I’ll be writing about a number of things; primarily horror, literary and weirdly based. But it will be non-fiction content and a nice change from my imaginary world. Please subscribe to my new real life series at http://rss.suite101.com/micheleroger_writer.xml

Visit the Graveyard Rabbit Society’s site at http://www.thegraveyardrabbit.com/ They are a group dedicated to the discovery and preservation of old cemetaries and grave sites. Geneological information is also one of their forte’s.

To kick off this series, I’d like folks to consider the bad economic times as a good thing….at least if you’re in the market to buy real estate. Not only is it a good time for those with a bit of cash to invest in some property, but its a fantastic time to invest in something slightly more elusive…haunted property!

Case in point is an old farm house in my home town of Waterford, Michigan. Quaintly named “Moore House”, the Plantation style house was built just before the Depression. Residents throughout the years have described the ghost of a woman who appears in the kitchen as well as the stone wall basement. She is seen in a skirt and blouse with a apron over the top. Her hair is done up in a bun with whisps of hair falling faintly to each side. She is thought to be a mild tempered ghost with the exception of the the visitation of men that she does not like. Knives have mysteriously flown across the room, books have fallen abruptly off of shelves, pictures have fallen from their hooks and glass has shattered.

Upon research, “Mrs. Moore” as I’ve named her has an interesting back ground. Moore house was a horse ranch located along the 100 years flood plain of what was then called Drayton Plains. Mr. Moore, her husband was known for his attachment to a simple, country life sans modern conveniences of the time nor elegant decor. He was a hard man and his wife was thought saintly for her dedicated years of marriage to her husband. Roughly seven years after building Moore house, Mr. Moore died. It is unknown from what.

Following his death, those few farm wives still alive whom I interviewed said that Mrs. Moore had a sudden transformation. Refusing to sell the farm, (it was illegal for women to own property), the town expected the mourning widow to seek out a new husband. Mrs. Moore proved to be a woman ahead of her time.

Instead, she hired the stragglers and thugs of town, teenage boys who hated school to work her farm. After years of silent observation, she taught her hired crew the horse trade; often bribing them her famous homemade sugar cookies and lemonade. When the farm was running like a well oiled machine, Mrs. Moore set off to better herself. She invited other farm wives in her area to join her in a correspondance course for a degree in classical studies.

A small, Lutheran college out of Oregon offered anyone interested a degree once completeing their rigorous (and very dry) course work. The Moore house has a hidden reading nook that opens into a small room, where living members of the community said that they could see the woman reading by dim light well into the night. Mrs. Moore is said to have completed her degree, built herself a small but dignified library in her study and only invited women from town who were interested in higher education for all people. (Some of the women I interviewed were thus still put out at never receiving pne of Mrs. Moore’s prestigious invites).

Sadly, the Moore house, located in the country side of Waterford Township is in foreclosure. It’s nearly three acres and large house and barn will be up for public auction. Residents say that Mrs. Moore has been active lately, keeping her eye out for new house mates. Interested in living with the amazing ghost? Check out the realty in southeast Michigan!

