Thursday, October 28, 2021

A spooky tale just in time for Halloween!!

 My latest, The Conjure Supper, is out today (October 28) from Evernight Publishing! Here's a taste of the story - if you want more, follow the link and note there will be more to follow!




Twelve years ago…

The fall rains came late that year and in southwest Missouri, and the Indian Summer lingered with warm days. Neither Annie nor her cousins Catie and Macy could remember a time when the autumn trees had been brighter or prettier, but when it began raining the day before Halloween, heavy showers knocked the remaining leaves from the trees and left them bare. On October 31st, gray clouds hung low, loaded with more rain, and temperatures dropped into the forties. The weathercasters predicted the first hard frost that night and hinted at a chance for sleet. With more than a little trepidation, the girls, all sixteen, peered out from the windows of Granny’s snug home.

“Should we still do it?” Catie asked. “I didn’t know it would rain.”

“It’s just weather,” Macy replied. “I think we should go ahead with our plans.”

“Let’s do it,” Annie said. “We have everything and we’ve practiced.”

“Granny won’t like it,” Catie said.

“She won’t know. She went to that harvest supper at church,” Annie told her. “We’ll go to my house before she gets back and she’ll figure we’re at home.”

The girls were daughters of Granny’s three sons, born the same year by coincidence. Annie was the oldest in her family, Catie the youngest, and Macy an only child. Each of their dads had built a house along the narrow, rutted lane that trailed from the main road and led to Granny’s home. Although her house was a mere forty years old, the family homestead still stood in a deep hollow closer to the creek. No one had lived it in since their great-grandparents, but it remained somewhat sound. A few of the windows had been broken and some swore the place was haunted, but the girls had played there from an early age.

“What if it is witchcraft?” Catie voice the question that each had wondered at various times. “The way Granny tells the stories, it probably is and it might be dangerous.”

As if she were home, each teen recalled the way Granny had described the conjure supper, something they planned to hold on this night.

“My own Granny, she who came from Kentucky, told me about the conjure suppers. Some call them a dumb supper, not because it’s not smart—though it ain’t—but because everything is done in silence. The way she told it, the supper was a way that girls used to try to find out who they would marry. It’s an old custom, one that goes back across the waters, old even when Granny’s ancestors came across from Cornwall,” Granny had told them, weaving a story on a night when the power was out due to storms. She told the tale by the light of an old coal oil lamp that cast shadows in the room. “You do everything backward, from cooking the cakes to setting the table. Then you sit at the table and light one candle. You have twice as many chairs as girls—that way when the husbands to be arrive at midnight, there’s a chair for them to sit down. If they come, they’ll sit by the one they’ll marry someday. They have to eat the little cakes for it to work, but no one can say a thing.”

“Does it work?” Annie had asked.

“Sure, it does. Granny’s mama and her sisters did it when they were girls. Three shadow men come in, and one was her daddy, so it was said. The other two, though, they wore Confederate gray and before they left, they kissed her sisters. Ain’t supposed to touch or kiss, and it proved bad luck cause her sisters later took sick with the typhoid and they died. But Great-Granny, she married the man she saw that night, raised up seven young ‘uns, and celebrated a good fifty years together before they died.”

“Wasn’t the Civil War long over with by then?” Macy questioned.

Granny nodded, lighting an unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette, noteworthy because she only smoked when stressed. “It was by about thirty years or so but still they came. They were dead and they kissed the ones who died young. ’Twasn’t just by chance, neither. Maybe they claimed them as brides in some afterworld, in heaven or maybe hell.”

“Did you ever have one?” Catie asked.

Granny hooted, the sound dry and bitter. “Never had the courage to try it,” she told them. “Not after I heard the story about how Betty Jane Myers did it. She set out a handmade knife with a handle made from a deer antler. The man who sat beside her used it. Some years later, he showed up, a soldier out at the Army base, where the college is now. They fell in love right off, got married and had two kids. Then Betty Jane decided to tell him how they’d conjured him up and she showed him that knife. I reckon she thought he’d laugh or smile, but instead, he got mad. ‘So, it was you, then, you witch? That night I walked through hell,’ he told her.

