The Raven Issue 4 by GhostScribes

The RaVen

In this issue:

Poe, in Sickness and Health N

Dead App A Cry for Help Bitches Brew

A Journal of the Macabre, the Bizarre, & the Unexplained

Issue 4

Contributors

The RaVen Your humble editors, collectively known as the Ghost Scribes are Sue Latham and Ann Fields, but not

necessarily in that order. It is our privilege to present issue 4 of The Raven, a collection of writings inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Sue Latham is a native of Dallas, TX. Her

travels have taken her to the Nazca desert where she endured a harrowing flight over the lines in a small plane; to Africa on a quest for a glimpse of the rare white rhino; and to the Australian Outback, where she was stranded by a flash flood and had to spend the night in a Subaru. Her novels, The Haunted House Symphony and The Science Professor’s Ghost, are ghost-hunting mysteries featuring a team of ghost hunters led by Sue’s intrepid alter-ego, Margo Monroe. Both books are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other online bookstores as ebooks and in paperback. Ann Fields published four romance novels

and one novella under her pen name of Anna Larence before she encountered her first ghost. That one brush with the supernatural shifted her focus from love and happily ever after to love and life in the here and after. In her novel, Fuller’s Curse and her short stories featured in Voices from the Block (Volumes I, II, and III) and Lyrical Darkness, she explores life in all its many dimensions. You can learn more about her and all of her subsequent run-ins with the supernatural at www.annfields.com.

Kalisha R. Eddington Ann Fields Sue Latham Sean C. Wright Neeley Xariffa Suarez J. J. White Jerry Weiss Credits Starship typeface | Cruzine Mystic Moon glyphs | Wumi Designs Horror Ephemera | Digital Curios Flying Saucer on Your Left and Godzilla on Your Right| Russ Seidel Sunflower | Dervik Art Store Be Aware | photo by Sue Latham of artwork by Lavish Fish * Awesome candy skulls | Side Project Photo Not credited | Who knows? Probably Pinterest or public domain All content is the copyright of the respective authors and artists. . *Special thanks to Smoking Windmill BBQ in Aurora, TX. Apologies to Sean for misspelling her new name and leaving out her photo in the first go-round. Contact Us! Reach us via Facebook at https://www. facebook.com/GhostScribes or email GhostScribesDallas@gmailcom. (Not available through séances or ESP...yet.) Advertising & Submissions To advertise in The Raven, or to submit a story, recommendation, or idea, email us at GhostScribesDallas@gmail.com.

A Ghost Scribes Publication

Issue # 4 April 2022

Poe in Sickness and Health by the Ghost Scribes

Dead App by J. J. White

A Cry for Help by Sean C. Wright Neeley

Bitches Brew by Xariffa Suarez

Room #317 by Kalisha R, Eddington

Plus: Unidentified Aerial Phenomena and the U.S. Government 23 Dark Night of the Soul, part 2 25 Ghost in the Machine, part 3 36 True Ghost Stories 57 On Our Radar 60 What We’re Reading 61 Speaking of Art 62

From the Editors B lame it on Sean! When she submitted her story, “A Cry for Help”, we knew we had our theme for this issue—sci-fi. When we think sci-fi, images of “Star Trek”, “E. T,” and “The Time Traveler’s Wife” come to mind. Or as in the case of Sean’s story, all of the above in one neat package. We think you’ll enjoy her story about the good neighbor gone missing. We also think you’ll either appreciate or fear your smart phone after reading “Dead App” by J. J. White. It’s another great sci-fi read you’ll find on page 12. Rounding out our sci-fi offerings is an article about UFOs and the U.S. government. Very interesting, very interesting, indeed! Our Poe feature article gets the sci-fi treatment, too, but heavy on the science. In “Poe, In Sickness and Health”, we examine the influence of tuberculosis on EAP’s life and writings, as well as explore the evolution of medical science in the treatment of tuberculosis. You’ll pick up on eerie connections between the tuberculosis epidemic of Poe’s time and the pandemic of our own. What’s The Raven without a ghost story or two? In this issue, three! Michelle Ray spooks us with her short, short tale of a one-sided love story. Kalisha R. Eddington thrills with a ghost who returns to earth to fight the medical profession in the story titled “Room #317”. Is it wrong to root for the ghost? You’ll have to decide. And now folks, what you’ve been waiting for—the final installment of Sue Latham’s “Ghost in the Machine.” Learn who or what is behind all the upheaval and unrest in Indian Springs. This great time parallel story features the intrepid Margo Monroe and crew. So that you get the full effect of the ending, we suggest you revisit issues two and three of The Raven and read the first and second installments. Trust us, it’s worthy of your reading time and will frame the ending in full technicolor! To balance the impact of science, technology, and medicine on your psyche, we’ve included stories about two different types of witches. Xariffa Suarez presents “Bitches Brew”. The heroine of this tale really knows how to fix a mean drink. The second installment of “Dark Night of the Soul” by Ann Fields will make you either appreciate your boss or look at them with eyes wide open. Don’t forget to check out our regular departments … • Book Review, introducing Outer Darkness, a graphic novel set in space, • Speaking of Art, featuring Harry Clarke, illustrator for EAP’s collected mysteries and paranormal fiction, • On Our Radar, showcasing the latest album by Raveena Aurora and a refreshment that zings. There’s also the latest cartoon by our in-house cartoonist, Jerry Weiss, and more. Thank you for joining us on this interstellar, mind-blowing, demented ride to inner and outer space. Queue the theme music from “The Twilight Zone.” Your Editors-in-Fear,

The Ghost Scribes It could happen

Poe, Sickness in

d n a

Health

by the Ghost Scribes Do you remember “Masque of the Red Death”? No? It may have been a while since high school English for some of you … okay, for us, so here’s a quick summary. Prince Prospero is the supreme ruler of an unnamed land. His country is under siege by a devastating illness known as the Red Death. The disease is so named because bleeding is one of the symptoms, along with pain, dizziness, and fever. Half of the population has been wiped out by this fearsome disease. But is Prince Prospero concerned? No! He and 1,000 or so of his BFFs travel to his fortress in the country and seal themselves in, away from the Red Death, away from the deadly and destructive epidemic. The prince throws an elaborate party, complete with music, food, dancing, drinking, entertainment, and extravagant costumes. The party is a blast! Everyone is having a gay, ole time until … a guest shows up wearing a shocking, over-thetop costume. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. His vesture was dabbled in blood and his brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror. — Edgar Allan Poe, “Masque of the Red Death”

The costume is so disturbing, even the carefree, happygo-lucky Prince Prospero is frightened. His fear quickly turns to anger. He chases the unknown guest from room to room and eventually traps the interloper in the “black and red room.” Prince Prospero confronts the frightening figure and immediately falls dead. Turns out,

the uninvited guest is the Red Death. Soon, everyone in the fortress dies. Okay, wait! Before your mind latches on to a comparison between the Red Death and COVID-19, this article is not about that. This article is about the influence tuberculosis (TB) and 19th century society may have had on Poe’s writing of “Masque of the Red Death”. When “Masque of the Red Death” was published in 1842, three diseases were circulating the globe: tuberculosis, smallpox, and the plague. For reasons soon to be revealed, we are focusing on tuberculosis as the disease that may have inspired not only the “Masque of the Red Death” but also medical scientific advancements.

Tuberculosis (TB) Tuberculosis (TB) has been around for as long as humans have peopled planet earth. Today, according to the CDC, it is still one of the deadliest diseases in the world, claiming the lives of over one million people per year. TB is contagious. It is transmitted when contaminated people sneeze, spit, cough, or speak. The microscopic droplets can hang out in the air for hours, waiting for some unsuspecting soul to mosey by and ingest them. The droplets settle in the lungs, kidneys, and sometimes the spine and brain. It doesn’t take long for symptoms to manifest—bleeding; fatigue; fever; head, chest, back and joint pain; racking cough; and weight loss. The disease was also called “consumption” because it was said to consume the infected person. Back in Poe’s day, the Industrial Age, tuberculosis spread quickly and easily because people were flocking to cities from rural areas and small towns for jobs. Factories were hiring en masse and housing was stacked high and

The Raven close. Overcrowding prevailed, a condition the disease loved. Another condition that aided the spread of TB was sanitation—or rather the lack of—untreated water, open sewers, trash heaps on sidewalks and in alleys. All of these factors, plus lax personal hygiene habits, like inconsistently washing one’s hands, contributed to approximately 1,000 TB deaths for every 100,000 people. Every family was touched by the disease and Poe’s was no exception.

TB & Unconditional Love In 1811, when Poe was only two years old, his mother, Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins Poe, died from tuberculosis. Because TB deaths were so prevalent, it was common practice for parents to teach children how to navigate death, assigning them roles—who would fetch the doctor, who would notify other family members, and who would go live with whom and what household possessions they were to take with them. Families also taught children how to behave and live in the homes of others. For example, children were taught to speak and move quietly, to assist with chores, and only ask for necessities such as food and clothes. After their mother died, Edgar, his brother, Henry, and his sister, Rosalie were carted off to three different homes. There, they would live and enact the lessons they were taught.

F It’s traumatic to lose a mother and doubly so to lose two. Could these occurrences have been the spawning ground for Poe’s dark tales to come? Could these events have been the catalyst for his beautifully moving tribute poetry? As our grandmothers used to say, “We’ll leave you to chew on that.” F John Allan did little for Poe, but he did lend Poe his last name to use as a middle name. So, to John Allan we are grateful for that. Edgar Poe doesn’t quite have the same ring as Edgar Allan Poe. IMHO for another time. The Allans were childless, and Mrs. Allan welcomed Poe as if she’d given birth to him. For the next 16 years, she provided security and lavished him with love. She often ran interference between Poe and his foster father. Alas, tragedy would strike again! Two years after Poe left the Allan house to attend the University of Virginia and serve in the military, Mrs. Allan died of tuberculosis. She was 44 years old. Due to a bureaucratic delay in processing his military leave, Poe arrived one day after the funeral. This and Mrs. Allan’s death grieved him for the rest of his life. He wrote to a friend saying he felt guilty that he and Mr. Allan’s contentious relationship might have exacerbated Mrs. Allan’s chronic health condition. Poe felt he could have prevented Mrs. Allan’s death if he had been there during her final hours (a sentiment unreasonable for most to even think, but not for a romantic like Poe). At 18, Poe found himself face-to-face with his second TB death.

Because of an advertisement in the Richmond Enquirer, Richmond, Virginia, asking “the kindhearted of the city” to help care for the Poe family, Edgar was taken in by Mr. and Mrs. John Allan. His sister was adopted by the MacKenzie family and Henry was shipped off to Baltimore, Maryland to live with their paternal grandparents. Their father, David Poe, Jr. had deserted the family six months before Elizabeth’s death. No one knew where he could be found. Poe could not have asked for a better, more loving foster mother than Mrs. Frances Allan. His foster father, John Allan, was a different story, which will be saved

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

TB, Love and Romance We wish we could conclude Poe’s encounters with TB with these two losses, but alas, life was not that kind to

“Masque of the Red Death” by Harry Clarke

The Raven our “dear Eddie.”

outskirts of New York City. Poe rented a small house on a 216-acre farm where the owners, the Brennan family, grew produce and flowers. The location change seemed to have worked, for the family moved back to the core of New York City that fall. But in 1846, when Virginia’s illness worsened and death seemed imminent, they returned to the farm for, as Poe described, “the bracing help of country breezes and the soothing quiet of country air.” Unfortunately, the second stay at the farm did not temper the disease’s attack on Virginia. She died a year later.

Poe married only once, to his cousin Virginia Clemm. Their relationship didn’t start with flowers, hearts, and goo-goo eyes. When Poe moved into the Clemm household fresh out of the military, he considered sevenyear-old Virginia another sister and even referred to her as “sis” or “sissy.” Three years later, Virginia, described as a “plump, lively girl” carried love letters back and forth between Poe and a nearby neighbor, Marie Devereaux. That love affair went nowhere. But, within the next two years, Poe turned his affections to Virginia. They married in 1836 and remained so until Virginia’s death in 1847 at the age of 25.

TB & The Young In addition to his mother, foster mother, and wife, Poe suffered another TB-related death. His oldest and only brother, William Henry Poe also succumbed to the disease. Henry was a sailor, who cruised the world for many years. He, like his younger brother, had a problem with alcohol. Yet, his addiction did not stop the flow of creativity. He wrote beautiful, complex poems and short stories, some of which were published. In 1831, at the age of 24, Henry died of tuberculosis and alcoholism.

The beginning of the end for Virginia started about six years into married life. One day while she was playing the harp, she coughed up blood. About the incident, Poe reportedly said, “her sickness is a strange additional charm which rendered more ethereal, her chalky pallor and her haunted, liquid eyes.” Sadly, Virginia had contracted TB. In the five years between the first serious sign and her death, little could be done to stop the progression of the disease. There was no cure for TB, and treatments were largely ineffective, ranging from the questionable to downright silly: sunlight therapy, controlled bleeding, dietary changes, climate changes—cold mountain air was thought best—resting in a sanatorium, electric shock, horseback riding—yes, really!—herbal concoctions, milk transfusions, and more. In England, people lined up to receive “the royal touch.” Kings were thought to be divine healers; one touch and the patient was cured. Many subjects found out differently.

By now, you may have noticed a trend. TB was claiming the young. Poe’s mother died at 24, his wife at 25, and his brother at 24. The disease did not discriminate; young or old, anyone could be afflicted. But, because of its strong propensity to snatch the lives of the young, the disease was dubbed, “the robber of youth.” Some scholars speculate the high number of youth deaths was due to the active movement of the young. The young would have had work, school, courting, and extracurricular activities that put them at greater risk of contracting the disease. Other scholars note it was predominantly young families and young single people who flocked to the cities, seeking a better life during the Industrial Age. Remember, overcrowding was key in spreading the disease.

A treatment previously mentioned, a change in climate, is thought to be the reason for Poe moving his small family of three—Virginia, his mother-in-law/aunt, Maria Clemm, and himself—during the summer of 1844 to the

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

The Raven F Let’s address the ick factor of cousin marrying cousin. It was not uncommon in those days for

relatives to marry. We have the influence of the English and French to thank for that. As time marched on, however, the custom fell by the wayside. Thank goodness! F Poe stretched his meager salary as a literary editor to provide singing and music lessons for

his wife. For more information on Poe’s professional employment, visit issue two of The Raven and read “Poe, the Professional.” F The farm where Poe and his family stayed is long gone. As the population of New York City grew

and the city boundaries expanded, it swallowed up the 216-acre farm. The area where the farm existed is currently thought to be the northeast corner of 84th and Broadway, not far from the Hudson River. If you ever find yourself there, stop and pay homage. F Another important fact about the farm … it is the place where the poem, “The Raven” was

written! (Yeah, we probably should have led with that.) And what did the young and others in society do with the knowledge that young people were dying at higher rates than those in other age categories? They claimed it. They turned the horror of the disease into something acceptable. It became fashionable to lose weight—remember consumption—and to take on a ghostly complexion using makeup or by swallowing arsenic. Makeup was also used to achieve a dark, sunken look for the eyes. Looking the part of someone with the disease or better yet, contracting the disease, made one “respectable, elegant, and aristocratic.”

TB & Science With so many people dying from TB, it was only a matter of time before medical science found a cure. The amount of time to find a cure? Almost 100 years after Poe’s death. Part of the delay was due to two different schools of thought. Some scientists and researchers believed the disease was inherited, others thought it was an infection. The argument was settled in 1882 when Robert Koch proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that TB was an infectious disease. He identified and described the bacteria that caused tuberculosis and won a Nobel Prize for his work. In honor of Koch’s work, World Tuberculosis Day is celebrated every March 24. Even with Koch’s groundbreaking work, it would take 24 years before the research team of Albert Calmette and Camille Guérin of France developed the first effective vaccine for TB, bacille Calmette–Guérin (BCG). The BCG vaccine was tested on cows and other animals—which were also contracting tuberculosis then and now—before used on humans in 1921. The vaccine is still used today for prevention of the disease. However, as stated previously, TB is still quite active. Ten million people worldwide contract the disease yearly. Thankfully, an effective treatment and a cure exists - antibiotic streptomycin. It was developed in 1943 by Selman Waksman, a biochemist and microbiologist at Rutgers University. He, like Koch, won a Nobel Prize for his work.

TB & “Masque of the Red Death” Let’s jump back to Poe’s time when TB had unfettered access to the world’s citizens. Given the “if you can’t beat them join

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven F Frances Allan, Poe’s foster mother, was left off the list of people who died young due to TB.

By today’s standards, 44 years old is considered middle age. But in Poe’s time, 44 would have been categorized as old. The average age at death then was late thirties, early forties. F In addition to the term consumption, TB was also referred to as “the white plague” because

of the white, ashen, or ghostly appearance its victims displayed. Other names for the disease: phthisis, scrofula, the Kings Touch, and Men of Death. F The symptom of coughing blood gave rise to a popular myth that people with TB were thought

to be vampires. Hence, bloodletting became an early form of treatment. Bloodletting was thought to eliminate the impurities in the blood, thereby curing one of TB while also making one human again. them” attitude of the day, people began romanticizing the disease. And by people, we mean creatives – writers, artists, and musicians. Many creative works produced in the 1800s depicted symptoms of the illness, particularly, the “deathly pallor, wasting bodies.” Such descriptions can be seen or found in paintings, operas, plays, and in novels, most noticeably in Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights and Charles Dickens’, Nicholas Nickleby.

to 1849 and the imagined world he created and wrote about in the story. Take time to reread “Masque of the Red Death”. It’s super short and well worth another read. Then review the comparison chart. We’d like to hear your thoughts. Any other points you’d like to add? Any contrary thoughts? Write to us and share. Email: ghostscribesdallas@gmail.com

Recently, upon rereading Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death”, we were struck by the similarities—and a few differences—between the life Poe was living from 1809

Oh, and for the return visit to high school English, you’re welcome.