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Part II
It was Christmas Eve morning when the smokey silhouette of Mrs. Stench lightly blew in through the window and appeared while Peutrice and her mother were having breakfast. “Mrs. Stench!” her mother shrieked. “You’ve no business contacting anyone telepathically at your age!”
Mrs. Stench ignored Peutrice’s mother. “I know this is highly unusual..and of all the days…” she trailed off for a moment, gathering strength. “Come quickly!” she said in a weak, far away voice. “It’s an emergency. Mr. Hawthorne will meet you at the train station and explain everything.” The old woman faded instantly and her form retreated back into the winter wind; blowing open the window as her spirit flew back to her physical body.
Without hesitation, Peutrice’s mother jumped to her feet, dragging her daughter with her as she ran up the stairs, forgetting the window. Peutrice heard dishes crash as the wicked winter breeze threw his tantrum inside the confines of the warm and cozy kitchen. Upstairs, the two quickly dressed and ran out the door, pulling their coats on as they ran down the street towards the train station. When they were safely on the last train into town for the day, Peutrice stared into her mother’s worried face. She tapped her fingers nervously wondering what kind of emergency could bring an old woman to teleport miles away to call on a neighbor on Christmas.
Ice pellets pelted the small window next to Peutrice as the train sped along the slippery metal tracks, rocking the car back and forth rhythmically. The conductor collected tickets from newcomers cheerfully, wishing them a happy holiday. When he reached for Peutrice’s, he stepped back. Her grave expression must have startled him as it hung in stark contrast to a holiday traditionally embraced by children her age.
When they arrived at the station, Mr. Hawthorne ranted. “Crazy old bat, that Mrs. Stench!” he hollered. “All in the name of helping the giant beast. Let him go wail on someone else’s doorstep, I say! Of all the days! Most year’s Christmas Eve is my busiest night at work.” He rubbed his hands together as the two in tow tried to keep up with his angry pace. “Has she any idea how many bad weather fatalities this night brings? Not to mention the homeless who often freeze to death, drinking too much whiskey and forgetting themselves on the nearest stoop. There are hundreds more family arguments, bar fights, knives and blood and beer…” he trailed off as if he were reciting his own Christmas wish list to Santa. “Has that woman any idea how much income I could lose if this takes all night?!” he added.
Peutrice tried to piece together the undertaker’s cryptic complaints as he hurried them along down Main Street. They soon arrived at the snow covered doorstep of Mrs. Stench’s townhouse. Without knocking, Mr. Hawthorn stormed in through the door and at once, Peutrice and her mother took in the scene.
Mrs. Stench was sitting on a thick, plush rug in the middle of her living room. Her house was decorated in live greenery and dried slices of citrus and cinnamon sticks. Her gaunt face and pained expression stood out in stark contrast to her festive room. Next to her sat a giant slumped over, covered in matted black hair from head to toe. One of his long claws touched Mrs. Stench on her slender shoulder. Peutrice guessed that it was at that point where the claw met her skin which made the connection. Known for her younger days as a reknowned telepath, Mrs. Stench was the human microphone for the ailing heap of monster who sat beside her. Peutrice watched as he mother and Mr. Hawthorn approached the two linked as one with caution. Peutrice’s mother seemed to whisper some kind of message to Mr. Hawthorn in a split second. The old man nodded with wide eyes and a hard gulp.
In an instant, Mrs. Stench screamed as a blur ran past Peutrice’s face. One minute, her mother had gently gone up and asked Mrs. Stench if she was all right. And in the next minute, she had whisked the fragile, old woman into her arms and away into the kitchen. To Peutrice, her mother had been a distant mystery, but the magic before her left the girl stunned. Mr. Hawthorn and Peutrice were left with the monster who let out a wail, digging his claws into the solid oak floor. Thin peels and curls wound themselves like festive paper chains as the monster dragged his claws over the floor in agony. He wailed like a banchey.
Soon the wailing was accompanied by a strange sound that resembled the grinding of pebbles and gravel under the tire of a moving car. The crackling grew louder and so did the monster’s cries. Throwing its enormous head back, a splattering of sweat sprayed across the wall as its dripping strands of hair flew into the air.
Peutrice nearly cried as she wanted desperately to help the poor creature. A loud crack was followed by an odd gurgling. A thick, slow moving fizz spilled on to the rug and floor. It wreaked of rotting eggs, burned coffee and melted plastic. Peutrice put her hand infront of her mouth and nose to prevent herself from vomiting. Kicking and foaming at the mouth, the monster thrashed about the floor. It knocked over the Christmas tree sending a thousand glass bulbs crashing to the floor. The monster upended chairs and turned over the sofa . Mr. Hawthorne froze, not knowing from which direction the next disaster might strike. Then the beast became still as if gripped by the hand of Lady Death Herself. Errupting from the monster’s innards burst a smoldering ball of flesh and blood. Mr. Hawthorn gasped and ran to the kitchen but Peutrice stayed, eyeing back and forth, the rolling blood bath and the pitiful shell of a monster taking its last breaths. The chest cavity heaved twice and then stopped short of a third. It’s giant black eyes look directly at Peutrice and then rolled back into its head, turning white and lifeless.
Peutrice looked over at the moving ball that had already begun to unravel itself with amazement. “What is it?” she whispered to the three adults peering cautiously from the kitchen door.
“No wonder she came to feed so often” remarked Mrs. Stench as she gazed sympathetically down at the monster’s corpse.
“She?” questioned Mr. Hawthorn.
“Of course” replied Peutrice’s mother. “She’s given birth before our very eyes” she said dreamily.
Peutrice knelt on the wooden floor and patted the sweaty brow of the mother monster. Tears filled her eyes and for a moment, she wanted to run out the door and shout into the Christmas Eve sky. She wanted Santa to bring her back. All she’d ever wanted was a monster for Christmas and now it was gone. She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder.
“No one could have saved her. It is the way with monsters. It’s nature’s way of making sure all the world is not over run. You were a brave girl to stay here with her. And look what she has left you as a thank you. She’s given you her baby.”
Peutrice choked as she wiped her face with her sleeve.
“I guess she just couldn’t wait for Christmas morning to give you your present” added Mr. Hawthorn.
Peutrice stood over the squirming hideous bundle for a moment. Then, taking one of Mrs. Stench’s crocheted afghans, she wrapped the slimy, stinking creature. Her tears dried, Peutrice smiled at the adults in the room. “I’ve always wanted a monster of my very own!”
“It looks as if you have one now” smiled Mrs. Stench.