“And he took that very knife and stabbed her, left her bleeding and near dead. She lived, though, but he had gone and she never saw him again. He took her babies with him, wherever he went to, and she was a broken woman after that. She died before she turned thirty-five years old, too.”

“So, you were too scared to try it?” Annie asked Granny.

“Too smart, I’d rather call it,” Granny said. “There’s things you ought not mess with, girls, things you’d best not conjure up.”

“But it worked out for Great-Granny, didn’t it?” Annie asked.

“You might say so but not for a lot of others.”

“I’d like to try it,” Annie said. She was twelve that year, maybe not as bright as she thought she was.

“You’d best not,” Granny said. “I’d tan your hide and if your daddy heard about such trifling with witch stuff. He’d have a fit. Promise me you won’t ever do it.”

But the lights had come back on, distracting them all and Annie never did.

“I’m doing it,” Annie told her cousins now. “I’ll do it alone if you two are chicken.”

“Why?” Catie asked.

“Because I’m curious.”

“So am I,” Macy said.

So, in the same way they had done many things over the years, sometimes dangerous, the three cousins gathered their supplies and hiked down to the old homestead house around eleven at night. They used flashlights to find their way along the path and to watch for snakes. Once there, they carried in their backpacks and lit candles on the front porch.

Their footsteps rang hollow and loud on the aged floorboards, which creaked and groaned. Most of the rooms held little furniture, but in the big kitchen, a round table large enough to seat eight people remained. So did the chairs.

Annie cleaned the table with baby wipes she brought along, then set the candle in the center. They put out a shaker of salt, then set the table with a dish at six places and silverware, laid out in reverse positions. Each of the girls did each task moving backward, which wasn’t as easy as it had sounded. They placed a cake on each plate. Without specific direction on what kind of cakes they should serve, they had decided on soul cakes, another old British tradition. More scone than cake, they were usually served on All Saints or All Souls. Since both days followed Halloween, Annie had deemed them ideal for their purpose. When they baked them, Macy had said they reminded her of the cinnamon raisin biscuits available at Hardee’s. They’d laughed then.

No one laughed now, and they were silent. They hadn’t spoken since they came down the path and wouldn’t until later. Each wore black jeans and black sweatshirt jackets. They’d pulled their hair back and pinned it up . Although they hadn’t had any idea how they should dress, black seemed appropriate.

As midnight drew near, they took seats at the table. The chairs were spaced out in pairs to make it simple to determine who sat with which one of them—if anyone came.

The rain had slackened earlier but now, as they waited without speaking, it pounded down on the old tin roof, loud and almost as if it heralded someone’s approach.

Annie listened and drew a deep breath. Although she’d wanted to do this, now she had some misgivings. The stale air in the old structure seemed to be thickening around her, and she felt as if she had to struggle for air. An invisible tension rippled through the room and she swore the fine hairs on her arms stood up with static electricity. It was far too late to bail, however, and so she sat, forcing herself to be still and quiet.

The antique grandfather clock in the front parlor, one that hadn’t worked in years and lacked the chains and pendulum to keep time, chimed out the midnight hour with twelve loud bongs. Annie counted them and shivered. Until now, she hadn’t known fear, but she tasted it, bitter and hard in her mouth.

As the last strike ended, the candle flame wavered in a sudden movement of air through the room. The back door swung open and struck the wall behind it with force. Three figures, little more than shadows, walked through it and approached the table as if driven. One by one, they chose a chair and sat down. As they did, the candlelight illuminated them.

The man who sat beside Macy had tousled blond hair, tawny and golden. A scruffy beard the same shade claimed his chin and climbed up his cheeks. His eyes were a vivid blue and his lips turned up in a smile. He reached toward Macy, but she drew back. He laughed without sound and picked up the soul cake, taking a bite.

Catie stared into the candle, as if hypnotized as a man took the chair next to her. His hair was the autumn hue of bronzed leaves, more red than gold, and he wore it long. His features were sharp, reminding Annie of a fox, intelligent yet somehow dangerous. His hands were well shaped with long fingers and he used them to lift a soul cake to his lips.