Resources Edgar Allan Poe A to Z by Dawn B. Sova Edgar Allan Poe Complete Tales and Poems, Fall River Press, New York (140) The Disturbing History of Tuberculosis - YouTube CDC - Basic TB Facts | TB | CDC Tuberculosis - Wikipedia Selman Waksman and Antibiotics - Landmark - American Chemical Society (acs.org) YouTube (120) Homework Help: THE “Masque of the Red Death” by Edgar Allan Poe Summary & Analysis YouTube (120) The White Plague: A Social History of Tuberculosis - Professor Sir Richard J. Evans - YouTube

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Edgar Allan Poe Life Facts - vs - “Masque of the Red Death” Life Facts

“Masque of the Red Death”

Disease: Tuberculosis (TB)

Disease: Red Death

Symptoms include bleeding; a persistent, racking cough; pain; Symptoms mirror TB weight loss; etc.

All citizens were susceptible to the disease; there were no The rich and powerful believed they were susceptible, but also exceptions. believed they could escape the disease by restricting access. All treatments for TB proved ineffective. This Poe learned the Treatment for the Red Death is not mentioned in the story. hard way by watching his mother and wife undergo various Since the nobles ran off and secured their fortress, it’s safe treatments. to assume no treatment existed. At least not one that proved effective. Bloodletting, anyone? The disease caused an epidemic

The disease caused an epidemic

Poe lost a number of loved ones to an excruciatingly slow About half the population of the fictional land died. Death was death. quick. Poe had a strained relationship with his foster father who was Could all the nobles dying at the end represent a desire of a rich, successful, plugged-into society business leader. Poe’s to have his foster father swap places with the women he loved and lost? Hmmmm… another point to chew on. Society flourished during Poe’s time due to the Industrial Age. A reasonable assumption is society contracted once the epidemic gained full stride and the ruler ran off, leaving business unattended. Poe lived under the constant threat of TB. The presence of the The nobles considered themselves safe from the disease once they were sealed inside the fortress. They could ignore the threat of the disease was a daily reminder of the frailty of life.

Red Death. However, they could not ignore the loud peals of the clock. Every time the clock sounded—every hour on the hour—the nobles paused and reflected. Was that one hour closer to death?

Life went on despite the threat of TB. Poe continued to write, There is no reference to how commoners lived or were impacted work, and publish. He had to. He was a struggling, financially by the Red Death. We know they died in large numbers right strapped artist with a family. alongside the other classes of people. But that is all we know. In spite of frequent travels and heavy socializing, Poe did not The main character, Prince Prospero fell dead immediately contract TB. Shortly after Virginia’s death, he fell gravely ill, when he faced off with the Red Death. No long, lingering but one doctor claims Poe’s illness was tied to a brain lesion, sickness or death for him. another attributed the illness to alcoholism. Yet, he recovered and lived for another two years after Virginia’s death. Poe lived a Gothic lifestyle - dark clothes; thin body type; “Masque of the Red Death” contained strong elements intelligent, sensitive, curious nature; pale, gaunt appearance; of Gothic literature: a fortress or if you prefer, a castle; an dramatic, tortured life. oppressive, dark setting; melodramatic touches such as the loud, warning clock and the different colors of the rooms; and a sense of the supernatural in the form of illness and death.

Dead App

by J.J. White It sucks to be me. This was Jerome Mazzini’s conclusion after mulling over present circumstances. What little he owned could be shoved in the back of his old Plymouth Caravan. At least it was paid for. The rent on his apartment, however, was two months behind, and he hadn’t had a job in six months, fired after a week DJ-ing an AM station that had a playlist as old as he was. He’d been doing radio since he was twenty-five and had done all right considering the transient nature of the business, but at forty-eight, the looks, hair, and voice were gone, and along with it, the money. His total assets consisted of a van worth only the money it could make from scrap, a six-year-old computer, and a couple of amps and a PA system he used for DJ party gigs, which had also dried up. At least he had Wi-Fi, the next-door neighbor’s, who was too old or too stupid to know how to passwordprotect it. Jerome booted up the computer and clicked on one of the gambling sites he frequented. A large, red, popup window floated over the page. He switched to another site, then another, and another. The same red

pop-up appeared on every site, irritating him. It had to be spyware or a worm or something like that because even when he wasn’t on the Internet it appeared and wouldn’t go away. He grabbed the pop-up at the edge and moved it to the corner of the screen. But as soon as he released it, it returned center of his screen, showing the same thing. “Free Dead App. Click here.” An arrow pointed to a button. Dead App, he thought. He wished the nerd who hacked his computer would die. The pop-up had first surfaced three weeks earlier and he figured it was here to stay unless he deep-sixed the computer, and he wasn’t about to do that. By next week there was a chance he’d have to sell it, along with the amps, or he’d starve before they evicted him. “What the hell,” he said, and clicked on the button. White text scrolled across a blood-red screen, word after word, as if someone were typing. “Good evening, Jerome. I’m offering a free application to anyone in need of money. Are you in need of money, Jerome? With my DEAD APP, you can make as much

The Raven

J. J. WHITE has had articles and stories published in Pithead Chapel, The Homestead Review, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Mystery Weekly Magazine, and the Saturday Evening Post. His novels, Prodigious Savant, Deviant Acts, and Nisei were published by Black Opal Books. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for his short piece, “Tour Bus.” He lives in Merritt Island, Florida. Online he lives at www.jjwhitebooks.com.

as you wish. And not only that, I will supply you with a Smartphone, absolutely free, but only if you agree to two things:

p.m., tonight, Jerome. Not 8:55. Not 9:05—9.” He looked at the clock on the computer. 8:30. If he were going, it’d have to be now.

Accept the terms of the application.

Pick up the phone at my place of business.”

The van sputtered and groaned its way to 13A Canton Street, which turned out to be an old apartment building that had once been a hotel and now seemed one mild earthquake away from collapsing. Jerome parked and waited in darkness. The only light in the area shone from a few windows in the complex. Every few minutes, Jerome twisted the ignition until the clock read 8:58. Jerome slid out the van, searching the dark shadows for any sign of life—good or bad. None. He walked as quietly as possible to 13A, a first-floor unit next to a taped-off elevator. He rapped on the door. He had little to lose. As he was about to knock again, the door opened, emitting a foul odor of feces and liniment. Four cats inspected his tennis shoes, then scattered. Squinting through the smoky haze in the room, Jerome saw an old woman sitting at a table with her back to him. Her silhouette was illuminated by the orange hue of a floor lamp that leaned at an odd angle against a corner.

Another button appeared. On it was the word, “ACCEPT.” The typing continued, “Click on it, Jerome, and you will never have to worry about money again. I promise you, and wait—there’s more. The application comes with a guarantee. For as long as you have the phone, I guarantee the application will make you money. I stand by the quality of my work.” It was a scam, he knew that, and yet it said, “as much as you wish.” He indeed wished for very much money. A scam, sure, but—what if? The typing resumed. “Click on it, Jerome.” He moved the cursor over the button. “You’ll never have to worry about money again.” His index finger quivered. “Do it!”

“Are you the one who hacked my computer?” Jerome asked.

He clicked. A yellow emoticon smiley face appeared, its black mouth opening wide. Out poured an address: “13A Canton Street.” That was a mile away in the bad part of town. The smiley face regurgitated more info: “9

“Sit down, Jerome.” She gestured to the chair across from her. He sat and observed her. The gray hair was misleading. Her face, despite the wrinkles, was angelic.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven A real beauty sixty years ago, he concluded. He’d seen green eyes like that only once when visiting Ireland.

on Amazon or shoot angry little birds, but it truly can predict anyone’s death. Do you believe me?”

“Listen,” he said. “I know this is a scam, so let me tell you right up front, I don’t have any money. Hell, I don’t have anything worth anything, so if you—”

“You’re good, I’ll give you that. You hacked into my computer and got my name and you figured out I was broke, so yeah, you’re good, but I’d need proof.”

“Jerome,” she said, but it was her eyes, those emeraldrich eyes that stopped him. He tried to recover the words he’d rehearsed on the drive over, but those eyes.

“Take the phone. You have nothing to lose.” “What’s in it for you?” he asked. She shrugged. “If it works as well as I think it does then perhaps many will want it. There is good money in downloading applications, as you know. I could charge ninety-nine cents and if millions wanted it—well—you see. Let me show you how it works.” She picked up the phone, tapped the face, then slid a crooked finger across the screen with a distinct click of her long, yellow fingernail. She held the phone out to him. “Point the camera away from you before you open the application.”

His hostess placed an iPhone on the table and slid it in front of him. “You seem like a man in need of a proposition. I have a proposition.” She nodded to the phone. “A bright gentleman like you could find a way to make a great deal of money if he could get a—what is it I’m trying to say?” “A break?” he asked. “Yes. A break. An opportunity. That’s what I offer you, Jerome. Tell me …” She leaned toward him, nailing him to the chair with those eyes. “If you could predict someone’s death, say down to the day, down to the hour, could you think of a way to make money from that knowledge?”

Jerome aimed the phone at a bookshelf behind the old lady. It was easy to find the app, only four showed on the screen with the Dead App icon next to the camera icon. “Shouldn’t it say Dead, not Dead App?” The lady answered with a shrug.

Jerome pondered as she slurped some sort of tea. It, too, smelled as rancid as her home. She smiled at him, two teeth showing, one in the upper left and one in the lower right.

Jerome tapped the icon. It opened to the camera screen. “So, how’s it tell you when you’re going to die?” She smiled with both teeth. “Point it at me, Jerome, and watch the screen. It takes a few seconds to analyze the subject.”

He hesitated, then said, “I could set up in a fair somewhere and charge for its use, or, no, you know what would work? Heirs would pay. Someone who had something to gain by knowing when their old man or old lady would kick off. Yeah, they’d pay if they knew it worked.” He pointed at the phone. “Is that what this does?”

He did. Ten seconds later, white numbers floated from side to side across the screen, slowly coming into focus like the window on the old Magic Eight Ball toy. The date, 7/15/2023, appeared. Below it, a time, 7:56 a.m. He turned the phone to show her.

She nodded and took another long sip before speaking. “I call it my dead application. It doesn’t buy you anything

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

She nodded with a smile. “A little more than a year,” she said. “That seems right.”

The Raven “That doesn’t prove anything. You could have programmed random dates and times.”

Soon or later, he didn’t wish to contemplate either, both too depressing to ponder.

“Yes, that’s true. I assume we won’t know for a year then, will we? But I know a clever man like you can find a way to test it.”

Back at his apartment, Jerome hung out of a window facing a major road. Although it was late, a few people passed along the sidewalk and he was able to lock the camera on them. A middle-aged woman carrying a plastic pharmacy bag: 8/9/2046. 4:12 p.m. A pizza delivery teenager: 12/02/2022. 5:21 a.m. If true, Jerome found it odd the kid died first, but who knows, a party, lots of beer, a motorcycle, maybe. Kids that age, you never know. It still didn’t prove the application. He needed hard evidence.

“You mean, like, point it at someone you know is dying or—” He rubbed his chin to think, to work it out. What if he did find someone who he knew would die soon? Or better yet, real soon. Yeah, he knew a way to test it. “Okay. I still think it’s a scam, but you said I can keep the phone, right?” “Yes. It’s yours to do with as you please. I know you will use it wisely and well, that’s why I chose you, Jerome. Yes. That’s why.”

Jerome turned to his computer and using the free WiFi searched the Internet until he found what he was looking for. Proof. Carolyn Rose Mercer, age 42, was found at the bottom of her pool three days ago by her husband. Heroic efforts by the hospital staff had failed to restart Mrs. Mercer’s brain activity. The family had agreed to remove her off life support, soon.

He stood to leave. At the door, he turned back to her and held up the phone. “Free, right?” “Quite free, and you can be assured it will work exactly as promised. I stand by the quality of my work.”

Jerome woke the following morning, dressed, and drove to All Angel’s Hospital. He entered ICU with one hand clasping the iPhone. A petite, brunette with bad acne slid open the glass window, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah. Sure,” he said, then shut the door. He ran to his van, away from the freak show. As he fumbled with his car keys, he heard a rustling sound coming from the alley. He peeked behind the van and saw one of the city’s homeless settling on his side between garbage cans. The ragged man clutched a near empty bottle of wine like a protective mother and fell fast asleep. Jerome stepped toward the man and hesitated. He quickly surveilled the area, then walked quietly to the man and aimed the camera at him. Ten seconds later, the floating prediction: 9/21/2024. 12:05 a.m.

Jerome was not prepared. He’d naively thought he could saunter into Mercer’s room, snap a photo, and exit. Luckily, his radio/DJ-ing ad lib skills kicked in. He affected a most somber tone and said, “I’m here to visit Carolyn Mercer. I’m Jerome Mazzini, a friend of the family. I was out of town, but got here as soon as I heard about the accident.” The young receptionist frowned. Jerome’s spirits crashed. “Oh, you’re too late to visit her here. She’s been moved to our annex and placed in hospice. The ambulance just left with her.”

“Well, buddy,” Jerome said. “If this thing works, you’ve got about two years.” He contemplated turning the phone on himself, but no. He had no desire to know the date of his own death.

Jerome’s spirits raised. “And where is the annex?”

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven The lady passed a business card to Jerome and tapped the address. “Eight miles away. You’d better hurry.”

“I … Um …” “You know, the wife and mother who was found in the pool? Life support terminated yesterday?”

With reckless driving, including running a few red lights, Jerome arrived at the annex as the paramedics were unloading Mrs. Mercer’s gurney from the ambulance. This time Jerome was prepared. He didn’t bother to check in with the receptionist. He fell in line behind the paramedics and gurney. Let her assume I’m family, Jerome thought, staring straight ahead. It worked. They passed the receptionist without a hiccup. At the elevator, Jerome stood back, let the party board, and watched the doors close. He tilted his head back to see which floor the party stopped on, then flew up one flight of stairs. From a safe distance at the end of the hall, he watched the paramedics wheel Mrs. Mercer into her new room. They soon left, a nurse entered, stayed a bit, then, she, too, left. Jerome walked right into Mrs. Mercer’s room as if he belonged. A nurse’s aide surprised him, but she was busy emptying Mrs. Mercer’s personal belongings into a closet and didn’t see him. He aimed the phone and clicked the app. 06/28/2022. 8:33 a.m. Tomorrow, he’d have his proof. He walked out and down the hall to the stairs as confident as he had walked in, ignoring the, “Sir—wait a moment, sir,” that floated behind him. No one stopped him at the exit, so he continued to his van that he’d parked in a hospital staff spot.

“Uh, yes, um, of course.” Jerome heard clicking sounds and hoped it was Walter accessing the information. “I can confirm Mrs. Carolyn Mercer died at 8:33 this morning.” “Thank you!” Jerome hung up quickly. He was stunned! It worked. By God, the app actually worked! After a moment of celebration, Jerome went to work—Internet research to find people near death and compiling a list of wealthy contacts. Over the next couple of days, Jerome spoke several times to Charlie Engleman, Jr., an old high school buddy and only child of the divorced Charlie Engleman, Sr., owner of Engleman Ford, Engleman Honda, and Engleman Cadillac. Charlie Jr. was skeptical just as Jerome had been. “I need proof,” he demanded. “No problem,” Jerome chirped. “I’ll be back in touch.”

The next day, Jerome woke early to enact his plan to get the exact time of death. He jumped on the Internet, searched the About page for All Angel’s Hospital and found the phone number for the lowest-ranking member of the PR staff. He dialed the young man’s phone number. When Walter Jones answered, Jerome employed his best journalist voice or what he thought a journalist should sound like, stating, “Jerome Pendleton for the Times’ obit department, calling to obtain a time of death for Mrs. Carolyn Mercer. As you know hers has been a popular human interest story.”

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Jerome turned to his list of patients on life support. The first one happened to be a local politician. Jerome ran several reconnaissance missions on the care facility where the patient languished and scoped out the personnel. A particularly slothful janitor, who happened to work nights, landed on Jerome’s radar. A deal was struck. The next night, Jerome and Charlie Jr. showed up at an indecent hour at the back door of the facility. The janitor slid them in after Charlie Jr. handed over a few hundred bucks. “Room 112,” the janitor said. “And be back in 15 minutes or I call the cops.”

The Raven The app displayed the date and time of death. And just in time. The old politician had only a few hours of life left. Later that afternoon, Jerome and Charlie Jr. returned to the care center. A pretty blond who recognized Charlie Jr. and had dollar bills in her eyes not only confirmed the death information but also handed her phone number to Charlie Jr.

He turned to look at the computer monitor. The screen saver was on. He placed the phone on the table and walked over to the desk. When he moved the mouse, the red pop-up expanded to full screen. The text asked, “How is it working?” He wasn’t sure how to reply. More words appeared on the screen.

The app had nailed it again, just like the witch said it would.

“Start typing, Jerome.” He tried the keyboard. Letters came up below hers. What should he type?

Charlie Jr. was a believer—and a tough negotiator. They agreed on fifty thousand. Not bad for a few days of work, Jerome thought as he followed Charlie Jr. to the Engleman’s headquarters. Using a ruse, Junior took a photo of Senior. As it turned out, Charlie Sr. had six wonderful years left before he departed, but now Junior could make plans for his future and that’s all he cared about. The jubilant Charlie Jr. promised to wire the money to Jerome’s tiny bank account the following week and gave Jerome a $500 advance. “Good faith money,” the younger Engleman said. Jerome smiled out the door and celebrated his win at his apartment with a six pack and a pizza.

