More Things You Shouldn't Say To a Pregnant Woman: Tales from the Third Crymester

I’m. Nine. Months. Pregnant. That’s right, one month from today, I should already be holding my first baby. What a precious month of your life, you say! Relax and enjoy it, you say! It’ll all be worth it, you say. She’ll be here before you know it, you say. You’re going to miss being pregnant, you sayyyyy.

NOOOOOOOOOO! Do NOT say ANY of that, or so help me, I might drop kick you at this point.

What an ungrateful beotch, you NOW say. We’re trying to be encouraging! Coming to her shower. Buying her gifts. Listening to her complain. And we try to offer a few words of comfort and she threatens us with fancy kick moves? Rude!

Listen, I’m not trying to be a total nightmare, but I haven’t dubbed this the third ‘crymester’ for nothing either. To all the people who have said to me “It’ll all be worth it” (and that’s usually at least two per day) I know you’re just trying to help, and actually, if it makes you feel better, I couldn’t even drop kick you if I tried. In fact, I feel like I’ve watched helplessly as this whole thing spiraled out of my control to where I am now. I currently have so many complications they moved my due date up because they just aren’t going to let this go on ‘til full term. That was sad because my girl was due the same week my grandmother, my mother and I all have birthdays. It was going to be this special thing! She was our missing link! But honestly, it’s a relief, too. This experience has made me feel like a failure, a freak and a complete hypochondriac. People must think I’m totally nuts by now. Why? Well…

Health-wise, my par was starting with a genetic blood clotting disorder that may cause complications during/after delivery and a congenital fracture in the base of my spine that causes a lot of low back pain. That was just me on a normal day… you know, back before I became a walking episode of Mystery Diagnosis.

Then I started ‘showing’ by week 7. Obviously it wasn’t the baby, it was a sign of the way my body handles pregnancy… which is apparently… not well. Soon after, the first trimester had me battling the after effects of a bad car accident and crippling fatigue among all the rest of the first trimester fun. Then in the second I had weird symptoms like daily nose bleeds and bizarre vertigo episodes that made hours of my life disappear. (Spoiler alert, these were related to blood/circulation issues that would show up later!)

We failed the genetic screening and had to have extensive testing for Downs Syndrome.

We failed the glucose test for gestational diabetes and had to do the half day blood draws.

We failed the ultrasound check because of an amniotic sheath (a little membrane that comes loose from the uterine wall and can amputate baby body parts. OMG.) that required multiple follow up ultrasounds.

NOW there are two DIFFERENT major issues that made the doctors draw the line and move my due date up. Near-crisis level blood pressure landed me on high doses of BP medication, weekly non-stress tests and regular preeclampsia screens. I had to pee into a refrigerated jug for 24 hours. My ankles, hands, feet, arms are elephantine with edema.

AND, if that all wasn’t enough fun, one day I stopped being able to really walk. Um, how’s that for dramatic? I remember waking up one morning in late February because the baby had just moved in a strange way. And when I went to stand up, it suddenly felt like she weighed 100 lbs. I could only take a few steps before shooting pains ripped through my abdomen and into my… well, lady area. I went about my day thinking how weirdly uncomfortable it was. She weighed less than 3 lbs then. How could it be her?! Later that weekend, I had to do a really physical day at work. I was so sore and uncomfortable that my husband came with me. At one point, we had to make a Target run to pick something up and I tried to pit stop at the bathroom. I was feet away when suddenly, this insane pain hit. I froze in my tracks. Instant, involuntary tears. I couldn’t pick up my legs. Strangers were staring. A checkout boy looked embarrassed for me. Sean helped me into the bathroom and then into the car where I cried in agony.