The last man was as dark as the others were fair, hair blacker than sin, eyes the same but with the face of an angel. He might well have been the handsomest man Annie could recall and when he sat beside her, something within her thrilled with recognition. He was hers and she knew it. His dark eyes met hers without blinking and in them, she saw he felt the same. Some strange passion kindled between them in the silent house, a pull as tangible as an ocean tide, and she steeled herself not to touch him. She ached to stroke him, to pull his mouth down to hers in a fiery kiss. He appeared to be tall and lean. Annie craved to be skin to skin with him. She watched as he ate the soul cake, one slow bite at a time. His eyes never left hers, and she quivered, knowing it, savoring it.

The blond man finished the cake and stood. He extended one hand and pulled Macy to her feet. Then he kissed her, his arms wrapped about her as their mouths fused together. No one spoke, but Annie sensed danger in the air. Her bones ached with the foreknowledge of doom, but she could not move to break them apart. And she shouldn’t, she thought, even if she could. Whatever was happening was beyond her control or ken.

Wind blew hard and swift through the open back door. He vanished into the darkness, the breeze extinguishing the candle. The fox-faced man with Catie bowed once, then he too disappeared as if he’d never been. Annie’s man came to his feet, but he didn’t hurry. He moved with an athletic grace. Although he didn’t try to touch her, he smiled at her in a powerful expression that claimed her heart, body, and soul.

“I will see you again,” he mouthed without sound. Then he folded his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss. She sensed the impact of the invisible caress but before she could react, he, too, was gone.


https://www.evernightpublishing.com/the-conjure-supper-by-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy

Tuesday, October 12, 2021

Story inspiration from the beauty shop

Fourteen years ago this month, I said a final farewell to my maternal grandmother, Edna Lewis Neely Roberts Ruehmekorf. She always encouraged my writing and I often wish she could see where I have gone in the years since her passing. Maybe she does.

 

In the photo Grandma is shown with my beloved Aunt Janet, who also passed in October.

From the time I scribbled a poem that ended up on the kids’ page of the St. Joseph Gazette on a Saturday morning, my maternal grandmother followed my writings with avid interest.

From the time I scribbled a poem that ended up on the kids’ page of the St. Joseph Gazette on a Saturday morning, my maternal grandmother followed my writings with avid interest.
Grandma offered praise and encouragement for my scribblings, whether they were for school, published somewhere, or shared for review. Once I entered college and set my sights on journalism, I forwarded her a copy of each campus newspaper I was involved with as well as copies of the campus literary magazines at both Crowder College and Missouri Southern. Once at least a few of my submissions began to be accepted in the broader world, I always sent Grandma a copy and she shared it with anyone she could corner.
When she visited Neosho, she always tuned in KBTN during my years there and listened avidly to hear my ads (ones I’d written and often voiced) or my weather or news broadcasts. When I once interviewed L. Ron Hubbard on a half hour program, I sent her a tape.

I always vowed I would write a novel and she believed me. Once my children were born, I spent a few years as a stay-at-home mom and I wrote. I sold a few articles to places like Backwoods Home Magazine, The Ozarks Mountaineer, Country Woman, Country Folk, and Fate. I wrote novels, one after another, and essays. When one of my essays was accepted for inclusion in a nation wide anthology from Adams Media, Classic Christmas, Grandma was delighted. The book was scheduled for an October release so I ordered a copy for my grandmother.

It arrived the day she suffered a stroke so she never saw it. When I headed home to St. Joseph, Missouri, I had the privilege of being with her at her passing. I brought the book along and I slipped it into the casket beside her, explaining to a curious cousin that it was, after all, Grandma’s copy.

I think of my grandmother often, both in May, her birth month, and in October, my birth month and that of many of her grandchildren as well as the month of her exit from this life.

Since that first Christmas anthology, I’ve had my work appear in several national anthologies and a number of my novels have been published as well. I’ve no doubt Grandma would have filled a shelf on the bookcase so she could show off my work to any company she might have entertained.

In some versions of my bio, used within book covers or on guest appearances, I sometimes mention I gained the essence of storytelling from trips with Grandma to the beauty shop for her standing Friday appointment. I listened to the ladies talk about life and love. That may well be one of the inspirations for why I write romance novels.

I think Grandma would agree.