“Still working on it. Maybe soon. I’ve got a few ideas.” “Is that so, Jerome? I imagine Charles Engleman, Sr. would like to know if it’s working. LIAR!” His heart began to race. Had she been watching him? “How do you know about him?” he typed. “That’s not important. I want you to tell me exactly what you did with my application and how and if it worked and I don’t want you to leave anything out or I will shut it down and believe me, Jerome, I can.” He told her everything, leaving nothing out, not even how much he’d charged Charlie Jr. for his services. Jerome expected her to ask for a cut of the fifty thousand, but she didn’t.

Later, Jerome grew bored with TV and the Internet. He turned to the iPhone for entertainment. At the window, quickly becoming his favorite place in the apartment, he blasted a few pedestrians in the complex’s parking lot. Nothing special, most people were fifty years from eternity, but a few old geezers had only one more presidential election left to vote in. Just as he was about to peg a kid on a bike, the iPhone chimed. He nearly dropped it out the window. He’d have to be more careful. This was his nest egg for many years to come, he hoped.

“I’m glad it worked, Jerome. If our good fortune continues, I’ll soon be able to sell it to the public. Until that day, enjoy.” The red box disappeared from the screen. How much time did he have? If the witch was serious about releasing it to the world, he’d have to drum up business quickly. He could use Charlie Jr. as a reference. There had to be tons of middleaged heirs out there who’d pay to know when they’d have the estate in their hands. He’d start tomorrow.

Jerome looked at the phone. A text. “Go to your computer, Jerome.”

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven The iPhone beeped. He hadn’t charged it since the old lady gave it to him. He reached for it, then heard the camera click. The camera had been pointed at him. He flipped it over and read the scrolling data: 07/3/2022. 8:37 p.m.

a neighbor came out, complaining about the noise and the lateness of the hour. Ignoring the neighbor’s plea, Jerome resumed yelling through a door crack and pounding the door, now, with both fists. About fifteen minutes later, a grizzled, old man, armed with a pistol as old as he, showed up. “Leave or I’ll make you leave.” The man raised the pistol and pointed it at Jerome.

“In three days. This can’t be right. I can’t—” He turned back to the computer monitor. Another red pop-up bounced from corner to corner. He clicked on it and began typing furiously. “I accidentally pointed it at myself. It says, 07/3/2022. 8:37 p.m. That’s three days away. Something’s wrong. That’s not right. Something’s wrong with it!”

Jerome laughed. “She says I’m not going to die for three more days. So, your threat means nothing. Unless she fixes the phone.” Jerome turned away from the man, kicked at the door, shook the knob, slammed his body into the door. Seconds later, Jerome felt a whack against his back, a thud upon his head, and angry pokes. Shielding his head from the continued assault, he peeked through the gap of his arms and saw a column of angry neighbors, wielding brooms and mops. When a brick barely missed his head, Jerome ran to his van and peeled out.

A minute went by with no reply. The old witch had to be there because the window had popped up. “I’ll give her another minute. If she doesn’t answer, I’m going to her apartment and stand over her until she fixes it.” Jerome inhaled, exhaled loudly. And again. Then, the very second he grabbed his keys, words appeared on the computer screen. In bold font.

On the drive home, Jerome racked his brain, trying to figure out how to beat the death sentence. He was one block from his apartment when a solution came to mind. Buy food, rent a few DVDs, and hole up until the time expired. If he was careful, he could beat the death sentence.

“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT, JEROME.” The red screen and text disappeared. “But it is,” Jerome countered, “And you’re going to fix it tonight.” He stomped out the door and raced downstairs to the van. His luck was already improving as the traffic lights all turned green when he approached them. He arrived at her apartment building and looking around, shook his head. It was as scary and rundown as the last time he’d been there. Jerome cringed but threw all fear aside. He parked with no respect for the faded lines marking the parking spaces and ran to her door. He beat on it with a closed fist. No answer. “I know you’re in there, you witch. You built it so you can unbuild it. You hear me?” He kept on banging and shouting until

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Jerome was more than careful all three days. He ate only cold food, so there’d be no chance of a fire from the stove. He washed at the sink to avoid accidental falls in the tub or shower. To prevent electrocution, he avoided all appliances. Most of the time, he sat in the recliner and stared into space. He would beat the death sentence. Jerome didn’t get nervous until 8:30 p.m. of the third day. He looked at the time on the iPhone. Only seven minutes left and then the nightmare would be over. He corroborated the time by studying the digits on the stove clock. It changed agonizingly slow to 8:36 p.m.

The Raven A knock sounded on his door. Jerome flinched. He turned his head to the door, but refused to answer it. One minute and it would be over. Do not answer it, he told himself forcefully.

Jerome. Do you want to live? I made the application, I can destroy it.” He did want to live. Damn it! He did want to live. He grabbed the phone and rushed to the door. When he opened it, she stood there, with those green eyes blazing. In one hand, she held a 9mm handgun, muzzle pointed at him. He didn’t have time to react. The bullet blew through his brain and out the back of his skull.

“Jerome.” It was the witch. “Jerome. I can stop it. You don’t have to die, Jerome. I can stop it. Hand it to me. I know how to shut it off.”

The witch stood over him, smoke still pouring from the barrel.

“I tried,” he said. “I took out the battery. I haven’t charged it. It won’t power down.”

“I told you, Jerome. I stand by the quality of my work.”

“It will if you let me do it. You have only seconds,

Issue 4 | April 2022

A Cry for Help by Sean C. Wright Neeley

The trio gathered at a local coffee shop. They picked up their drinks, coffee and tea, from the counter before settling in at a table next to a large picture window. The neighbor spoke first. “Let’s get down to business. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m very concerned about Sunny. She’s been strange, lately. She gave us some of her household items that didn’t sell in a garage sale she held recently. She’s even getting rid of her appliances. When I asked her about it, she said she was redecorating, said she wanted everything out by the first of the year, which is in three days. But she never said anything about where she’s moving during the makeover. She seems sad, too.” The neighbor bit her lip, twirled one of her russet locks, and looked down at her steaming cup. “Yeah,” Sunny’s gardener said, after swallowing a mouthful of chai tea. “Sunny gave me some of her jewelry to give to my daughter and wife. It’s nice stuff too, not just costume. We’re talking amethyst, tiger eye, and gems I can’t identify.” The neighbor frowned. “She loved that tiger eye ring!” A coworker who’d forged a friendly bond with Sunny said, “She quit her job a week ago. Sunny seemed a little sad to me, too, but not totally broken. I don’t know. It sounds like we have three days at a minimum to do something. We have to confront her before she does anything that’s unthinkable.” “Does anyone have contact information for her relatives? How about you?” the gardener asked, looking at Sunny’s former coworker. “I don’t, but someone in HR might have her emergency

The Raven We first introduced you to Sean in Issue 2, only her name was Sean C. Wright then. Her works include numerous short stories, a novella, and an essay that was made into a short film directed by Jessica Biel. Learn more about Sean and read her fantastic short story “Devil Does Dallas” here. Trust us, it’s worth a click. She can be reached online at www.seanarchy.wordpress.com and Facebook/Twitter: Seanarchy. contact information. It’s worth a shot. I’ll tell HR that it’s a potentially dire situation and that we need to get a relative involved. I’ll do that as soon as I leave here. I hope Sunny hasn’t hurt herself or isn’t planning to.” The other two people grunted in dismay. The trio fell silent as they mused about their mutual friend, Sunflower “Sunny” Jefferson, a woman the color of almonds with a smattering of freckles on her face and a headful of playful, wiry curls. Sunny’s aura roped one in, like a cowboy lassoing a bull. When she smiled at you, it felt as if someone were massaging your scalp with nimble, yet gentle fingers. But. They never heard Sunny talk of family or boyfriends or her past. She seemed to have slid into their lives out of thin air, bringing with her an ability to get people to talk about themselves without restraint. Sunflower Jefferson would stare intently, unblinking, as if she were taking notes, as one prattled on about their life. “We seem to have a plan,” the neighbor said, breaking the silence. “We’ll keep an eye on Sunny,” she pointed between herself and the gardener, “while you get the contact information.” So agreed, the trio hurriedly finished their drinks while making a few more plans. They threw a few bills on the table as a tip, then left, peeling out of the parking lot. That evening on a run to the grocery store, the neighbor saw Sunny’s car parked on the shoulder, near the bridge in town. She squealed to a stop behind Sunny’s car. Her

mind reeled. “Oh, no! I hope I’m not too late!” She texted the others, telling them what she saw, where she was, and to HURRY. Next, she called 9-1-1. After that quick conversation, she jumped out of her car and ran down the embankment. She whipped her head, looking this way and that, scouting for any sign of her neighbor or trouble. “Sunny!” Nothing. She walked farther down, closer to the riverbank and wild bushes. Her heart jumped in her chest, like a caged animal desperate to be free. “Sunny!” Still nothing. The neighbor thought it best to return to her car and wait for the others. A plan is what was needed, more people to cover more space. She waited, white-knuckled, outside her car, anxiously pacing and occasionally calling Sunny’s name. Finally, the others pulled up, tires screeching. “I didn’t see anything,” the neighbor shouted, shaking. “Let’s split up and look for her. I called the police, too.” “Great!” the former coworker said, following the neighbor down the embankment. “HR called Sunny’s emergency contact, but there was no answer.” They all shook their heads in despair, while turning on their phone flashlights. They spread out around the bridge’s immediate area, looking for their friend, hoping she hadn’t jumped into the river. A few minutes into the search, the gardener shouted. “I

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven see her! I see her! I’m in the field next to the river!” He waved his phone like a beacon for the others to find him.

called me about your friend, Sunflower Jefferson?” he asked, breathlessly.

When they assembled, they looked to where he pointed. Sunflower Jefferson stood in the distance some two hundred feet away with her back to them. Did she have a gun to blow her brains out? Or a razor to slit her wrist? They didn’t know. All they knew was they could not – should not – spook her.

Only the neighbor managed to tear her eyes away from the sky filled only with stars and a half-filled moon. Vaguely, she noticed he wore a black suit and black fedora. Vaguely, she wondered why he wasn’t dressed like a policeman. “Yes,” the neighbor said, sounding lost, looking confused. “But she’s gone now. A … a … a … UFO took her.”

Walking softly, the trio approached. The former coworker called out timidly, “Sunny. Please come here. We want to help you.”

The man in black pulled out a wand with a bulb on top and flashed it at the slack-jawed friends. “You won’t remember Sunflower Jefferson nor why you came to this field. Get in your cars and go about your business.”

As if in answer, Sunny tilted her curly head backward, looking up toward the dusky sky. The group looked up, too, and saw a disc with multicolored lights fast approaching. It slowed to a hover when it positioned immediately above Sunny. The neighbor, gardener, and coworker stopped moving. Their mouths dropped open, phones with flashlights forgotten, as the disc trained a yellow beam on Sunny and gently, slowly reeled her up, up into it. The vessel shot away as quickly as it had come.

The friends blinked a second time after his speech and trudged back to their cars, dazed. They pulled off – one to the grocery store, one to the nursery, and one drove home to relax after a long workday. The neighbor never recalled a tall, black woman, who lived three doors down. The gardener planted new flowers and bushes for the new residents of the house that formerly belonged to Sunflower Jefferson. Without a hint of recognition, the coworker walked past Sunny’s desk, day after day after day.

Once inside, Sunny undressed, slipping off her human skin, revealing herself to be gray, completely hairless, with huge, black eyes. The other beings in the ship spoke to her, telepathically. “Welcome back, Xenar. What did you learn about the Earth and the Earthlings?”

But sometimes, just sometimes, the trio saw sunflowers along the road near the bridge during the summer or saw a ringlet-haired, tall, black woman, and felt a sense of unexplained longing.

“A great deal,” Xenar replied, handing over her Earthling woman suit. “So much that I was sad to leave, but I know it’s someone else’s turn.”

“Invisible things are the only realities.” —Edgar Allan Poe

Still standing, staring up at the night sky, the trio ignored a man who ran up to them in the field. “You

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

The Raven

Unidentified Aerial

Everyone knows about the 1947 Roswell incident, but less well known is the wave of airship sightings over the western half of the U.S. that happened a half-century before, in 1896-1897. The hot air balloon had been around for a century by this time, but this was long before the Wright brothers and their first successful flight. In November, numerous witnesses in Sacramento and San Francisco reported seeing metallic flying craft with lights. There were even some alleged close encounters. Then the encounters seemed to move eastward, with reported sightings as far away as St. Louis and Omaha.

Phenomena and the U.S. Government “It sounds so crazy …” stated Lt. Cmdr. Alex Dietrich of the U.S. Navy in reference to witnessing and reporting an unidentified aerial phenomenon in 2019. Preceding her statement, Alex and other U.S. Navy pilots were conducting training exercises over the Pacific Ocean when during one occurrence they observed an upside-down pyramid flying in the air and on another occasion tracked a black blob-shaped unidentified aerial object until it eventually splashed in the water and went under. In government speak, such objects are called unidentified aerial phenomena (UAP), but lay people call them UFOs.

In April 1897, the Dallas Morning News reported that an airship had crashed into a windmill in the tiny town of Aurora, Texas, about 26 miles north of Ft. Worth. The owner of the windmill, Judge J.S. Proctor, reported finding wreckage and a body that was “not an inhabitant of this world”. The alien was given a Christian burial in the town cemetery, then the indicent was forgotten. Interest in the Aurora spaceman was rekindled in the 1970s when the Dallas Times Herald revived the story. The original grave marker has long since vanished. Modern investigations by MUFON and others have found metal deposits near the supposed grave site, but the town refuses all requests to exhume the grave. The mystery endures.

Ever since the government has had planes in the skies, pilots have encountered unknown flying objects. In November 2004 and January 2015, fighter pilots conducting training maneuvers in restricted airspace could be heard gibbering excitedly about UAPs. “There’s a whole fleet of them!” one pilot said. Another added, “They’re all going against the wind. The wind’s 120 knots to the west. Look at that thing, dude!” In 2019, pilots stated, “We’ve been seeing them for a couple of years.” Even though witnessing and reporting has been going on for years, it wasn’t until 2020 that the Department of Defense officially declared the videos of some of these sightings as real. Before admitting the truth of their own videos recorded on their own equipment, they wanted to ensure no “sensitive capabilities or systems” would be revealed, nor impingement “on any subsequent investigations of military air space,” according to Pentagon spokesperson Sue Gough.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven People have long been enthralled with UFOs. Our curiosity dates to the Mayan civilization—before that even if one factors in accounts of such in past life regressions—in the first millennium A.D. when some of their drawings and artifacts depicted flying objects. It was only a matter of time before lawmakers in Washington, DC admitted their curiosity, too. Led by a group of bipartisan senators, the UAP amendment was added to the FY22 National Defense Authorization Act, according to TotheStars.com. This important amendment bridges the Department of Defense, the Intelligence Community, and other governmental agencies and funnels their data into one, new department for reporting, analysis, response, health, and security. The new department will replace the current UAP Task Force. Soon, the day will come when we’ll watch briefings and committee hearings on C-SPAN and other channels regarding UFO sightings. How exciting! Look at how far we’ve come. Want to read more? Visit the sites below. Watch the Pentagon’s three declassified UFO videos taken by U.S. Navy pilots - YouTube New videos raise questions about military UFO encounters - YouTube Statement by the Department of Defense on the Release of Historical Navy Videos > U.S. Department of Defense > Release The Pentagon Released U.F.O. Videos. Don’t Hold Your Breath for a Breakthrough. - The New York Times (nytimes. com) Rubio, Gillibrand, Gallego Applaud Inclusion of Unidentified Aerial Ph – To The Stars*

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Dark Night of the Soul Part 2

Welcome to the second installment of Dark Night of the Soul. In the previous issue of The Raven, you met Gerald, a man struggling with an unknown physical ailment, an illness that is siphoning his life. Doctors have been unable to diagnose the problem and death seems inevitable until the night Maria comes to the door, filling Gerald with terror but also promising hope, if Gerald believes in witches. Check out part 1 here. entered the house, closed and locked the door before asking, “What do you make of that?” “Ridiculous!” I headed for the family room and flopped down on the sofa.

by Ann Fields

I remained on the walkway in the dark, staring after Maria, my mind a jumble of words—witch, protection, life consuming, crosses, candles, spiritual warfare. I had no idea how to knit the words together to make sense of them. The only thing that came together was a feeling of exposure and terror. I shivered.

“I knew she was a big religious freak, a kook,” Amanda said from the kitchen. “A co-worker said she used to walk around our building seven times, praying, and burning some herb or spice or something. Another co-worker said she used oil on a patient one time.” Amanda walked into the family room carrying a towel and a bottle of cleaner. Her fingers were crooked in air quotes. “’Blessed oil,’ smeared on the patient’s forehead.” Amanda rolled her eyes, dropped down in front of the coffee table, and started working on the carpet stain. “But I never figured she would go this far. Coming to our house?!” Amanda straightened and her eyes flashed with renewed anger. “How she knows about your heart, that I get. People talk at work. But how she got our address?! And had the audacity to spout that nonsense to our face, that I don’t get.” “She said angels directed her.” I was proud of myself for figuring that much out.

“Gerald!”

“Angels, my ass. I’ll be speaking to her tomorrow, that’s for damn sure.”

I turned and caught up to Amanda. I waited ‘til we’d

“You don’t know anything else about her?”

