetness on my cheek as Thomas’s news trickled through me. He had just been telling Jane as I was pulled from her life – his family was insistent that he marry another. A wealthy woman in another town. He had to. For his family.

“I’m fine,” I said as Jane’s sadness consumed me. “Just – her life was such a sad story in many ways.”

Henri pulled me into his arms, and though it was less than professional, I welcomed the distraction and the comfort. I needed something to pull me back into today.

“How did it go with your girlfriend?” I asked as I pulled back a little from the man I knew to be a confirmed bachelor.

He sighed and stepped away, the scent of his cologne staying with me. “Ah well, perhaps not as well as I would have liked.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“She has always wanted marriage.”

“And you?”

Henri shrugged. “Why mess up a good thing with marriage?”

“Ah,” I said as the room became more real around me.

“I never promised her marriage,” Henri said as gathered his notes together from the table. “She just said she knew from the beginning that I was the one.”

“And you?” I asked again.

“I think marriage is about more than love,” he said as he glanced up at me. “And I don’t know if I’m ‘the one’ for anyone.”

“Huh,” I said as I smiled. I watched Henri pull on his white gloves again and inspect Jane’s ring. I didn’t think I could touch it again any time soon. I thought about Jane and Thomas, the love they shared, the life they wanted, the books she wrote and the painful source of her creativity.

“She said she was certain,” Henri said distractedly as he turned the ring in the light.

“Sometimes there’s nothing as careless as certainty,” I said. A phone rang in the distance and its reality pulled me further into today.

“You’re very wise, Addie.” he said. “For as much as we search for the guarantee, certainty stops the seeking, a level of continuing awareness that we need.”

And that’s what I felt from Jane Austen as I stepped into her young life for a few moments. The extraordinary confidence that those precious few moments, their friendship, would last forever. Unfortunately that young naivete turned out to be the breeding ground for heartbreak. And many of the world’s most famous romance novels.

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Filed Under: Romance Tagged With: Jane Austen, Jane Austen's ring, Paranormal Romance, Psychometry, romance novels

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