 


 

Wednesday, October 6, 2021

The ancient holiday of Samhain, the origin of Halloween – far from evil

 

 


It’s October so as the leaves begin to turn and the nights grow cooler, Halloween looms large at the end of the month.  I remember it as a minor holiday from my childhood.  We dressed up – usually in a homemade costume that displayed both creativity and frugality – and went to a few nearby homes to say “Trick or Treat”.  We rarely went to anyone’s house unless we knew them and often ended up around the block at Granny’s house, where we took a break and helped pass out candy.  If we decorated, it was simple – a carved pumpkin, a ghost made from an old sheet or a black cat cardboard cutout picked up at the grocery store for pennies.  The next day was All Saints Day, a church observance and we began our trek toward Thanksgiving.

Somewhere along the way the holiday became much larger with spook houses and parties and horror movies and elaborate lawn decorations and more.

While I may read some horror novels, I’m not into the gory horror movies that are favored by many.  This year, Halloween – or All Hallows Eve – falls on Sunday and on Monday morning, I’ll be in church.

The last few years, I haven’t handed out treats to kids at the door and my porch light stays off. It’s not because I’m no fun but because I got tired of parents trick or treating for the three month old baby in their arms who won’t be eating the candy, the carloads or even trailer loads of kids from other neighborhoods or towns who descend like a plague of locusts, and the kids who don’t want whatever candy I’m offering but ask for something else (usually far more expensive) and throw a tantrum when it’s not available.

My children are grown – their trick or treat years long behind them.  When they were small, we had fun with it and yes, sometimes I dressed up as well.

In addition to the trend that Halloween is a major holiday and the start of the “holiday season”, there’s another thing that bothers me about the American observance of Halloween.  It’s the focus that some Christians have in calling it “the devil’s holiday” or insisting that it’s a pagan feast rooted deep in evil.

First, it’s not the holiday season – not to me. I’m old fashioned but the holidays to me are Christmas and New Year’s Day. I’ll allow Thanksgiving in as well but that’s it.

Second, Halloween comes to us from the ancient Irish Samhain (pronounced sow-in).  Samhain was the end of the harvest season and the last day of the old year.  The new year began on November 1, ushering in the dark season of winter, a hard time in the ancient world with dark, cold, and sometimes less food.

Samhain is one of the four ancient fire feasts and in the pagan days, fires were lit to observe it.

I have often had a fire myself on Samhain/Halloween, hearkening to the old ways but then I’ve also carved a turnip in the traditional Irish fashion as well as a much larger and easier pumpkin.


 

On Samhain Eve, October 31, it was believed that the veils between the worlds thinned and that the dead could walk among the living.  It was also thought that mischievous spirits, called pucas, might roam about playing a trick or two.  Most people stayed inside on Samhain Eve, close to a warm fire and enjoyed feasting and most likely drinking.

There was nothing about the devil or evil as part of it.

When the Catholic Church came along with Christianity, the Irish didn’t want to give up their festival and didn’t. Instead, after the church came up with the idea of making old pagan days into new Christian observances (which includes Christmas, my friends), they began calling Samhain All Hallows Eve.

On All Saints Day, we of the Catholic faith remember all saints and martyrs in a solemn observance in church. We remember the dead too. On November 2, we mark All Souls Day - also known as the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed and the Day of the Dead, is a day of prayer and remembrance for the souls of those who have died, which is observed by Latin Catholics and other Christian denominations annually on November 2. In Mexico, the two-day long Day of the Dead is observed as well.

Halloween as Americans celebrate it is relatively new. There was little mention of it until the early 19th century and my Granny, born in the 1890’s, remembered it only as a night where there might be a wee bit of mischief but no trick or treating.

Halloween has become a time to share ghost stories, to have a little fun, and to dress up.

For some, like me, it’s a time for reflection, the true shift into autumn or winter and a time to remember our dead.

Samhain was the holiday – it never was the name of a “god of the dead” or the devil or anything evil.

Man has created those things which if you think about that, might leave you to wonder why.

I will observe All Hallows Eve in my own way and on November 1, I will go to church to pray for the dead.

That’s it – end of story. Make it what you will but Halloween is not and has never been evil.

 


 

From the land of Oz to your own backyard

  As a young child my imagination was forever captured and my mind warped by the classic film based on Frank Baum’s book The Wizard of Oz . ...