The Raven “Just the basics. She’s single—no surprise there—but she has a lot of photos on her desk. A large family, I guess. I don’t know. We rarely speak. She spends ninety-nine percent of her time in the field at the jails and homeless shelters.” Amanda rose to sit on the sofa. “She’s a nut, Gerald! A freakin’ religious lunatic!” I could tell by the curl of her lip she was through with the whole Maria business, but still upset by it. “How evil of her to try and link a witch, an urban myth to your health. That’s awful. Inexcusable. What kind of mind thinks of that?” “I get you don’t believe her, but …?” “You do?” “I …” Did I? Growing up, I’d heard the phrase ‘a witch is riding you,’ but had grouped it in with scary legends like saying “Candyman” three times in the mirror in the dark. But don’t all stories have some basis in fact no matter how tiny the fact? I shrugged. “I don’t know. The doctors haven’t come up with anything.” Amanda laid the towel on the table and sat close to me. She clasped my hands, looked deep into my eyes. “We are not giving up, honey. The doctors will come up with something. I bet after this heart monitor test, we’ll have more information. Maybe even an answer.” Seeing the love in Amanda’s eyes, hearing her encouragement, it was easy to cast Maria and her fearful visit aside. I laid my forehead against my wife’s. “Thanks, babe, for being in my corner. I know it hasn’t been easy on you.” “Me?” She sat back. Her brows wrinkled in concern. She squeezed my hands. “You’re the one I’m worried about. But you’ll be fine, Gerald. I believe that. Many years from now, we’re going to be in our rocking chairs on the porch, watching our grandchildren playing in the

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

yard, and we’re going to laugh about this.” “Hell, if we remember!” I teased. “At that age, you might not even remember my name let alone this night.” “Boy, please!” Amanda playfully pushed my head. She rose, snatched up the towel and cleaner and headed for the kitchen. I chuckled and clicked on the TV, hoping to catch the ten o’clock news. I tried to follow the day’s news, weather, and sports, but my mind kept veering off to Maria’s visit, her chilling explanation, her dire instructions, and those intense, dark eyes. I wanted to hold on to Amanda’s encouragement and the light-hearted moment we’d shared, but the feeling of unease and fear hovered heavy and dark like a shadow. Around midnight, I felt drowsy. I turned off the TV and forced myself up the stairs, dreading sleep and the pain, wondering if tonight would be the night I blacked out for all of eternity. I settled into bed, and just before clicking off the lamp thought, what can it hurt? I slipped out of bed, looked to see if Amanda had awakened with all my moving about. She hadn’t. She snored lightly, her face a picture of peace. I rummaged around in her jewelry cabinet until I found a gold cross. It was attached to a chain that was long enough to loop several times around Amanda’s neck. That’ll work. I put it on and tucked it under my t-shirt. In the bathroom, I picked out a white candle, one of those huge, three-wick numbers that could burn for hours. I lit the wicks and carried it to my bedside. Feeling like a fool, I glanced over at Amanda. Still sleep. Still snoring. I know my wife to be a very good judge of character, and if she thought Maria was crazy, then I was going to be in for a harsh tongue-lashing in the morning when Amanda saw my getup. Unless it works, I thought, deciding to chance being a stupid, ridiculous fool. Better that and Amanda’s sharp tongue than that searing pain which surely one day would take me out.

The Raven 

out with gale force.

“Gerald … Gerald .…” I cracked one eye open. Amanda shook my shoulder. I opened the other eye. “You’re in bed. Not on the floor.”

Clueless me jumped out of bed, as excited as a child on Christmas morn. To test the obvious, I did a couple of jumping jacks. I stretched my arms high in the air and swooped down to touch my toes. I did a couple of torso twists. No pain. No difficulty breathing. No weakness. And, my stomach growled! I wanted food—bacon, eggs, potatoes, toast–anything except cranberry juice and water.

I sat up slowly, struggling to emerge from a deep, heavy sleep. God! I felt like I’d been asleep for 40 years. I stretched my arms up and out and yawned – long and loudly. “Gerald, did you hear me?” Amanda shook me again. I rubbed my eyes. “I said you’re in bed. Not on the floor. That’s the first time since this nightmare started.”

I punched the air a few times and, swear to God, tears were in my eyes.

Amanda’s words sunk in and my heart leapt then pounded furiously. I stretched out the neck of my t-shirt. The chain was tangled in my chest hair, the cross laid against my skin. I looked over at the bedside table. The candlelight flickered and danced. I checked the time. 7:00! I’d slept the whole night through, not in fits and starts as I’d become accustomed to. I’d had no heart pain. No blacking out or vertigo effects or shadowy dreams. I felt great! Like my old self. No! Better than my old self.

I scrambled onto the bed and kissed Amanda hard. I pulled back expecting to see a joy on her face that matched my own. But her eyes were pinched, her brows furrowed. “You think…” Amanda shook her head, tried again. “Gerald, do you really think this is Maria’s doing? It’s a fluke, babe, a coincidence.” “Helluva coincidence,” I mumbled, crushed. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean to be negative. I just want you to think about what you’re saying. To believe in Maria’s cure means you believe in her diagnosis—a witch.” Amanda pressed her lips together in disapproval. “First of all, that’s childish and second, why would a witch target you?”

I whooped and crushed Amanda to me. I rocked her side to side, laughing. “Baby, it worked! It worked! I’m myself.” “What worked?” I uncovered the necklace. Amanda stared. “That’s my …“

I wished I knew.

“Maria’s protection plan.” I dropped the necklace and reached for the candle. I presented it to her as if it were a gift. “I slept! I feel great!”

 I ran water in the sink, determined to wash the breakfast dishes while I felt good. But almost immediately, I shut the water off, dried my hands on my sweatpants, and walked to the kitchen table to grab my phone. I needed to speak to Maria. Otherwise, the question—Why me? —would haunt me. I’d have no peace. I googled the number for Paisley Lane Mental Health, admitting to

Amanda’s brown eyes opened wide. “Oh, my God!” “I know! Can you believe it?” Amanda narrowed her eyes. “Oh, my, God,” she said, in a lower tone. She took the candle from me and blew it

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven myself I didn’t know who to believe—Amanda on the side of logic and reason or Maria on the side of evidence, evidence that required me to believe in witches. I wasn’t willing to own the supernatural, but … I had slept soundly. It had been three weeks since I’d slept that good. Three weeks since I’d eaten a solid meal and helped my kids prepare for a day at school. Three weeks since I’d felt hope instead of fear. Until three weeks ago, I’d no idea how precious those things were.

“No new family, in-laws, friends?”

I was just about to hit the “dial” button when the doorbell rang. The sound, seeming extra loud in a quiet, still house, startled me, making me drop my phone. I picked it up, thinking the call to Maria would have to wait a minute longer.

I did as I was told. “You’re telling me I have an enemy who sicced a witch on me?” I sneered. Amanda was right. This woman was way out there.

Expecting a door-to-door sales rep, I threw open the door without checking the peephole. I stumbled backward. “Maria?!”

I threw up a stop sign hand. “Wait! Stop! This is ridiculous. Do you hear yourself?” What made me think she had answers? I must be losing my mind along with my health. “Let me out.”

As she’d done the night before, Maria scanned my head, shoulders, and chest. She frowned and shook her head. “Come with me.”

 I stood there, staring after Maria, shocked. Had I conjured her up? And what the hell had that frown been about? Go with her where? I needed answers. Lots of answers. I grabbed the house keys we kept on the entryway table, locked the house, and joined Maria. “I know. It’s hard to believe,” Maria said before I’d settled the cross, candle, and candlestick—Amanda and mine’s candlestick—that were in the passenger seat in my lap and belted in. She stared straight ahead as she pulled away from the house. “Who is new in your life?”

“No. What does that …” “Some witches attach to people on their own, drawn to the spirit of the person. More commonly, witches are sicced on you, like a dog. Usually by an enemy. Since yours is a recent encounter, I wondered about a new enemy, a new person in your life.” Maria nodded at my lap. “Put that candle in the cup holder.”

“We’ll know when we find the witch’s master.”

Maria pulled over in front of a house in our sub-division. “Your life. Your choice. But that witch is going to ride you ‘til there’s no more life in you.” She nodded again at my lap. “Leave my cross. Take your candlestick.” She faced forward. I picked up the cross. It was much simpler than the one that dangled from Amanda’s necklace. “I slept like a baby last night.” “I know.” “No, you don’t. You can’t,” I said, not caring that my tone was harsh. Fear. I was sinking deeper into fear.

Maria cut her eyes at me before repeating the question.

“I scanned your aura last night and again when you answered the door. It was brighter this morning. Not by much but enough to tell me you’d used items to protect your heart.”

“No one,” I answered.

I shook my head. This is too much. I dropped her cross

“What?”

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

The Raven club where we—me and my colleagues—closed many deals with the help of attractive, nearly naked women, every type of food men loved, and a bar stocked with premium liquors and cigars. Surprised to be here, I turned to Maria. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving, although no sound came out. Praying, I assumed, or casting a spell. Whatever practice she was doing I decided not to interrupt. Moments later, she turned to me. Her eyes were glazed, coated with an extra layer of light. “This is where it started. Get out.”

in the other cup holder, opened the door, and put one foot on the ground. I turned back to Maria and checked her out, looking for signs of crazy—mismatched clothes, a huge, ugly wart with a single hair growing out of it, a crazed expression in her eyes, an obvious tic. Other than her far-fetched words, everything else checked out normal. Actually, she was quite attractive with dark eyes and dark hair against olive-colored skin. She was dressed in slacks and a jacket, similar to what Amanda had worn to work this morning. She looked quite professional and sane, but that didn’t stop me from asking, “Are you crazy? Are you a witch?”

“Here?” I looked again at the vintage building, home to a number of my professional successes. “You’re saying I picked up a witch here?”

She stared at me with those dark eyes and in a voice that never rose or fell said, “You won’t know until the end. Which end—life or a quickening death—is up to you.”

Maria checked the candle in the cup holder then exited. Earlier, when we’d started our quest, she lit the candle. I objected to a live fire in a moving vehicle, but Maria countered with some madness about the white light strengthening her connection to spirit, and spirit guiding her, and the light making me sleepy. Well, she’d been right about the sleepy part. The candle hadn’t been lit for long before I conked out cold. The other part, the claim of light-connection-spirit-guidance, well, it brought us here.

A chill passed through me, making me shiver. “Either get in and help me find your enemy,” Maria commanded. “Or get out so I can go to work.” My mind was made up before Maria finished speaking. The sliver of normalcy I’d had this morning had whetted my appetite for more life. I wanted more mornings with my family. I wanted to return to coaching my son’s basketball team and taking my daughter to dance class. I wanted to return to work in full health. I wanted a full, loving, long life. More and want superseded my doubts about Maria and eclipsed my fear. I resettled in the car and slammed the door shut.

I shook my head while getting out the SUV. I quickly caught up to Maria. “They don’t open this early. I don’t know if …” “We’ll get in. I trust my spirit guides.” Maria kept on walking, fast. At the triple, front doors, all painted a wicked shade of red, she stood on tiptoe to reach the buzzer and didn’t release the button until we heard the crackle of a speaker coming to life. “Deliveries in the back,” a staticky voice informed.

 I woke, blinking slowly. A sharp pull in my neck made me groan and tilt my head in every direction. While massaging my neck, I realized we were parked in front of a red brick building with a green awning extended in welcome. I didn’t need to read the cursive sign on the building to know we were at Liaisons, the gentlemen’s

“Health department. Open up.” “Shit!” we heard before the speaker cut out with a crackle.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven I looked at Maria, both impressed by her ability to lie on the fly and concerned that she’d done the same to me—lie. “I have learned to lie to make others comfortable,” Maria stated. I mentally stumbled, unsure if I’d spoken my thoughts aloud or if she was a mind-reader in addition to being a witch-hunter. Maria turned and pinned me with her eyes. “Would you rather I tell them we’re tracking a witch?” “Hell no! I’m still wrestling with the notion myself.” The middlemost door opened and Jake Herriman, Liaisons’ co-owner smiled at Maria while putting on a custom-made suit jacket. The expensive apparel did not upgrade his appearance. He still looked like Herman Munster – big, square head, dark, vacant eyes, craggy forehead. Jake checked out Maria from legs to hair and his smile grew broader. I’d seen him direct that same appreciative smile to a few of the hostesses at the club. Apparently he had a type – petite and dark. “Surely you’re here to apply to be a hostess, not inspect our kitchen,” Jake said in his kill-em-dead voice. He leaned close to Maria and I wondered if he was going to kiss or smell her. Maybe both. Maria pushed his shoulder then stormed past him, huffing. Jake looked after her, grinning like his most treasured fantasy had come true. I clapped his arm. “Jake, how you doin’?” Jake turned to me. “Gerald, my man!” We did the one arm man hug with hands clasped between us. “You’re real early today. Must got a big fish on the hook.” “Actually, I’m with her.” I eased past Jake and his raised brows. With the house lights off and only accent lighting at the

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

stairs, bandstand, and bar, it wasn’t as dark as midnight, but pretty damn close. I knew the layout of the place but didn’t think Maria did. “Hey, Jake, can we get some light?” “Sure,” Jake’s voice came from behind me. It moved farther away as he said, “I didn’t realize you worked for DSC and the Health department. Man, how do you handle two jobs?” I chuckled. Good ole Jake! How someone so gullible maintained a successful business was more a testament to the idea of mixing men, barely clothed women, and booze. My eyes adjusted to the semi-dark and I could make out Maria, weaving in and among the chairs and tables on the main floor, heading toward the long perimeter brick wall. Along that wall were about twenty private spaces, partitioned by thin, black curtains. We referred to the spaces as living rooms and just like living rooms at home, each space held a sofa, coffee table, armchairs, side tables, and a bar. DSC maintained a permanent lease on one of the living rooms and it was there where we entertained potential big fish customers. It looked like Maria was taking the most direct path to DSC’s living room. I watched transfixed as Maria unhooked the red velvet rope at the entry of our living room. There was no way she could have known about Liaisons or DSC’s private room. Just like there was no way she could have known I’d slept with a cross and candle. She was proving to be the real deal, which shook me to my core. Until this point, I was willing to go either way, flip-flopping between the logical and the mystical, but now the last domino of resistance fell. I was fully in Maria’s camp. Which, as my wife said, meant I accepted the truth of a witch riding me. But more disturbing, it meant I had an enemy who hated me so much they wanted me dead,

The Raven up blank. I wasn’t a saint, but I didn’t go out of my way to harm or terrorize people either. But apparently there was an unknown other.

an enemy with access to supernatural powers, an enemy who was someone I called family, friend, or associate. The truth hit me hard, like a gut punch, forcing me down into the nearest chair. I watched as Maria moved around DSC’s living room, touching the curtains and furniture, trailing her hand along the bar. I was seeing her but not really seeing her because I was lost inside my head, still coming to grips with someone hating me enough to want me dead. I riffled through a list of possible enemies. Cousin Stanley? I’d refused to serve as a character witness during his trial. But to give him a great send off before serving life in prison, I’d hosted him and his boys at Liaisons. Matthew? My ex-friend had threatened me on the day of his divorce. I’d refused to lie to his wife about his whereabouts and she’d eventually uncovered his mistress. But that was years ago. Who else? I came

The house lights flooded on. I cupped my hands over my eyes, preferring the dark as a backdrop for my distressed heart and mind. It was odd that I wanted the dark now when before I dreaded the darkness because of the pain it brought on. How strange that now, the darkness was my comforter. I felt a squeeze on my shoulder and jumped out of my seat, fists clenched at my chest in a boxer’s pose. “Whoa, there Hoss!” Jake said, hands out in protection. He pointed at Maria. “What she doing?” I looked. Across the room from us, Maria was seated on the sofa, eyes closed, swaying side to side. A balled fist

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven rested on top of her heart. I was getting used to Maria’s abrupt movements, her cryptic responses, her oddity, but how could I explain her to Jake? How could I tell him she was engaged in spiritual warfare? I decided to ignore his question, just as Maria was ignoring us.

more and when he started throwing things off my desk someone called HR and Security. When the dust settled, Matthew was no longer an employee of DSC, no longer a friend, no longer married. Last I heard, he and the mistress broke up and he moved out of state. But he could have moved back, harboring the same old grudge. But why now? Why would Matthew wait a decade to heap vengeance?

In a burst of movement, Maria sprung up and bolted toward us. What now? I thought. Jesus! What else?

I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket and checked to see if I still had Matthew’s number. No, gone. But maybe there was someone who had stayed in touch with him over the years, someone who could give me his number. I scrolled through my contacts, but when Maria stopped at a red light, I looked up. She seemed to be headed to DSC. “Maria, we don’t need to go there. We need to find Matthew Knox. He’s the man. He used to work with me at DSC. He entertained customers at Liaisons, too.”

Maria was several tables away when she said, “A hostess used a lint brush on your collar, shoulders. There was an exchange. Hair for money.” “Wha …?” My mind collapsed. “The hostess is not important,” Maria said as she zoomed by me and Jake. “We want the man.” I spun to follow her and stumbled, bumping into Jake. I recovered quickly and sprinted to catch up to Maria.

I didn’t say the rest of what was in my head, that being, I didn’t recall Matthew following the occult, supernatural, or anything like that. All the years we’d hung out, I never heard him say anything remotely connected. I never suspected a thing.

From behind me, I heard Jake’s raised voice. “Hey, don’t you want to see the kitchen?”

 “What man? What’s his name?”

Maria didn’t respond. She stared ahead. When the light turned green and I was sure she was following the twomile stretch of surface streets from Liaisons to DSC, I tried again. “Maria, we don’t need to go to DSC. Ask your guides how to get to Matthew Knox. If we can find him, I can end this.”

