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Alyssa Richards

Mystery, Thriller, and Suspense

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Paranormal

Visiting the Princes in the Tower

October 29, 2014 by Alyssa Leave a Comment

The Two Princes in the Tower
The Two Princes in the Tower

Blake and I walked through The Tower of London, an historical monument to royalty, imprisonment and executions. Having psychometric gifts, the ability to obtain information from an object though touch, I was initially concerned about the tour. I didn’t want to relive any beheadings.

The tour started innocently enough, even when we walked over the waterway where prisoners, including Elizabeth I, had been rowed into the Tower.  We stood in the spot where Anne Boleyn was beheaded in 1536. The spot didn’t hold much more unsettling energy than the rest of the Tower, so I was still fine. Of course, neither was I on my hands and knees trying to gather information. I probably could have, but wouldn’t that have been a sight for tourists and Tower employees to behold.

We saw the Queen’s jewels. Those I would have LOVED to touch, such history and exquisite story I would have had access to! Royals put up a pleasant front, but don’t you know they have some pretty engaging stories buried behind their smiles. But, sadly, touching the royal jewels is frowned upon. So, they display them behind thick, layered, bullet-proof glass. And they make you stand on a conveyor belt so you won’t gawk at the jewels too long and create a backup of angry tourists. Tragic.

We traveled through several other displays in the castle. Other than the drag of crowd energy, I was still doing well.

That is, until we were led to the area where the two princes were imprisoned and, according to history, murdered by their uncle.

The Princes in the Tower: 12 year-old Edward V, and 9 year-old Richard, Duke of York were the sons of King Edward IV. When the King died, his brother, Richard III, had the boys declared illegitimate so he could take the throne. He had them imprisoned in the Tower in 1483.

The legend is that Richard III had the princes murdered so that no one would contest his right to the crown. However, there is also a legend, that Henry Tudor, who wanted the crown as well, was the one who had the two princes murdered. This legend suggests that any guilt placed on Richard III was Tudor propaganda to enhance Henry’s image.

With several centuries between me and the murders of the two princes, and the imprinted energy of several million tourists who passed through the corridors, I wasn’t too worried about the tour. Like the spot where Anne Boleyn was murdered, I wasn’t going to drop to the floor of their small room and try to channel history. Really, I was happy to let the mystery stay a mystery.

We entered the claustrophobic, stone entry room along with what felt like several hundred unknown friends. There probably weren’t that many fellow tourists around us, but in that tiny room it definitely felt that way. Waiting our turn to wind up the narrow staircase, we stood at bottom of the stairs. Suddenly I felt someone’s distant panic, extreme distress. The kind of terror that made them drop to their knees, lose control of their bowels, because they knew their lives were over.

My breath kicked in to a pant and I lost my balance.

Blake felt me wobble and he squeezed my hand to give support. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I smiled. “Fine.” I could do this. There had been so many people in and out of this tower over time, who knew what I was picking up on.

There’s some odd mentality among tourists when it comes to personal space. The same people who would normally afford others their own area, change in a tourist environment and begin pushing and shoving. The closer, the better, seems to be the rule of the day. Which is discouraging when the guy behind you is flooding what little oxygen is left in the room with his nicotine breath, and the gal in front of you – at least I think it was a gal – has no concept of a daily bathing habit, much less her desperate need for deodorant.

The room gave a little twirl and I squeezed Blake’s hand tighter as we continued to climb, the crowd so squished together that we looked more like a caterpillar than a group of historically curious adults.

Blake leaned in closer, “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah.” It’s not like there was a way out of this conjoined crowd, anyway. And wow, remembering that just really didn’t help.

“The two princes were murdered in this very room sometime between 1483 and 1485,” the tour guide yelled down the stairwell.

The gal, or whatever it was, behind me gave another push forward and I lost my balance. I reached for the stone wall beside me and gripped at it for safety. But what I got in return was far more than the equilibrium that I sought. The screams traveled through my hand, up my arm then took possession of my mind.

The caterpillar inched forward and I moved along, but all I could see was darkness. There was a struggle, young boys screaming. Screaming. There were several large men with knives. Then silence as they carried the bodies down the stairs. Bloody hand prints on the wall and men who lamented killing innocent children.