Part 3
The sound of a smashing window awoke Peutrice from her deep slumber. It had been a long and stressful trip on the train during the afternoon and evening. Hiding a monster, who insisted on outgrowing Mrs. Stench’s handmade blanket by the hour, was no easy task. Peutrice and her mother had to change train cars twice during the trip to find an empty compartment where they might sit alone and watch with fascination at the metamorphosis that was taking place before their eyes.
Once home, Peutirce made the monster a bed in her room made from an old refrigerator box her father had forgotten to throw out after the move. As soon as he’d settled in and hidden himself in the safety of darkness, Peutrice collapsed in her bed and fell instantly asleep. Only the sound of breaking glass startled her from her deep sleep. She sat up with a start, afraid that her monster might be the center point of the disturbance.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Peutrice took in a quick breath. During the midnight hours, her monster had grown not into the hideous, hairy monster resembling his mother but rather something quite stunning. Sitting by her window and gazing down at the street lamp below, the moonlight glistened off of his feathered chest. His pointed nose of yesterday had grown into a beak. His feet, half hoof, half talon dug into the plush carpeting of her bedroom floor. He still had the bulky arms and yellowed claw like hands of his mother, but somehow they were less fierce in Peutrice’s opinion. As he watched the street, his face was full of expression.
Peutrice joined him at the window. Across the street, Peutrice watched as one of the girls from Lilly’s tea party was out on the snow covered lawn. She held what looked like a guitar she’d seen old cowboys play in one hand above her head while she chased an old man down the driveway. A ripple that sounded like tiny silver bells ran through the monster’s feathers as he looked at Peutrice with excitement. “Easy Jack” said Peutrice.
The monster cocked his head to once side. “You looked so happy in the box, I decided to name you Jack. You know, Jack in the Box. That’s your name.”
Jack clicked his beak a few times as if he were chewing over the sound of it in his mouth. Then, without warning, Jack grabbed Peutrice’s hand with one claw while opening up the large bederoom window with the other. Before Peutrice knew what was happening, she was falling out of the window. She screamed, but it was cut short by a near perfect landing on Jack who had landed quite gracefully into the snow and caught his mistress effortlessly. More screaming erupted from the street as Lilly’s friend Savannah continued her assault on the old man.
“I said Daisies! Can’t you get anything right? Do I look like a boy? A cow boy at that?” she yelled all the while hitting the man with the child size guitar. “Didn’t you get my letter?!”
“I, I…did” stammered the old man.
“Well, you obviously didn’t read it, because if you had, you would know that I asked for the Sunet Blue All Girl Daisy Chain Guitar set! Now take this back and get me the right one! Hurry up before you ruin my entire Christmas morning opening presents!” she screamed.
Jack stood with his eyes growing wide at each bellowed word that flew out of Savannah’s mouth. In a final act of defiance, Savannah threw the guitar at the old man. As he prepared to duck, Jack leapt onto a large, odd shaped car, just to the side of the man and caught the instrument before it hit the man square across his red and white velvet snow cap. Peutrice gasped.
“Santa?”
The old man turned to her timidly and smiled. He was everything she imagined he would be. Slight and lean, unlike his false public image, Santa was built more like a vegetarian athlete than an overweight elf. His eyes were blue and his face was lined but spirited. His hat, while red and white, looked as if it had come from a discount store while his jacket was a worn and broken in heavy canvas, suited for the work of loading and unloading cargo; much like the men wore who worked on the docks. Peutrice looked at the siimplicity and it all made sense. How else would a man who dedicated his life to acts of charitable giving dress when he went out work? Santa was a gentle soul and it shown from his work books that were worn at the toes to the his wool gloves obviously made with small stitches by someone who lovingly wanted to keep out the cold when she couldn’t be there to hold those same hands herself. Santa was an average guy doing above average work and Jack had seen fit to help him. Peutrice was suddenly filled with a pride she’d never known before.
“Good boy, Jack” she patted his back. “Good boy!”
Stepping down from the sleigh, Jack gently handed the abused guitar to Santa. Then, he walked over to Savannah and looked her deep in the face. The longer he stared into her eyes, the louder the ringing from his feathers. It was as if he were reading her mind and growing angrier at her by the second. Any normal little girl would have cowered in fear. But in an act of rebellion befitting a banchee, she glared back with a look that could kill. In a flash, Peutrice caught the change in Jack’s stance. She watched his leg muscles tighten, the crouch unfold to a leap and before she could even open her mouth in protest, it was over. Jack devoured Savannah in one giant swallow; right down to her perfect fitting Ugg Boots.