Maria started the car and pulled out of the parking space. “My guides are giving me initials. D.S.C. And …” “DSC! That’s my employer. Not a man.” “Shhhhh, I’m concentrating …” “It’s Matthew!” I insisted. “Matthew Knox. He’s hated me ever since his marriage fell apart.” I fell silent, thinking about the last time I saw Matthew. He’d come raging into DSC after leaving his attorney’s office and headed straight to my workspace. He got loud. I stayed quiet, knowing as the black man in the equation I would be the one to lose my job. But my silence enraged him

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Maria glared at me. Clearly, she wasn’t going to take my word over her angels or spirit guides or whatever she called them. I sighed, opened a browser, and typed Matthew Cole Knox. She’s not the only one with guides, I thought.



The Raven By the time Maria pulled into DSC’s parking lot, I was buying a background report on Matthew. “I’ll have his address and phone number in a minute,” I told Maria, staring at my phone screen. The next thing I heard was the sound of her cutting the engine, opening and closing her door. “Maria,” I yelled. Of course she didn’t hear me with the windows up. Even if she had, she was well underway, marching to the entrance of DSC. Determined, if her straight back and stiffly swinging arms were any indication. I pushed open my door and hightailed it after her, calling her name while keeping an eye on my phone. It bothered me greatly that she was bringing this mess to my workplace. Even though it had started here, I didn’t want weird Maria messing up my livelihood. Besides, I knew who our guy was. I was just waiting on the report that would tell me where he was and his phone number.

I stared at the phone, confused, then decided to re-read, even slower. But by the end of the report, nothing had change. So maybe he doesn’t have to be here in St. Louis to cast a spell? Or, maybe he came to town to get my hair, cast the spell, then ran back to Kansas? Or maybe this is old information. I searched for the report date. Damn! It showed the data current as of today. I looked up to ask Maria questions about proximity and supernatural practices. She was gone. I rushed into the building and saw her at the elevator bank. I sped as fast as I could and made it in time to slip into the car with her and several others. I recognized the few employees by face only, wished them a good morning, then glanced at Maria. She had her eyes closed but thank goodness she wasn’t swaying or moving her lips silently or clasping a cross to her chest. I focused on the control panel and saw three buttons lit up with the sales floor being the last stop. I’d have to wait a few floors before I could pick up the conversation with her. I wasn’t happy about that. Hell, this was my life. I was the one dying! A little listening and cooperation on her part would be appreciated.

I caught up to Maria and grabbed her arm. She snatched it away and kept moving. “Will you listen to me? I found our guy.” I stuck my phone in her face, halting her. “This is Matthew. See …” I pointed at the report with his photo that had finally come through.

Unfortunately, one of the employees rode to the sales floor with us so I had to temper my anger and sit on my words for longer than I wanted. As soon as the doors opened, I stepped out and held the door open while the two exited, Maria first. By the time I skirted around the slow-moving employee, Maria was already headed to my work section.

Maria studied my phone one split second then pushed it aside. “Not him.” She resumed fast-walking. “Yes, him,” I stated firmly. I told Maria the story of Matthew’s firing, his threat, and his knowledge of Liaisons. We reached the entrance and I planted myself in front of her. “There’s no reason for us to go in. He lives at …”

Before this witch started riding me and sucking me dry, I could have caught up to Maria in a few long strides. But in my current state, I didn’t corner her until we were in my boss’s office. At this time of morning, Bill and the sales reps were out at appointments and wouldn’t come rolling in ‘til closer to lunch, if then. The only people who could interfere with our unwarranted presence was his

I scanned the report, but unfamiliar with its layout could not find his address. I scrolled back up to the top and read more slowly, learning he was remarried, had four kids, was working in pharmaceutical sales, and lived in …Lawrence. Matthew lives in Lawrence, Kansas?!

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven admin who’d been absent from her desk and the support staff who officed on the other side of the building. Still, I closed Bill’s door. I meant to have that showdown with Maria.

enemy? He can control witches? I dropped down in the same chair I’d sat in just yesterday when he’d handed over the sick leave packet. I wanted to fire you, he’d said, but HR wouldn’t let me. You are after all, top gun.

She stood behind Bill’s desk, eyes closed, swaying with the cross over her heart. I didn’t care about her communing with spirits. I broke in. “Maria, your guides are way off this time.”

Anger seared through me like a lightning strike. That two-faced bastard! Trying to take my life? To leave my wife husbandless, my children fatherless? Oh, hell, no!

She opened her eyes. That glazed look was back. “It’s him.” She pointed the cross at Bill’s desk. “The man.”

I sprung out of the chair, circled the desk, and pushed Maria—who was busy snooping through Bill’s drawers— aside to access his computer. I pulled up his online appointments calendar. Wherever he was, I was going there to confront him. No! I was going there to beat the shit out of him.

“Matthew is in Law…” Wait. What? “What did you say?” “Him.” Maria picked up the family portrait on Bill’s desk and tapped Bill’s face.

I snatched a sticky note, wrote down the name and address of the company where he was, and headed for the door. Flinging it open, I stormed out.

“Bill? You’re saying Bill is the man?” She nodded and I pulled back, surprised and affronted. “No way! I just told you. Matthew is the man.”

 This time, I beat Maria to her SUV and waited impatiently for her to unlock the doors. As soon as I was inside, I stuck the sticky note on her dashboard and said, “This is where we’re going. This is where we can find Bill’s cowardly ass.”

Maria shook her head. “I see Mississippi. Black and green.” “How …” I stopped, realizing I knew how she knew Bill was from Mississippi, born and raised. Her guides had told her. The CEO, flanked by Human Resources, had told us. Bill had moved to St. Louis for the sole reason of taking the VP of Sales job, a job I’d turned down.

“We’re battling both the natural and supernatural. We have to prepare first.”

“He is the new person in your life. This visit is confirmation. Dark energy lives in this space.”

“I don’t need to prepare for an ass kicking.” I pointed at the note. “Just drive there.”

I stopped listening at ‘new person.’ When Maria asked me earlier today who was new in my life, Bill hadn’t even entered my mind. Why would he? He was a minor character in the story of my life. A background player. Besides, we’d established a comfortable relationship from the start, one any outsider would think had been in place for years. But … He wants me dead? He’s my

Maria shook her head. “You’re letting emotions blind you.”

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

“I just found out my new boss wants to take me out. Not fire me, Maria, but kill me! And I’m not supposed to be emotional?” I thought about the times Bill and I had talked sports, had exchanged personal stories over lunch or while riding together to a customer appointment. I

The Raven grew hotter, angrier by the second. My hands itched for violence.

“It’s his home,” Maria said, opening her door. “No, it’s not. DSC may have set him up here initially, but I’ve heard him brag about his house in Ladue, that it’s so big he had to hire two full-time maids.”

Maria started the SUV. “There’s work to do.” “So you’re not taking me to Bill?” Maria didn’t respond. “Then take me to my house. I’ll drive myself.”

“He’s lying.”

Maria exited DSC’s parking lot and pointed her car in the direction of my house. A vision of me confronting Bill, beating him senseless—not to the point of death, but enough to get my point across—filled my mind. I was so focused on all the ways I would exact revenge I didn’t notice Maria had ignored my demand until she pulled into an extended stay hotel less than a mile from the office.

I almost challenged her, but considering Bill’s far-fromupstanding record, I shrugged. “I wonder why he would lie about that. I mean, what is that lie gaining him?” “Black and green. I’m receiving those colors again.” Maria got out, taking the cross and candle in the cup holder with her. She opened the back door and stuffed the items in an overnight bag that sat on the back seat. “Are you coming?” She grabbed the bag, slammed the door, and strode toward the rooms facing the parking lot.

I took in the modern, grayish-white stucco exterior, the lush landscaping, and the marquee that advertised rates as low as $109 a night. “What are you doing? This is not my house.”

Maria had said those same words in Bill’s office. Black and green. I got out the vehicle. Fatima, my driver would have to wait.

“This is his lair. We prepare for him here.” “No! You do whatever the hell kind of prep you want. Me? I’m out of here.” I was done with Maria. I had my answer. I just needed to get to Bill. Now! I navigated to On the Fly’s app and ordered a car. Eight minutes. I stared at the photo of the young Indian girl who would be my driver and hoped she wasn’t squeamish. I planned to meet Bill outside by his car, handle my business, then hop back in her car. I laid my phone on my knee and focused on Maria. She was driving toward the rear of the hotel, which was clearly marked by hedges and a tall property fence. At the back, she crept along a block of rooms. She braked and closed her eyes. When she opened them seconds later, she backed into a parking space by a dumpster. Something Maria had said returned to me. Lair. “This is where Bill does his evil spells?”



Will Gerald remain by Maria’s side or go off and confront Bill on his own? Will he shrink in the presence of darkness or rise to the challenge? Will he survive the ordeal? The answers to these and other questions in the final installment of “Dark Night of the Soul” in the next issue of The Raven.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven

Ghost in the Machine

Part 3 A man walks into a bar with his pet alligator on a leash. “Do you serve laywers here?” asks the man. “Why, certainly, sir,” replies the bartender. “Then I’ll have a beer,” says the man, “and a lawyer for my alligator.” Margo and Ernie are on the verge of a big discovery and the lawyers are not happy about it. Surely they’re not up to something dastardly, are they? Find out in this final installment, and check out Part 1 here, and part 2 here.

Do I need to tell you that I didn’t sleep a wink that night? I gave up finally and got dressed and got to the lab just after daybreak. I was expecting to have the place to myself for at least the next few hours, but I was astonished to find Ernie’s car already parked at the back entrance. “Looks like you couldn’t sleep, either,” he said when I walked in. He was sitting in front of a bank of giant high-definition computer monitors. “Don’t tell me you’ve been here all night,” I said. “No, I couldn’t sleep to save my life. I figured if I was going to be awake anyway, I might as well get a head start sifting through the stuff from last night.” “I wish I felt as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as you sound,” I said.

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

The Raven “We’ll see how long it lasts,” he replied with a smile. “I thought it might save us some time if I ran my new image comparison algorithm on these videos.” The tool in question saves us the tedious task of having to examine every second of video evidence by comparing the frames and flagging the most minute changes. It now takes us seconds to find what used to take hours or even days. “This is from the webcam in the hall outside Dante’s studio. Look right here.”

what to think of it.” “Neither am I. How much of the conversation with the entities did we manage to record?” “Margo, you surprise me. All of it, naturally. Look right here—at the precise time the voices started coming over the radio, this dark shape appears.” He indicated a dark area on the video. It was just the faintest of dark blobs, but the video showed the shapeless mass moving into the room. I felt a cold chill run down my spine and shivered. “We’ve encountered unfriendly spirits before, but this one was different.”

I pulled a chair up next to him and looked at the fuzzy image on one of the monitors. A dark shadow in the doorway of the open elevator might have been a light artifact, but probably wasn’t. “What about the elevator lobbies on the other floors? Do we have corresponding footage?”

“Absolutely. However, I think it’s pretty clear that we were dealing with multiple entities here. They aren’t all hostile. I had a microphone on the radio and I’m going to try to enhance the whispering to see if we can get anything,” he said. “The other thing that interests me is that music right at the end.”

“Indeed we do,” he replied. “Give me a minute.” “I’m going to get some caffeine while you find them.” In the office kitchen I filled a reusable capsule with my favorite concoction. I popped it into our new hightech espresso machine that the college had given us when we moved into this space last fall. It was a major improvement over our old coffee maker—and totally Ernie-proof. The coffee Ernie makes could be used as paint stripper. Before we got the new machine, we poured out many a carafe of his near-toxic attempts at coffee making.

“Why?” I asked. “Surely that was just a stray radio broadcast. I once read that some stations can reach hundreds of miles.” “That’s true, but you’re thinking of AM radio. Under the right atmospheric conditions, AM radio signals can reach for more than a thousand miles, especially at night. That’s anything in the range from 535 to1605 kilohertz. But we were set to 740 megahertz. It actually falls in the frequency range that used to be for television broadcasts—from 300 megahertz to 3 gigahertz. And those frequencies aren’t even used for television broadcasts anymore.”

“What did you find?” I asked when I returned with my steaming cup of latte. “After it stopped on our floor, the elevator went up to the third. According to the time stamp, that was at exactly the same time we saw the message on Dante’s computer.” “Any idea where it went after that?” I asked.

I pondered the implications of what he’d just said. “So there’s no possibility it was just the campus radio station?”

“It was still on the third floor when we left. I’m not sure

He shrugged. “Not unless something’s seriously wrong

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven with my radio.”

something.”

“You have any idea what that song was?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Ernie replied, catching my eye.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Sandy sighed heavily. “I’m going to take it over to the bike shop…when they open. How come you two are here so early? It’s barely light out.”

I sighed. “No, I know better. But there has to be someone around who knows.” “The music department?” “It can’t hurt to try.” I glanced at the time. “Soon as people start showing up for work.” The door opened and Sandy came in, wheeling his beloved bicycle. I could tell by the forbidding scowl on his normally cheerful face that something was wrong. “Everything okay?” I asked. “No, everything is not okay. Look at my bike!” Both tires were flat and the seat had been slashed. But most disturbing of all, his brakes had been cut. He propped it against the wall. “Kickstand’s broken, too.” His bike was a sorry sight. I felt terrible for him. He depends entirely on his beloved bike for transportation and wouldn’t dream of owning a car and. I’d add that he’s in great shape, but you’ve probably deduced that already. “When did this happen?” asked Ernie. “Last night. There was a neighborhood meeting, to talk about the zoning commission meeting that’s coming up. I just heard from Thornton: one of the girls had a flat tire on the way home.”

“You probably don’t want to know,” replied Ernie with a sly grin. “Right. Well, we can leave it at that.” Sandy is a champion researcher and the best assistant we could possibly ask for, but he gets utterly oogied out by anything to do with ghosts. “Tell you what,” I said. “Throw your bike in the back of my station wagon. I’ll take you and it over to the bike shop if you’ll help me find a jazz expert.” “It’s a deal,” he said with a broad smile, retrieving his phone. “I know who will know.” “All right. I should probably let Dante know about the message on his Mac.” I dialed Dante’s number and he answered immediately. “Oh, Margo! I’m so glad you called. How did it go last night?” It didn’t seem like a good idea to give him too many details until we knew more about what we were dealing with, so I just said, “I think we made contact with at least one entity. We’re looking at the evidence now.”

“Coincidence?” asked Ernie.

“I was going to call you: do you know if my computer was okay when you were here last night?”

Sandy shook his head. “Jason’s cat is missing, too.”

“The old Mac? Yes, I think so. Why?”

“Somebody must have known about the meeting,” Ernie mused.

“I think it died. I can’t get it to come on this morning,” replied Dante sadly. “It was working just fine yesterday.”

“Sounds like it. It’s almost like we’re being followed or

I cast a glance at Ernie, who was looking at me with

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The Raven raised eyebrows. “Are your files backed up?”

I explained why we were there and played the fragment of music for him. “We were wondering if you could help us identify the piece.”

“Not recently,” Dante sighed. “First my studio gets trashed, and now this. I hope I’m not going to have to fork over big bucks for a new computer. That would be a stretch right now.”

Brooks scratched his head. “Early 1920’s from the sound of it.”

I decided telling him about the cryptic message on his spreadsheet wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do, so I left it with a promise to show him our evidence later. That seemed to cheer him up.

“Is there any chance you could tell us more?” I pressed.

Sandy and I left Ernie glued to his computer and hopped in my car for the short drive across campus.

I wasn’t keen on telling him any more than necessary. People can be unpredictable when it comes to the paranormal—either they want nothing to do with it, or they want desperately to get involved. “A friend of mine was playing around with an old radio and got this. He… um, decided it was something he wanted to know more about.”

“I personally can’t, but I know someone who can,” he replied, whipping out a phone and tapping a message into it. “Are you a fan of jazz?”

I love having an excuse to visit Merrifield Hall, home of the music department. It’s one of the oldest buildings on campus and being there is like taking a trip back in time. Sandy led me past a practice hall where a string quartet was playing something that might have been Vivaldi. His phone chimed from his pocket. When he looked at his message, his face lit up. “Roscoe’s back.”

“‘Friend’?” asked Brooks, with a not particularly discreet glance at my left hand. “Boyfriend?”

“Who’s Roscoe?” I asked.

“More like a co-worker,” I replied, now annoyed. “But yes, I do have a boyfriend.”

“Jason’s cat. Says he’s limping and missing a couple of patches of fur but otherwise safe and sound. Here we go—this is the guy you need to talk to.” We were standing in front of an office with a wooden door. A nameplate next to the door indicated it was the office of Fulton Brooks, Associate Professor of Jazz Studies.

Brooks stole a quick glance at Sandy, who’s a good fifteen years younger than me. Great, I thought. Now he thinks I’m a cougar. “His name’s Tim and he lives on the West Coast.”

Brooks looked suitably like an aging jazz musician. His black turtleneck sweater contrasted unbecomingly with the pasty complexion of someone who spends little time in the sun and his long graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail. There was a saxophone on a stand in one corner of the small office. Except for a promotional poster for the 1967 Montreaux Jazz Festival, the walls were bare.

The door opened and a young black man came in. Everything about him seemed like an anachronism. He was wearing a three-piece wool suit of an archaic cut, complete with starched high collar and neatly tied bow tie. His crinkly hair was parted in the middle and slicked back against his head. He had skin the color of dark caramel with thin lips and an aquiline nose.

“Lucky guy,” muttered Brooks.

“Ah,” said Brooks, “here’s our resident time-traveler.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven Margo, um…Monroe, did you say it was? And um…”

off at the bike shop and went back to the lab.