The farther we climbed, the more panic kicked in my heart until I finally had to stop. “I can’t go any farther,” I said breathlessly. “I just can’t.” The walls still breathed with the anxiety and despair from the two young boys who knew they would die.

I turned around and ran into the next section of the caterpillar who was still pushing forward. “Oh, come on!” she bellowed.

“Madam, step aside,” Blake said authoritatively. She grunted and leaned toward the wall, sensed nothing whatsoever.

I inched down the steps until a broad man blocked my path. “Traffic’s going that way,” he said and pointed upward toward the boys’ chamber.

“Actually, this traffic is traveling this way,” Blake said.

“Excuse me,” I said toward the man’s chest.

We stood at the impasse until Blake reached out and slammed the man toward the wall, giving me enough space to pass.

“Thank you,” I said.

When we reached the bottom of the steps I paused again as the screams faded, but the terror remained. “They were buried … here.” I pointed at a small area of the floor.

“Yes, that’s the rumor,” said another tour guide who appeared from around the corner. “But no one is certain.”

“I’m certain,” I said to Blake as we walked away.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Paranormal

The Witching Hour

October 4, 2014 by admin Leave a Comment

Haunting footsteps appear during the witching hour
Haunting footsteps appear during the witching hour

It’s 3:30 a.m in Savannah. What I would call the witching hour. It’s the time when I’m most often awakened by ghosts. Like tonight.

First there were footsteps. Not just the sound of them. But also the feel of them. You know, like when someone runs down the hall and you feel the vibration from the pounding of their feet? Like that.

At first I thought someone was in trouble. Maybe my sister had returned home without my knowing, and maybe she was running down the hall because she was ill.

I jumped out of bed, opened my bedroom door and looked down the hallway.

No one.

The sound and the feel of the footsteps had disappeared. But the hallway held that eerie feeling. That feeling where you know someone is there, but they’re hiding from you.

I waited a few moments in the quiet. Looked around. Then convinced myself I’d had a vivid dream, and went back to bed.

Then, just as I’d snuggled myself under the covers, my eyes flew open.  The footsteps resounded through the hallway again.

Someone was messing with me.

I waited a few moments to see if they would go away. Sometimes ghosts just wandered in and out.

But the footsteps kept on.

Up the hall. Down the hall.

When I growled a cry of frustration, a man’s laughter rang out from somewhere just beyond the end of the hallway.

I walked into the hallway again but found no one.

Quiet.

As I made my way back to my bed, they began again.

The witching hour typically refers to the hour exactly between day and night, when witches and demons are supposed to be their most powerful. Most people think that means midnight. But I think the witching hour begins at 3:00 a.m.  It’s the time when ghosts’ are at their strongest and humans’ energy is at its weakest.

“Having fun?” I yelled and balled my hands into fists.

His laughter squealed as he ran.

All day long he probably tried in vain to get someone’s attention. But the humans who still had their bodies had enough energy during the day to tune him out. In the light of day he probably didn’t have nearly enough energy to make a good noise.

But at 3:30 in the morning? He had the energy of ten men. While all I wanted to do was get a little more sleep.

Perhaps I ought to be grateful that he didn’t want to charge into my bedroom and pace at the foot of the bed. Then I’d be the one running up and down the hallway.

My bare feet padded quietly on the dark hardwood floors as I slowly walked to the end of the hallway. I could feel him, but I couldn’t see him.

“Look, I can appreciate the fun you’re having here. But I need to sleep,” I said into the moonlit darkness.

A lump swelled in my throat as I felt his energy build in excitement and move toward me.  In a gust he moved through me, his rushing blew my hair back and my nose filled with the scent of cheap cologne and stale beer.

I stood in the empty hallway and sighed with disgust.

***

The cool morning air blew in through the screens on the back porch and I pulled my robe up around my neck, squished myself a little deeper into the couch pillows. I sipped hot espresso and turned the page of my newest ebook. It felt remarkably good to have a small, quiet space all to myself.

 

Filed Under: Mystery, Paranormal Tagged With: haunted house

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