Now, at this point, you might think that this is the end of the story. Well, it certainly is for Savannah, anyhow. When you think about it, really, this story is about Peutrice and her Christmas wish. You might say her wish came true the moment she lifted Jack up and placed him in his box. For all you technical people out there, you would be correct. But, this is a Christmas story and so, there is a bit more to tell you.
Santa, being the very kind, gentle man that he was, tried to think of some way to get Savannnah from the deep, dark pit that was Jack’s stomach. He went so far as to take Peutrice and Jack all the way back to the North Pole, after, of course, he was done finishing to deliver the rest of his gifts to the children of the world. When they arrived at the North Pole, Jack was immediately whisked away to Santa’s lab (Santa was a world renowned doctor before he was Santa but that’s last year’s story). Poor Peutrice paced the sparkling floors waiting and hoping that her monster, her Jack might come through. She cared little for the ungrateful Savannah.
Two nights passed and by the following morning, the North Pole was all abuzz with rumors and hushed whispers. Peutrice couldn’t stand it as all the elves stared at her, wide eyed. She ran to the lab and burst through doors, demanding to see Jack as tears ran down her face. Before she could take in another gulp of air to hold back the large sob that was coming, she felt her feet quickly rush out from under her. Softness surrounded her and the familiar tinkling of silver bells instantly brought relief “Jack!” she shouted, throwing her arms around the monster who, it appeared had grown even bigger while he had been away. He grunted and Peutrice let go. She saw the large cut that ran down his middle and a little sadness crept in. Jack hugged her gently and she was restored.
Santa cleared his throat so as not to be rude and interrupt. A large smile spread across his face, beaming with a pride she’d not seen in him days before. “There someone else who wants to say hi too!” he announced with enthusiasm. Stepping out from behind a red velvet curtain was Savannah, or rather someone or something that sort of resembled the girl. Peutrice screwed up her face trying to smile, trying to hide her shock.
Standing in the middle of the room was Savannah dressed in clothes that could only have been some sort of hand me downs from elves who had taken pity on her. Peutrice had to hold back a laugh when she noticed to the bells on the ends of her pointy shoes; knowing full well the old Savannah never would have stood for a second in such an outfit. Santa spoke to Savannah gently, coaxing out to say hello to everyone.
Savannah stepped closer and closer. Peutirce noticed the girls rotting flesh around her mouth and down her neck. She guessed it must have been a result of sitting in Jack’s pool of stomach acid. Her hair was matted and Peutrice wondered why the elves had not helped to clean up the girl a bit more. Her fear began to change into a sense of sympathy and she patted Jack’s arm asking to be put down. Surprisingly, Jack only pulled her closer to him, refusing to relinquish her feet to the floor. Peutrice began to insist but Jack would hear none of it.
“Jack only means well” Santa explained. From his pocket, he set a small, pen like device down on a stainless steel table and back away from it. Savannah watched each of his movements with intense interest. When he’d taken his third step, a low growling erupted from Savannah’s chest and she sprang upon the old man. Landing on the tops of his shoulders, she stretched her neck and reared her head back, opening her mouth wide. Peutrice screamed, doing the only thing she could. “Jack!”
Music here
“You’re awfully wise for a young lady” Santa sighed, staring at the broken body of the zombie girl who had tried to eat Santa’s brains just hours before.
“I know you must get lonely up here, Santa. You must miss hanging out with humans. But I don’t think a zombie was a very good alternative.”
“You’re right. I just thought that if a zombie could live successfully anywhere, it would be here where the only human flesh to consume would be my own.”
“You didn’t think she’d go after you, did you?”
“No, I thought the tazer was quite unnecessary. I thought since I saved her….” He trailed off.
Peutrice tried to think of something that might comfort the lonely, kind man. “Even Dr. Frankenstein lost his creation in the end. And he was one of the greats.”
“Guess I’d better stick to toys…..” Santa sighed.
“Speaking of toys, ever thought of an interactive monster?…….”f

After a year of podcasting, a nomination for a Parsec Award and a growing following of more than 7,000 readers, “Dark Matter” is now going to paper as well as a new medium; the Kindle! Check out a preview of the book at https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1064067. You can also pre-order your copy!
Stay tuned for book signing dates and the book release party!