“Sandy.”

Ernie was still in the same spot where he’d been when I left and looked like he was fading fast. I was, too, for that matter.

“Of course. Allow me to introduce Armstrong Fitzgerald Leonard.” “Call me Lenny,” said the young man. “Nice to meet you, Lenny,” I said. I played the snippet for him. “We were wondering if you could help us identify this music.” “Of course I can,” he said. “Come with me.” Brooks waved at us and went back to his desk. Sandy and I followed Lenny into a room a few doors down the hall. Every wall was lined with hundreds of vinyl albums, neatly stored in narrow vertical slots. He went straight to a shelf and pulled out an ancient record. “That song is a recording from 1924 and we happen to have an original 78 here in our library. It was on a small label from Indiana called Gennett. Crude sound quality, but of great historical significance. The band is called the Wolverine Orchestra. They’re important mainly because the cornet was Bix Beiderbecke. It sounds oldfashioned to our ears, but his solo on that piece was groundbreaking.” He held up the record for us to see. “We’re lucky to have this copy. Only a few thousand of these were ever produced. At the time, except for a few jazz fanatics up north, nobody had ever heard this. Of course, nowadays you can download it off the Internet. It was on the radio? It’s kind of odd—I didn’t know there were any stations around here playing that sort of thing.” “Sort of. My friend has one of those multi-band radios. It picks up all kinds of frequencies.” That seemed to satisfy him. “Yeah, you can get all kinds of stuff on short-wave.” We thanked him for his time and left. I dropped Sandy

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When he returned that afternoon with his newly repaired bike, Sandy tossed an article from the newspaper archives on my desk. It was from the Indian Springs Herald and dated August of 1924. The subject was an elevator accident in the Morris building in which two men had been killed. A faulty safety brake was blamed and the men had died particularly gruesome deaths. Interestingly, the article also mentioned rumors of apparently long standing that the building was haunted. “Ernie, listen to this,” I said. “This is from August of 1924. ‘Horrific accident at the Morris Building’.” Something poked at the edges of my consciousness, but I brushed it aside. “Two men were killed and one seriously injured Thursday in an elevator accident at the Morris Building. Witnesses say a safety brake failed, sending the men plunging to their deaths. Amid allegations of negligence…” Then I realized what was trying to get my attention: 1924. “Well, go on,” said Ernie impatiently. “Oh, right. Sorry. ‘…the families of the victims have laid the blame squarely on the landlord, Ambrose Rummel. Numerous accusations have surfaced in recent years that much-needed repairs to the building’s infrastructure have not been made in a timely manner.’” “Three guesses as to whose grandpappy old Ambrose was,” said Ernie. “Seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” “It gets better,” I said, and continued to read. ‘Killed in the accident were Ephraim Hawk, 33, and Wilson

The Raven Greenwald, 26. Mr. Hawk, a well-known and admired figure around town, had been the night watchman at the Morris Building since his return in 1919 from the fighting in France. He was a native of Indian Springs who will best be remembered for his role as star quarterback and captain of the Indian Springs High School football team during the victorious 1907–08 and 1908–09 seasons. Mr. Greenwald was a machine operator and mechanic at Palace Printing and Engraving who only within the past year relocated to our fair city from New Paris, Ohio. He was a talented musician and aficionado of jazz whose energizing performances at the Indian Springs Dance Club will be much missed.’

wonder Greenwald’s ghost is upset. I certainly would be—a double betrayal.”

“Well, now. That’s interesting, on a number of different levels,” said Ernie.

Sandy shrugged and fished a phone out of his pocket. “I took some photos. Have a look.”

“There’s more,” I said. “That song we picked up on the radio: according to our resident jazz expert, it was recorded in 1924.” Ernie shrugged. “Coincidence.”

I took Sandy’s phone. There was an impressive crowd, but something else caught my eye. I had to zoom in on one of the photos to be sure, but it confirmed what I suspected. “Speaking of underlings…Ernie, tell me if this is who I think it is.”

“Could be, but something tells me it’s not. It was a limited recording from a fairly obscure record label.”

Ernie studied the photo on Sandy’s phone. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our favorite personal assistant.”

“If you say so,” mused Ernie. “Of more interest to me is the fact that one of the guys killed in the accident was a jazzman. What else do we know, Sandy?”

A little alarm bell went off in my head. “Can I have that back for a second?” Ernie passed me the phone and I zoomed in on the photo of Weldon Spradley. “Look right here,” I said to the two of them. “On his hand. Are those scratches?”

“Speaking of Corvus, how’s the battle against the MonsterMart going?” Ernie asked. “We had a rally over the weekend and half the neighborhood turned out,” Sandy replied. “Was Rummel there?” Ernie asked. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I would recognize Rummel or Hawk, and I’ve never seen the lawyers.” “I imagine they have their minions take care of things of that nature,” I said.

“Not much. The musician, Greenwald, had no relatives that anyone was able to locate. Hawk left behind a wife but no kids. I don’t know if it has any bearing on this story, but a few years later a man named Levi Hawk married one of Rummel’s daughters and ended up going into business with Rummel. That’s when they changed the company name to Corvus.”

“Cat scratches! That son of a bitch!” exclaimed Sandy. “I think I might be missing something,” said Ernie, looking puzzled. Sandy explained the mysterious disappearance and return of Roscoe the cat.

Suddenly it all made sense to me. “And now their descendants are trying to tear the building down! No

“Margo,” Ernie said, “I don’t have a dog in this fight, but

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven I think it’s time we sent a message to Weldon Spradley.” “I’m inclined to agree. What say you, Sandy? Are you in?” Sandy grinned. “I’ll come up with a plan to make sure we get our point across.” “I knew we could count on you,” replied Ernie. On an intellectual level, I knew Weldon Spradley was just doing the bidding of a powerful and unscrupulous employer. Like Nora, he probably felt like he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to keep his job. But I was enraged all over again when I thought about the damage he’d done to Dante’s studio. It was someone’s livelihood… if Spradley would do that to a man working to support an invalid mother, what else was he capable of in the name of following orders? Spradley didn’t strike me as being the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and when Ernie, Sandy, and I put our heads together, it didn’t take too long to concoct a plan that we hoped would send a clear message to Corvus Enterprises. First, we visited Sandy’s favorite bike shop and bought a simple device used to locate stolen bikes. The next step required finding Spradley’s car and attaching the device. A short session with Google Earth assured us the only complicating factor would be the guard in the security kiosk near the front entrance of Corvus headquarters. Getting around this was easy enough. One afternoon Ernie and I drove in separate cars to Deerfield and found the dark, looming office building that housed Corvus Enterprises. With Ernie in the passenger seat, I drove up to the front door and Ernie—minus his nerdy black glasses—got out. With a big show of waving goodbye, he went in and I drove off. While Ernie went into the barbershop on the building’s ground level arcade to inquire about a haircut, I drove around the

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block and parked his car along the street about a block away. I then walked the two blocks to the lot where earlier we’d parked my car. While Ernie was getting his usually rather longish locks chopped off (he complained vociferously about this part), I let about half the air out of one of my own tires and waited. Once divested of his signature hairstyle, Ernie put his glasses back on and sent me a text. Now in my own car and wearing a blonde wig, I pulled into the Corvus parking lot. The security guard was only too happy to help out with the air pump that he kept on hand for such emergencies. Distracted by a charming blonde damsel in distress, the guard paid not the slightest attention to Ernie when he strolled out the front door and across the parking lot. It took Ernie only a few minutes to find Spradley’s car and attach the device. We were on the road by 5:00 and having drinks at the Monk’s Habit by 5:30. A pattern quickly emerged: most days, Spradley left his office around 6:00 and drove to Indian Springs, passing by the site of the proposed MonsterMart, and occasionally stopping at the offices of Welcher and Butz. Then he would drive the five minutes back up the road to Throckmorton and park about a block away from our lab. He usually remained until Ernie and I left for the evening. Ernie and I came and went by the back door, and always took circuitous routes home. We insisted that Sandy leave his bike in the lab. One of us picked him up each morning and took him home every evening. He grumbled, but we knew from a previous incident that he was a vulnerable target on his bike. Last fall, we investigated the murder of a local professor—at the deceased’s request. We found ourselves a little bit in over our collective heads, and Sandy only narrowly missed being the second homicide victim in Throckmorton County in 80 years. We warned our ever-vigilant night concierge, George,

The Raven to expect something unusual and to go along with whatever transpired. Sure enough, Spradley soon showed up in the lobby and offered George money to “accidentally” forget to engage the intruder alarm the following evening. With a show of reluctance, George pocketed the wad of cash Spradley offered. A more intelligent man might have realized that his plans were meeting with alarmingly little resistance, but Spradley, in his arrogance, just assumed we were clueless.

now blared loudly. Ernie had rigged it to stay on even after the car was turned off and the keys removed from the ignition. I dialed 911 to report a disturbance, and we locked up and adjourned to the Monk’s Habit to celebrate. George offered to buy the first round with the money Spradley had given him. I thought he should keep it for himself, but he insisted. Our drinks had just arrived when Ernie gleefully showed me his phone. The tracking device was dutifully sending out the location of Spradley’s car: the Indian Springs police auto pound.

The next night we waited in the darkened lab with 20 or so of our closest friends. Just after dark, when we heard the door being jimmied with a crowbar, we knew we were right on track. When Spradley stepped quietly into the lab, dressed in black from head to toe, we sent George a text. From his station at the front desk, George threw the switch that locked the back door and we turned on the lights. Spradley found himself surrounded—and trapped.

“Ha! Serves him right,” Sandy gloated. Ernie chuckled. “I confess to succumbing to a touch of schadenfreude myself.” “Huh? Shadenwhat?” asked George. “You know: that sneaky little feeling of delight you sometimes get when something bad happens to someone that deserves it,” answered Ernie.

When Spradley saw that Dante was among our number, he began whimpering. I almost felt sorry for him. Now, it’s my philosophy that to do something truly harmful would only lower us to his level (or perhaps more accurately, to the level of Ronson Rummel). But we intended to send a clear message, and so we did.

George pondered this for a minute and rubbed his grizzled chin. Then he said, “I don’t think it’s schadenfreude if the guy really deserved it.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at this wisdom. “Good point,” I responded, and worried no more about it.

In a flash, Spradley was divested of his clothes except for his dingy and rather ratty tighty-whities. “Good evening, Mr. Spradley,” said George politely as we carried Spradley bodily through the lobby, with Dante in the lead.

A couple of evenings later I was at home, about to curl up with a book, when my phone rang. It’s a rare occasion when Sandy disturbs me after hours, so I reluctantly put the book aside and answered the phone. “What’s up?”

As soon as Spradley was deposited on the pavement outside, we threw his car keys after him and he sprinted (it was a rather chilly night) to his car. However, more surprises awaited him when he reached his car, which had been decorated rather…artistically. We cheered loudly when he turned on the ignition, for his horn

“Remember I told you about Levi Hawk marrying Old Man Rummel’s daughter? Something about that didn’t seem right, so I’ve been digging around. You know me, there’s few things I like better than spending

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven an afternoon rooting around in the county archives. Anyway, Ephraim Hawk, one of the guys who was killed in the elevator accident, had a brother named Owen who suddenly went from rags to riches. He bought quite a bit of property and shortly after the accident was living in a big, fancy house not far from the town square. It was his son that married Rummel’s daughter. “Sounds like the Hawk family benefited handsomely from Ephraim’s death. How’d you find this out?” I asked. “Property records are public; you’d be amazed at the information you can get from them. Unfortunately, we have to read between the lines to figure out the whys and wherefores.” “Lawsuit?” “Possibly,” replied Sandy. “But I didn’t find anything in the papers along those lines. This may surprise you, and I don’t know if it even matters, but Rummel was a judge; a well-respected pillar of the community. He was a rabid supporter of Prohibition and was instrumental in putting several bootleggers behind bars.” “And he had the financial means to ensure that things went his way in Indian Springs. Sounds a lot like his grandson.” Sandy chuckled. “I’m inclined to agree. What doesn’t make sense is that a man like Rummel doesn’t strike me as the type to countenance a marriage between his only daughter and a working man, much less go into business with him.” “I agree, it does seem odd. Hush money?” “Blackmail…that never occurred to me. That would certainly tie things together neatly. But blackmail for what?” “Finding the answer to that is going to be the tricky part.”

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“Agreed. Here’s something else I found that might be of interest: a routine follow-up report from the police archives. Attempts to locate any family of the other victim, Greenwald, came to nothing. They quizzed Greenwald’s landlady, but she had no information. She was more worried about what to do with his personal effects so she could rent out his room. According to the report, his earthly possessions consisted of a clarinet, some jazz records, and a photograph of an unidentified woman.” “I wonder what happened to that stuff.” “Says here she donated them to the church bazaar. Which might explain how a rare recording ended up in the archives at the music college. There’s one other thing—remember in that article from the newspaper in 1924 where it mentions that the Morris Building was reputed to be haunted?” “Of course. But I didn’t give it much thought—what old building isn’t rumored to be haunted?” “Well, that’s just it. That section of that block isn’t all that old, or at least it wasn’t in 1924.” “But the façade says 1888.” “I know. That’s because the façades are all that remained of the original buildings, which were destroyed by fire in 1902. Four buildings were destroyed in total. Everything behind the façades was rebuilt a few years later.” “How’d you find this out?” “In the August 1956 edition of a magazine called Small Town Adventures. The article is called “Haunted Throckmorton County” and it mentions the Morris Building specifically. Five people were killed in the 1902 fires, but that’s not even where that story started. Listen to this: ‘The earliest settlers avoided the area, having been warned away from the spot by local Indian

The Raven tribes. According to Indian folklore, angry spirits have guarded the locale since time immemorial. But the arrival of the railroad late in the last century spurred a building boom and the advice was either forgotten or ignored.’ That might explain the multiple entities. The place has some seriously bad mojo.”

me the truth was long dead. I had never considered getting involved in local politics— to be honest, I had never really paid the slightest bit of attention. But it seemed to me like we had the perfect opportunity to address an injustice from the past and perhaps prevent another wrong from happening. It was clear that Corvus had to be stopped. They had always relied on citizen apathy to push through their agenda, and until now it had worked. But that was before they went head-to-head with us.

“True. And it fits neatly into my theory that there are locations that just seem to be vortexes of paranormal energy. Anything else?” “Only that the Indian Springs Dance Club was in the building two doors down from the Morris. And it was owned by none other than old Ambrose Rummel.”

Through the efforts of Sandy’s neighborhood group and Dante’s close network of friends—and with a little help from social media—we launched a grassroots information campaign. Sandy (who is, after all, an art major) designed posters and flyers, and we took a few days off from ghost hunting to take to the streets.

“Where the Mexican restaurant is now?” “Exactly. A few years later it was raided and closed down. I bet you can guess why.” “Selling alcohol?”

The day of the zoning hearing, I considered it a good sign when we had to park several blocks away from City Hall. We got there just in time to see Ronson Rummel and Clay Hawk pushing their way through a shouting, angry mob. The mayor was there as well. I felt a surge of optimism: few things get the attention of a career politician like a sea of signs bearing slogans like “We’re Watching and We Vote”.

“Bingo!” “Sandy, I don’t know what we’d do without you.” “Me neither,” he answered cheerfully. “Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow.” That night I found myself reading and rereading the same page of my book. I finally slammed it shut in frustration. Various scenarios kept replaying themselves in my mind. Why would a man like Ambrose Rummel give the brother of his former employee substantial sums of money? Maybe Hawk came into the money by some other means. But I didn’t think so. Did Hawk know something Rummel didn’t want made public? Or was the old man just trying to assuage a guilty conscience? I finally started to drift off to sleep, then woke with a start when I realized I probably had the answer. The only problem was, the only person who could really tell

Ernie and I joined the surging crowd as it pushed forward into the council chamber. The council chamber was vast and dark and full to overflowing. There weren’t nearly enough seats, and many of our number were forced to stand in the hall outside and listen to the proceedings over the PA. Some well-meaning person had cranked up the air conditioner to full-blast. I shivered and put my jacket on. Rules of conduct for council meetings strictly forbid any kind of outbursts or unruly conduct of any kind.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven Corvus’ lawyers were careful to conduct themselves with utmost courtesy. In fact, they were polite to the point of condescension. But then Dante stood to address the council. He was dressed in a formal morning suit, complete with top hat and kid gloves, but his waistcoat was of a shimmering peacock pattern. A shocking lime green tie completed the outfit. His presentation was beautifully prepared. When he explained in eloquent detail the tax advantages of mixeduse, small footprint development over big-box sprawl, I noticed a number of commissioners nodding their heads in agreement. When he went on to explain the historical importance of the town’s downtown core, I glanced at Welcher and noticed beads of sweat forming on his brow. It certainly wasn’t because he was hot; the overflow of warm bodies was not enough to offset the artificial chill in the chambers. “Don’t worry, Margo,” said Ernie once it was all over. “We’ve got them coming and going. Did you see Commissioner Wakefield give me a thumbs up?” “No,” I said honestly. “But I saw Welcher give Rummel a high five.” “Just whistling past the graveyard. Trust me, we have this one in the bag.” “I hope so. If not, we’ve got some explaining to do. The ghosts of those guys that died in the Morris building aren’t going to forgive us if we lose this one.”

Two evenings later, I was about to settle into my comfy chair with my book and a glass of Merlot when I got a text from Ernie. Turn on TV to ch 5 was all it said. I flicked the TV on, and there was Jessica Sharpe, our local anchorwoman. Behind her was City Hall, and crowds of people chatting and milling around, looking

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

happy and relaxed. I recognized a few of them—they were some of the same people who had addressed the council at the hearing. I suddenly felt giddy although whether it was a premonition or the Merlot was hard to tell. I turned up the sound. “Good evening. This is Jessica Sharpe coming to you from City Hall in Indian Springs. In a surprise development this evening, Channel 5 news has learned that the Indian Springs zoning commission voted earlier this afternoon to deny developer Corvus Enterprises’ petition to replace a block of historical buildings on Main Street with a parking garage. The commission cited strong citizen opposition as among their reasons for denying the developer’s request. Attorneys for Corvus have vowed to fight the decision. In a related story, another major client of the developer, the MonsterMart Corporation, has decided to withdraw its highly unpopular proposal to build a retail center in the Woodlawn Historic District…” The shrill ringing of my phone interrupted Jessica’s conclusion. It was Ernie. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?” he said before I even got a chance to speak. When we went back to the office building, we took a carload of computer and audio equipment along with the usual array of EMF meters and infrared cameras. Ernie set out one of his favorite pieces of equipment, a parabolic microphone. We call it the Sonic Ear. Although it looks for all the world like a toy ray gun, it’s actually a highly sensitive piece of equipment capable of detecting the faintest of sounds. Ernie hooked it up to a recorder and a set of speakers so that we could simultaneously hear and record anything it picked up. I noticed Ernie extracting from his large duffel bag something that on closer inspection turned out to be a vintage Mac even older than Dante’s. “What’s that for?” I asked.

The Raven Ernie shrugged. “They seem to like Macs.” He turned it on and waited patiently for it to boot up. With an affectionate pat on its top, he said, “This was my first computer.”

that there are some among you who don’t welcome our presence here. But you must believe me that we have only your best interests at heart. And we have some good news for you.”

“And you’ve kept it all this time?”

“They don’t seem very talkative tonight. Maybe we need to…”

“Margo, you should know me better than that by now. Of course I kept it, and I’m happy to have found a use for it. Are you going to test out your theory?”

Ernie was interrupted by a soft electronic quack. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “You see? I knew the old Mac would come in handy. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

“I’m going to try. Are we recording?” “Everything’s all set,” he replied.

The computer’s tiny screen had come on. A smattering of primitive-looking icons was scatted across its black and white screen. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Maybe it just has a loose connection somewhere,” I said.

We dispensed with the usual check of background EMF levels and temperatures. As soon as it got dark, we turned out the lights. Ernie whispered into his voice recorder. “Ernie and Margo in the offices of Rent-a-Geek, follow-up visit. Attempting to contact resident spirits…is there anybody here with us tonight?”

Ernie seemed deeply offended. “I’ll have you know this machine is in fine working order. We just need to make things a little easier on them, that’s all.”

“If you’d like to communicate with us, we have a computer all set up for you here.”

He clicked on an icon and a program began to load. “What’s that?”

We spent a few minutes making similar entreaties, keeping an eye on the various monitors. The office was unnaturally silent for several minutes, then the energy in the room suddenly changed. The feed from the cameras in the hall showed the elevator door opening, and there was a noticeable drop in temperature.

“Text editor. Bare-bones to us nowadays, but it was quite advanced for its time.” “And you propose to use this how?” “Just humor me a minute, please. If there’s anybody here you can communicate with us by using this device—see, what’d I tell you?”

“Can you do something or say something to confirm your presence?” Ernie asked. He pointed to the Sonic Ear. “If you’ll try to talk into this device here, we might be able to hear you.”

Letters began to appear on the tiny screen: we aRE heere “How many of you are here?” I asked.

We held our breaths, waiting for any sound from the speakers attached to the Sonic Ear. Nothing.

many “Is Wilson Greenwald among you?”

I decided to try a different tactic. “Look, we understand

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven HEIs he4re “Can we talk to him?” asked Ernie. To this we received no response. “Hmm, maybe he’s shy,” Ernie commented. “I doubt it. Wilson, if you’re here, we’d like to talk to you. I think I know what happened, but you have to help us out. I don’t think that elevator accident was really an accident. Am I right?” There was no response on the computer, but I thought I heard the faintest of rustlings through the speakers attached to the Sonic Ear. Ernie shivered in the darkness next to me. “Is it just me, or did it just get cold in here?” he asked. “No, it’s not just you.” I took a deep breath and prepared myself for a wave of nausea, but it never came. “Look,” I implored, “I know it’s not pleasant to talk about, but we mean you no harm and really want to know what happened to you. We beg you to please allow Wilson to come forward.” We waited patiently, but the Mac’s screen finally went to sleep. Ernie sighed. “And we were doing so well—” With the sound of an electronic duck quacking, the little square screen flickered on. “Well, now. That’s more like it,” he said quietly to himself. “Can you do that again?” he said out loud. Quack! “You see? I told you they like communicating via computer,” said Ernie smugly. I rolled my eyes. He ignored me and continued, “Wilson, if that’s you, can you make it make that noise twice?” There was a pause, then two more electronic quacks from the little Mac.

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

“Woohoo! I knew this would work! All right, now we’re going to ask you some questions. One quack means yes, two means no. Can you manage that?” Quack! “Who are we communicating with? Are you Ephraim Hawk?” Quack! Quack! “Wilson Greenwald?” I asked. After a few seconds, we were rewarded with a single quack. “Good. Now, here’s what I think happened. I think old Mr. Rummel had something to hide…something he didn’t want people to know. Am I right?” Quack! “He wasn’t the righteous man that people thought he was. Am I right?” Quack! Ernie gave me a high-five. “Wilson, my name’s Ernie. That elevator accident wasn’t an accident, was it?” Quack! Quack! Ernie continued. “Was it because you found out something Rummel didn’t want people to know?” Quack! “Was he bootlegging?” I asked. Quack! “And you found out.” Quack! “It was no accident—you were murdered.” Quack!

The Raven “Thank you for your help,” I said. “Now we have something we want to share with you.”

I have quite possibly

A single word appeared on the Mac’s screen: teLL

the coolest job in the world. Officially, I call

“Wonderful,” Ernie said. He opened a laptop and launched a recording of the newscast from the previous evening. We listened in silence to Jessica’s report of our victory over Corvus.

myself a “research specialist.” My name is Margo Monroe and

When it was over, Ernie said quietly, “What this means is that your home is now protected. So you’re safe now, and you never have to worry about this building being torn down.”

what I really am is a ghost hunter.

We paused, and listened carefully for any sign that our message had been received. Then, suddenly and very briefly, all the monitors on all our devices dimmed just perceptibly. There was a subtle but perceptible change in the atmosphere of the room as the chill dissipated. And then I heard something. “Ernie, do you hear that?” I whispered.

and renewed his lease for five more years. The publicity that Dante got from his leadership of the neighborhood group earned him more favorable publicity than he could have imagined. Business picked up so much that he was able to buy a brand new, top-of-the-line computer. He, Thornton, and Sandy were approached by citizens’ committees in nearby communities, who asked for their help with similar campaigns against urban sprawl.

“Hear what? Oh, that.” We had to strain to hear it, but coming from the speaker attached to the Sonic Ear was the sound of cheering. The air pressure in the room seemed to change and what felt like a cold breeze washed over me. Strangely, it felt comforting and pleasant, quite unlike the previous encounters that left me shaking and nauseous.

According to Ernie’s surveillance cameras, nightly activity continued in the elevators. But Marci was thoroughly annoyed when she found out we hadn’t asked the entities to move on.

“Ernie”, I said, “I think a ghost just hugged me.”

“Why do you want them to?” I asked.

His eyebrows rose. “I think I’m going to call Tim and suggest he visit you soon.”

“They’re not hurting anything,” Ernie added. She thought about it for a minute and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

Sometimes the hardest part about the aftermath of an investigation is wrapping things up with the client.

“There haven’t been any more incidents, have there?” I wanted to know.

Dante was thrilled to have a resident ghost in his studio,

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven “Well, no, but…”

“Based on what?”

“Then you’re happy, the ghosts are happy. It’s a win-win situation. Look, we’re ghost hunters, not exorcists,” Ernie said. “They have as much right to be here as you do.”

“The fact that his brother was probably extorting money from Rummel.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Whatever.” “Well, if anything else happens, you know how to get in touch with us,” I said with a discrete tug at Ernie’s sleeve. We stopped by Sanjeev’s cubicle on the way out. He was on the phone, but gave us a friendly wave and the first smile I remember seeing from him. Later that afternoon, we drove out to Deerfield to interview a potential client about investigating a derelict hospital. “So,” I asked, “after everything that happened, was it worth getting your hair cut for?” Ernie made a show of preening in the passenger-side vanity mirror. “It’s all in a day’s work, I suppose. I think we made our point with Spradley but I’m not sure about Rummel and his cronies. Not that it matters—it’ll grow out again soon enough. There’s something I still don’t get about that case,” he said. “How would Wilson and Ephraim have found out about Rummel’s bootlegging?” “Oh, to me it’s obvious. Wilson was a musician, and he played in clubs—speakeasies. Rummel was probably supplying them with their booze. Here’s a supposed pillar of the community and outspoken supporter of Prohibition. Of course he was! He was making a fortune off of it.”

“Do you think Wilson and the Hawk brothers were friends?” “I guess we’ll never know for sure,” I replied, “but I like to think so. Did you read the article in this morning’s paper? About Corvus selling off some properties?” “Yeah, I saw that. Serves them right.” “You don’t think they’re trying to punish the good citizens of Indian Springs for rejecting their diabolical schemes?” Ernie smiled at my choice of words. “I wouldn’t put it past them, but I don’t think so. Losing that deal with MonsterMart hit Corvus pretty hard. They’re getting an awful lot of negative press lately and their stock prices are dropping like a rock.” “I almost forgot to tell you—I heard from Nora, and she got a new job. Huge raise, the whole bit.” “Where?” “At the college, in the Legal Affairs department.” “That’s wonderful,” Ernie said. “She certainly deserves it. Maybe we’ll run into her on campus. Turn left here; we’re almost there.” As we headed home after our interview that afternoon, we spotted a new MonsterMart on the outskirts of Deerfield.

“And Ephraim Hawk?”

“Let’s stop,” Ernie said.

“Well, he obviously knew something. I don’t think he was just an innocent bystander.”

“Whatever for?”

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

“I need to pick up a few things. Besides, that’s what we

The Raven fought so hard to fight down. We ought to at least have a look and see what the fuss was all about.” I conceded that he had a point, although it was with reluctance that I took the exit off the highway. After circling a parking lot the size of a football stadium, we finally found a parking space. We were steps away from the door when Ernie grabbed my arm. “What is it this time?” I snapped. “We can’t go in there.” “Are you crazy? It was your idea to come here…” He pointed toward the massive store’s entrance. There, greeting shoppers as they entered, and handing out sale flyers, was Weldon Spradley.

We met at a cemetery. He was placing flowers next to my grave. by Michelle Ray

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven

Bitches Brew by Xariffa Suarez

Magdalena Durand stirred the pot on the old wood stove in the shack on Bayou Savaugé. From atop the icebox, the radio played a jazz tune. She wiped the sweat off her face with her arm, nearly crying out in pain. Her right eye and cheekbone were swollen and black, black as the gator-filled water on a moonless night.

her purse. He’d given her an evil, disrespectful look so’s she didn’t even know him. Made the hairs on her arms stand up. He acted like she was someone else--not the one who’d raised him and cared for him no matter how hard times were. He’d once been the honey she drank and the sun she basked in, now he was one of them.

She sipped a cold Cocodrie beer, to which she’d added whiskey from the bottle she kept hidden under the stove. It eased the pain she suffered when her man was displeased with something. It was nothing she’d done, and he didn’t feel the need to tell her why she deserved to be hit. Most times, something else or somebody else had riled him, but she was his chosen form of relief. She understood how anger built up in a person like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Big Walter never missed a chance to tickle some part of her if she let him get close enough. To the men she was just a slave, to be used for cooking and washing clothes, sex and beating on.

Magdalena turned up the volume on the radio, and the music took off, surrounding her, filling the kitchen. She danced around the table, hands above her head, whipping the air. Outside on the porch that faced the water, the back porch or the front porch, depending on your point of view, her man Bodie, his papa, known in those parts as Big Walter, and her son Bo, Jr. talked their man-talk-shit about the Saints, how the fish were running, or their old broke down trucks. She heard the crush of beer cans and guessed they’d had about five each. Time to get some food into the menfolk. All three of them disrespected her, even her boy, now that he’d turned sixteen. She’d caught him stealing cash from

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

She took a big swallow of whiskey-laced beer. Her head felt like a globe someone had just spun. The music from the radio turned deeper, flowing like molasses around the room, down into the pot and out again. That Miles Davis, he knew a woman. He knew her dark soul. She danced, hips gyrating, her head floating dizzily. The horn solo spoke right to her. Do it, do it, do it, do-de wa-wa-do it. The sax, low and growling, added its point of view. You know you wanna wanna wanna do it. Into the boiling pot of potatoes, mudpuppies, corn on the cob, and spicy sausage, she added a special ingredient bought from old Mamma Jamma down the road. “Ain’t you got sumptin’ to make him a little kinder?” she’d asked the woman. “Nothin’ in this world gone make a bad man good. You

The Raven Xariffa Suarez lives in Dallas, Texas, but thinks New York, New Orleans, or Oz (The Land Of, not the prison) is probably a better fit. Through her writings, she loves exploring the dark side of life and things. Her work has appeared in Bookmarks, published by Southern Methodist University, Mad Scientist Journal, in print and digital, and in The Raven.

just got to fix him ’fore it’s too late. That’ll be ten dollars,” the old witch said, handing her a small paper bag. The music filled the kitchen leaving her no room to change her mind. She stirred faster and faster, watching the green powder dissolve in the brew. It swirled around and around, a hurricane in a pot. She dished up three heaping bowls, set them on the red and white checked tablecloth. Called to the men folk. “Ain’t you eatin’, girl?” Big Walter asked, as the men seated themselves.

kitchen all day.” She reached under the stove for the whiskey bottle. She carried it, a fresh beer, and a loaf of stale bread outside where she sat cross-legged at the end of the dock. Faint strains of the music reached her. The sun set. It wouldn’t be long now. The day’s work was almost done. A mist rose from the cypress trees, dripping Spanish moss. The night bugs banged into the dock light, and the frogs cried for love. She tossed slices of bread into the water and the gators drew near, their eyes white marbles floating on the water.

“I’m too hot to eat right now,” she said. “Been in this

Monster and alien have an unexpected encounter

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven

Room #317

will be with you shortly,” said the nurse. Her voice was soft but lacked empathy. Her face was the same - soft features, no compassion. “My body hurts and my head hurts.” “You were given an epidural,” said the nurse in a staid tone. “You’ve received medication already.” The nurse quickly checked Rosalinda’s vitals, then retreated from the room.

by Kalisha R. Eddington

A strong breeze entered the room as if to wash away the nurse’s presence. Rosalinda inhaled the fresh, wet air and used it like medicine to drift into a surface sleep. She was aware of the wind howling and the ferocious rain. She knew about the swollen raindrops ricocheting off the windowsill hitting one side of her face, body. Dull embryonic sounds inside the room and the aggressive howling and spattering noises from without filled the room, creating a near meditative state. The sounds grew louder and became words as the same nurse and a doctor entered her room.

It was a weird evening. No wind, no thunder, only cascading bolts of lightning filling the western sky and a torrential downpour. The hospital window was slightly ajar, the industrial, abstract-patterned curtains wide open, giving Rosalinda H. full witness to the spectacle outside. Not that that was her focus. She felt awful, worse than awful. She felt like dying. Her head was pounding. Her protruding abdomen hurt. And the flatness of the hospital gurney on which she lay added to her back pain. Her vision came and went, blurry one second, clear the next, then blurry again. During the clear moments, from the corner of her eye, she could see the IV dripping.

“Dr. Sanger, the patient’s blood pressure is 159/101,” the nurse reported anxiously. “The labs are poor. She is exhibiting signs of HELLP syndrome and …”

Unthinking, Rosalinda raised a hand or rather tried to. The handcuff about her wrist cut the action short. She used the other hand to rub her tired eyes and palm her forehead. They needn’t worry about me trying to escape, she thought. That was the furthest thing from her mind. The only thing she wanted to escape was her body.

“Are you a medical doctor?” asked Dr. Sanger. The nurse lowered her head. “No, sir, I am not. The patient complains of pain.” “These type of women are just seeking meds. If I had been here earlier, I would have stopped that stupid midwife from ordering an epidural,” Dr. Sanger replied viciously.

The door to hospital room # 317 opened with a soft swish. Rosalinda turned her head, noticing the nurse who entered and the guard posted outside her door. Or at least his blue polyester clad knee. The correctional officer was probably flipping through a magazine while dreaming of how he would spend his overtime pay.

The nurse began to speak but the obstetrician gave her an evil look and she closed her mouth. Dr. Sanger positioned himself at the end of Rosalinda’s bed, threw back the thin sheet covering the patient, and checked her cervix. “Seven centimeters dilated. It will be hours

“Rosalinda, I’m here to check your vitals. The doctor

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

The Raven Kalisha R. Eddington is an avid reader, advocate of binge-watching Netflix, lover of the supernatural, and a part-time writer. She resides in the American Southwest and can be reached online at Instagram.com/kalishaeddington/.

before this miscreant is born.” He turned to the nurse while stripping off gloves. “Keep monitoring the patient’s vitals.”

The guard, charge nurse, several staff nurses, and Dr. Sanger rushed into the room. Mad scrambling ensued as medical staff hooked up machines, prepped the patient, prepared medicines. The sound of glass crunching beneath their feet was barely heard above shouted commands and restarted machines.

Their voices faded as they walked out. Rosalinda closed her eyes and welcomed the sounds that didn’t berate her or her unborn child—the medical equipment and the weather.

“Code Blue,” a nurse called out.

Soon, Rosalinda was bouncing between levels of awareness, sometimes, earthbound, aware of the beep, beep, beep of the Dinamap and the pop, pop, pop of rain splashing against the windowpane and the pain, the forever pain. Other times, she felt herself floating, light of body, absent of pain, in darkness except for a distant pinpoint of light.

“CLEAR,” someone else screamed. The defibrillator sent a surge of electricity into the dead woman’s heart. At that moment, Rosalinda’s travel toward light ceased. She felt herself being pulled back to earth. In soul form, she reentered hospital room # 317 and floated in a corner of the ceiling. Rosalinda was awestruck to see a bright, radiant cord connecting her soul to her motionless body.

During her unconscious travels, her pulse grew weaker, her body, too. It became harder and harder to return from the peaceful darkness where there was no pain, no slurs, no handcuffs. Only a prick of beckoning light. With a long exhale, Rosalinda gave into the darkness. Hearing was the last sense to cease; so, the final sound she took with her was thunder. It had finally joined the lightening, wind and rain. Soon after, all hell broke loose.

From her perch, she watched as the medical staff worked diligently on her body, worked with heart and compassion to beat the code, to restart Rosalinda’s vitals. All except one. “That’s enough,” said Dr. Sanger sternly from the sideline. Slowly, the staff ceased their movements to save. The charge nurse turned to the secondary monitor connected to the baby. Strong vitals. “Prepare the baby for delivery,” she instructed. The staff began assembling the essentials for delivery.

Unbeknownst to Rosalinda, lightning struck the window at the time she decided to stay in darkness and pursue the light. Shards of glass sprayed about the room. Wind blew in savagely, knocking over the IV stand and ripping the IV from Rosalinda’s arm. The Dinamap responsible for monitoring her vitals went silent. Rosalinda’s body went still.

“I said that’s enough!” Dr. Sanger reiterated forcefully. Everyone stared at Dr. Sanger. Their actions stalled.

Issue 4 | April 2022

The Raven Just then the most peculiar thing happened. The doctor was propelled high into the air. His body hung rigid, pendulous. His voice came out in shallow grunts. “I … can’t … brea … breathe.”

The doctor’s body fell unceremoniously to the ground. He gasped for air and coughed weakly. He stood, wobbly, then administered the drugs with shaky hands.

The correctional officer bolted from the room. Everyone else remained, eyes wide, mouths slack. Only one person, a nurse, closed her eyes, crossed herself, and began praying.

A week later, Rosalinda H. opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She looked around, noting she was in a different room, a larger one with more chairs and equipment. She looked out the window, framed by opened curtains, and saw a clear blue sky. Rosalinda looked down at herself, realizing the pain, the aches, her discomfort was gone. As were the handcuffs. She turned to the left where gentle snores emanated. A nurse was fast asleep on a stiff blue recliner. Rosalinda looked to the right and for the first time noticed a hospital bassinet. She went to it, pulled back the pink blanket, and watched as her baby slept peacefully. Ignoring the guard who peeked into her room, Rosalinda smiled and cried.

In the background, thunder roared long and loudly, and seconds later, lightening flashed brighter than the overhead lights. Its long tentacles reached into the bowels of the hospital, tripping a circuit. The hospital’s power failed and all the lights, especially those in room # 317, blinked off. In the dark of the room, Rosalinda’s cord glowed gently like a delicate candle. “What the fuck?” a nurse asked, pointing needlessly in the dark at the cord that joined soul to body. The cord pulsed like a beacon, then grew brighter and brighter. The glowing light dispersed and wrapped around objects. Along one wall, it cast a shadow of a man, mouth open, screaming in agony. In between his screams, instructions, “Hee … hel … help … pp … me.” Everyone averted their attention back to the doctor. A collective gasp filled the room as Dr. Sanger began swinging back and forth, like a pendulum, in mid-air. “Hurry,” Dr. Sanger choked out. “Get four … gram … magnesium … sulfate.” The medical team shook themselves free of their shock and jumped into action. In the now day-bright light, one nurse placed a new IV in Rosalinda’s arm, another ran out of the room and returned a minute later with a bag of magnesium sulfate and labetalol. Just then, the backup generator kicked on. Artificial light engulfed the room, overcoming the spiritual light.

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Are psychics for real? We often wonder. In this edition of True Ghost Stories, our own Ann Fields takes us to a psychic party and gets a pleasant surprise.

Jell-O Shots, Mediums, and a Ghost by Ann Fields I pull up to my friend Cathy’s house with high expectations: One, she’s hosting a psychic party and I’m curious how that works. Two, I’m at a crossroads in my life and am hoping for any type of guidance. “Hey girl, good to see you.” Cathy and I air-kiss and she grabs the TV trays she asked me to bring. That leaves me to juggle the grocery sacks containing cheese, crackers, plates, and napkins. Cathy and I move into the kitchen with our loads. While we finish setting up, we chat about everything and nothing. Just as we settle on barstools and throw back a lime green, vodka Jell-O shot, the doorbell rings. Cathy welcomes the psychics and the first guest then more and more. The party is underway. Once a respectable number of people have arrived, Cathy gathers us in the living room, quiets us down, and explains how the party will go. “Upstairs are two psychics. MaryBeth is set up in my office. Susan is set up in the guest bedroom. Their web addresses are printed on the cards scattered about. Both come highly recommended.” Cathy holds up two clipboards which have sheets of paper and pens attached with chains. “You can sign up for a session with both of them or just one. Because

The Raven there are so many of us, they’re giving us a discount rate of $50 for a 20-minute session.”

don’ts Christianity preached. I rap on the door and wait. Soon the door opens and a guest walks out, smiling. I take that as a good sign and poke my head in. “Hi, I’m next. You ready for me?”

Cathy hands the clipboards to Deby, a mutual friend. “You can sign up with Deby, but you’ll pay the psychic directly. While you’re waiting your turn, please enjoy the refreshments and music and each other’s company. Also, please, no lingering upstairs. When you’re finished, come back down and, if you’re comfortable, share your experience with the rest of us. Any questions?”

“Hi, come on in. Have a seat.” MaryBeth is as warm and friendly in person as she appears on her website. She is about my age, white, a brunette, and a little chubby, not the image of psychics I’m used to—gypsy types, except Whoopie Goldberg who plays a medium in Ghost, one of my favorite movies.

Even I, who usually has a thousand questions, have none. My first psychic party? So far so good. First expectation met: I now know a thing or two about psychic parties.

“I’m Ann,” I say, sitting across the desk from MaryBeth and handing over my fifty dollars.

Like most everyone else, I pull out my cell phone and access the web addresses for both psychics. Even though MaryBeth and Susan have similar backgrounds and modalities, I am drawn to MaryBeth. Something about her wide smile and sparkling brown eyes call to me. I take the clipboard for MaryBeth’s appointments from Deby and write my name by the next available slot, in an hour. I hand the clipboard back to Deby and spend the time meeting new people, conversing with old friends, eating, drinking, and laughing. A few minutes before my appointment, I head upstairs.

MaryBeth gets right to business. “You have money coming to you.” I screw up my face, taken aback, confused. She nods at my hands. I am scratching my left palm like I’ve contracted poison ivy. She says, “Your palm is itching. That’s a sign you have money coming.” I smile. I had planned to ask MaryBeth about my financial and work future. Eight months ago, I quit my job. Since then, I’ve been writing the Great American Novel and living off unemployment and savings. Both are running out and a windfall would be sweet, an amount large enough to sustain me during the slow, very slow writing of my novel.

Deby, who hangs out downstairs during the readings, is already back at her post at the top of the stairs. “I know you know where Cathy’s office is. Just knock on the door. That’s the signal for the end of the current appointment and the start of yours.”

“Let’s see what else Spirit has to tell us.” MaryBeth closes her eyes and after a few seconds begins yawning. I look around for tarot cards, dousing rods, Rune stones, or any other psychic tools. I don’t see any. Is she sleeping? I wonder. Does she receive messages through her dreams?

I’m surprised to feel butterflies fluttering in my stomach as I take the short walk. Part nervousness, part excitement, a lot of uncertainty, I surmise. This is not just my first psychic party. It’s my first visit to a psychic. Ever. I’ve always had conflicting feelings about Christians who visit psychics. But since I recently divorced organized religion, I feel free to explore all the

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

Suddenly, the door opens and closes. MaryBeth’s eyes pop open. Both of us stare at the door. One of the guests must have opened the wrong door, I think, dismissing the interruption.

The Raven “Who is she?” MaryBeth asks.

I have no idea what else MaryBeth shares in the remaining minutes of my reading and honestly, I don’t care. Learning my family in heaven is keeping an eye on me more than meets my second expectation, guidance on whether to keep writing or return to a soul-sucking job. Writing it is!

“What?” “The lady standing next to you. Who is she?” I look around. “I don’t see anyone.” “You don’t see the lady standing right next to you? She has her hand on your shoulder.”

A knock sounds, the end of my session. I stand and hug MaryBeth and leave, feeling like I am floating, light as a feather.

I see no one. I feel nothing. I shake my head.

Later, after all the guests and psychics leave, Cathy and I clean and straighten, restoring her house to its usual pristine order. While doing so, we share our readings and toast each other’s positive outcomes by downing the last of the Jell-O shots.

“She’s elderly, short, petite. A grandmother?” “My grandmother?” I ask, knowing my grandmother had been almost six feet tall and big-boned. “She’s wearing glasses and she’s smiling.”

About two weeks later, I step onto my front porch on a beautiful winter morning. I check my mailbox and am surprised to find a check for $10,000. I rush inside the house to call the investment company who wrote the check and learn it is bonus money I earned when employed. I whoop and holler! I’m over the moon. When I finally settle down, I think about Aunt Lillian’s spiritual visit. Had her presence opened financial doors previously closed to me? After receiving several more unexpected, large checks, more than enough money to sustain me throughout the writing of my novel, I decide yes. As for the $300 buried in her back yard, it remains. It’s comforting to know the money is there just like I know Aunt Lillian is around, too.

I reverse thought and go with my paternal grandmother. Being a child of divorce, raised by a single mother, I am closer to my mother’s side of the family. I am embarrassed that I can’t remember if Grandmother Fields wore glasses, but she fit all the other descriptors. “She says she has $300 buried by the big tree behind her trailer.” “Ohhhh!” I know exactly who has come to visit me from the spirit world. Aunt Lillian! Her trailer is next door to my paternal grandmother’s house. And like many people of her generation, she didn’t trust banks and hid money in and around her house. She’d been a feisty, outspoken, little woman, kind-hearted and true. I tear up, thinking, how wonderful of Aunt Lillian to cross over to see about me. “She wants you to have the money.” I cry. I can’t feel Aunt Lillian’s presence, I can’t see with MaryBeth’s spiritual eyes, but I pat my shoulder and thank Aunt Lillian for her caring and generous spirit.

Issue 4 | April 2022

on our Radar

Radar Here’s one you won’t want to miss: The UFO Festival in Roswell, New Mexico is celebrating the 75th anniversary of the incident that put Roswell on the map. Actually the crash was 70 miles away in Corona, New Mexico, But we digress. The festival is July 1-3 and you can find out more at ufofestival.com or check out the festival on social media. www.facebook.com/roswellufofest www.instagram.com/roswellufofest/

Asha’s Awakening The sophomore Raveena Aurora

Has Anybody Tried This? We think this sounds right up our alley. This is not an endorsement of the product.—we just thought the name and packaging was so cute! Don’t you? Ghost claims to energize and help one focus. The next time it’s crunch time for our publication’s deadline, we just might try it. We’ll let you know if it lives up to its ghostly reputation.

album

Fifteen songs that tell the story of Asha, a space princess from ancient Punjab, who travels through space and time to learn and share lessons and stories of loss and love. Available at a music store near you and online.

What We’re Reading

Review of Outer Darkness by John Layman and Afu Chan by Ann Fields Would you read a graphic novel that is a smash-up of sci-fi and horror with a thread of humor running through it? If so, the first book in a 12-book series, Outer Darkness, is for you. Outer Darkness is the story of the Charon crew, which is dispatched on a search and retrieval mission to the outer darkness, a place no living or dead being wants to be. The question is not why crew members sign up for this dangerous mission. In the Galactic Service, you don’t pick your service location, teammates, or mission. You do what you’re told and hope for the best. The question is whether they will survive the treachery aboard the ship and the dangerous creatures outside the ship. Of the books I’ve read lately, this one did the best job of snagging my attention from the start and keeping me engaged. And how could it not... with a cast of characters ranging from a cocky captain, to a wily wizard, to a muddled medium who doesn’t quite get it right, to all the rest—mathematicians, exorcists, exiled gods, monsters—with way too many teeth—soldiers, and standard-issue humans? And not a stable one among the bunch, and all with hidden agendas. Jeez!

land at their feet are a major draw as well. My heart had barely recovered from one fearful, impossible situation when presented with another. Thus, my appreciation for the humor—delivered mostly by the captain—which balanced and restored my heart rate. The only low grade I would give the novel is on the opening. The story starts too abruptly. I was about ten pages in before I finally got my bearings. You may be thinking, ten pages? That’s nothing. True, except when the entire story is just 70 pages. That’s a long time to be disoriented, especially when I was trying to orient myself to an unfamiliar world. Still, once I got on board (by rereading the beginning several times), I was a willing passenger on the rest of the journey through space. I enjoyed volume one so much, I am now trying to decide when I can fit volumes two through twelve in my reading schedule. The series was published in 2019 and can be found online or at independent bookstores. If you like your reads with a Star Trek--Stephen King--Kevin Hart feel, I strongly recommend Outer Darkness. Be forewarned: you may find yourself shirking your adult duties to crawl under the sheet, turn on your flashlight, and read ‘til your eyelids droop.

The characters aren’t the only draw. The different scrapes the crew falls into, the unplanned battles waged, and the troubles that

Outer Darkness, an interstellar, rock’em, sock’em terrifying adventure!

The Raven

Speaking of Art

Why you should know about Harry Clarke Harry Clarke, unfortunately not well known these days, has something of a cult following, particularly among devotees of Edgar Allan Poe. His hauntingly macabre drawings, with their darkly Gothic take on Art Nouveau, graced the first collection dedicated specifically to Poe’s mysteries and paranormal stories.

father’s passing, Harry and his brother Walter took over the family’s successful stained glass business. Harry would go on to create more than 130 stained glass windows and gain a reputation as one of the leading figures of the Irish Arts and Crafts movement. The majority of his stained glass works are in Ireland, but others can be found as far away as Brisbane in Australia and Florida in the US.

He was born in Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day, 1889. In his teens, Harry studied stained glass design at the Metropolitan School of Art in Dublin. Upon their

Many of his works are religious in nature, but not all. For example, Bewleys Café on Grafton Street in Dublin has six of his stained glass windows. However, the future of the windows is currently uncertain. The famed coffee shop owes more than a million euros in back rent, and is in a dispute with the building’s owners over whether the windows are moveable artworks that can be sold, or part of the structure of the building. Outside of Ireland, Harry’s claim to fame was book illustrations. Harry’s style as an illustrator defied any attempt at categorization but was heavily influenced by art nouveau and the arts and crafts movement which was then gaining momentum in Britain and Ireland. Between 1915 and 1931, he illustrated six works, including an edition of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytales (1916). What sealed his reputation as a book illustrator were his illustrations for a 1919 collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories titled, Tales of Mystery and the Imagination. The Art Nouveau-inspired drawings have been called outlandish, startling, some, even

Newe Cold War. Same as the old Cold War

The Raven disturbing. The often grotesque illustrations perfectly capture the essence of Poe’s most macabre works. One can’t help but imagine that Poe would be suitably impressed. Harry would eventually illustrate for other works, including Goeth’s Faust, in which he included self-portraits of himself as Faust. These illustrations are perhaps even more disturbing than the ones in the Poe collection. Even the publisher described them as “full of stench and steaming horrors.” Like Poe, Harry’s passage to the Other Side and the afterstory are just plain weird. He was diagnosed with tuberculosis in 1923, and went to Davos, Switzerland in 1930 to seek a cure. But, sadly, as was often the case at the time, there was no real treatment. Realizing his time was near and not wanting to die so far from home, he attempted a return to Ireland. Alas, he was a little too late. He only made it as far as Chur, where he died on 6 January 1931, leaving behind a wife and three children. He was buried in the town cemetery in Chur, but his grave is now lost. His family did not understand the grave plot was only a lease for a maximum of 15 years. This is not uncommon in Switzerland. In 1946, when the family did not claim his remains, his bones were disinterred and re-buried in a communal grave. Luckily for us, his haunting illustrations are readily available on the Internet. Some of them are, perhaps, a bit disturbing, especially the illustrations for Faust as mentioned earlier. Read: discretion is advised. If the illustrations don’t bother you, perhaps you’d like prints, posters, or t-shirts… all of which are available on Etsy.

Resources https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/19/harryclarke-faust/ https://publicdomainreview.org/essay/harry-clarkeslooking-glass https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/harryclarke-s-illustrations-for-poe-s-tales-of-mystery-andimagination-1919 https://www.irishtimes.com/business/retail-andservices/ownership-of-bewley-s-stained-glasswindows-in-dispute-1.4821765

Issue 4 | April 2022

The RaVen

The Raven Issue 4

Articles inside

Ghost in the Machine, part 3

Unidentified Aerial Phenomena and the U.S. Government

On Our Radar

Dark Night of the Soul” part 2

True Ghost Stories