Look, my pain tolerance is high. I grew up in a kitchen where burns and cuts are a way of life. My pain scale looks like this: 1-6, oh well. At 7, I’m hurting. At 8, I’m crying. At 9, I’m screaming and by 10 I’ve already passed out. This pain was in the 8-9 region, no lie. I finished the day at work, chalking it up to some really bad soreness, having slept funny, SOMETHING. Little did I know then…

It came and went for awhile. I would sit at work for awhile, forgetting all about it, then try to stand up out of my chair and get hit by a wave of pain so severe it turned my stomach. Soon, I could only go up two or three stairs before having to stop and gain the courage to take the next step. Within a week or two, I had to start sitting on the top step and scooting down one at a time on my butt. I held onto walls every time I had to walk. I got in and out of the car like my 84 year-old grandfather who just had back surgery. I would rather cut off a body part than turn over in bed. And do you know what my doctors said at multiple appointments in a row? “Yeah, pregnancy can be tough. Time and Tylenol. Hang in there, you’re almost done!”

I felt like a hypochondriac. A drama queen. Weak. Almost done? It was March. I was due June 12 and I could barely walk! I texted friends, family. Was there a point when you stopped being able to walk? Is that just part of this? Am I being a baby? I got a resounding NO from my panel and so I did the only thing I could do, I consulted my great friend, The Internet.

Symphsis Pubis Dysfunction is what I came up with, AKA Pelvic Bone Separation. Apparently, there’s a pregnancy hormone called relaxin women’s bodies release to limber up the ligaments for delivery so baby can fit through without wrecking the joint. But too much relaxin wrecks the joint. Literally. I finally asked to see a different doctor. I wrote down every symptom so I couldn’t be rushed or intimidated and read each one to her. She listened. She examined me and confirmed my suspicions. Finally, someone believed me! The baby had already descended AND my pelvic ligaments had stretched too far. My girl’s head is literally pushing my pelvic bones further apart with every day and every ounce she gains. Well, hallelujah, an answer! Validation! The OB sent me to physical therapy, recommended a brace and moved my appointments to every week.

The bad news is it’s going to get worse before it gets better. It’s honestly the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my life, and I feel it daily. The doctors and PTs said many women end up in a wheelchair or using a walker before it’s all said and done. They recommended I restrict myself and rest a lot. So I took leave and cut back to part-time, working from home because I couldn’t even get myself to and from the bathroom or up and down the stairs. (Have you ever had to explain “pubic dysfunction” to your boss? Humiliating.) My blood pressure is off the charts (partially because of the pain) and the medication is only marginally helpful. I’m basically on a bed-rest type of plan and going to deliver early to hopefully avoid full-blown preeclampsia and the organ failure that it can come with. The doctor said after this Tuesday, any time my BP rises consistently to a rate they’re not comfortable with and the medications aren’t helping, they’ll just admit me for induction. Maybe give her the steroid shot to finish maturing her lungs. That’s the plan for May right now. And it’s all just super scary.

You know, my job was so accommodating, my family is so helpful, my husband deserves to be canonized. But in spite of all that, none of this, NONE of it, is how I planned it. I look around. Every single person I see had a mother who did this. Everyone waited this amount of time. Everyone’s body handled it. Almost everyone today lives through it.

Why am I so bad at this? How could I have failed THIS hard at the most important (and natural) thing a woman can do?

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE me some royal family and think Kate Middleton is the single greatest role model for women of my generation. But last week when she stepped out 7 HOURS after having her third child, having suffered that debilitating morning sickness the entire time, looking like, well, a freaking PRINCESS, I felt worse. Her ankles were normal. She had her WEDDING RING ON. (It was Diana’s, ya’ll; it ain’t like they sized it!) I know she’s got a team. I know she’s wealthy. I know people call her Your Daggone Royal Highness. But I felt like Your Daggone Lamest Lowness.

I’m huge, I’m swollen, my nose is pregnant, my toes are pregnant. I can’t reach all of my leg to shave it. I can’t wear shoes. (Like, at all.) My lower belly has purple lightning bolts on it. Only the left side of my belly button popped. (Really?) My hands are so swollen I can’t write with a pen and so numb I can’t hold the phone to my ear or put on eyeliner straight. My mom shows people pictures of my feet when they ask how I’m doing.

People keep trying to say helpful things. Aaaand, people aren’t good at words, I’ve determined. I know they don’t know what I’m going through and that they think any words, even words that aren’t that well-thought out, show they care. But sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who really respects words for the lethal weapons they are.

The one that hits me the hardest is “It’s all going to be worth it soon, you’ll see!” It makes me feel terrible. Like, I can’t walk and the top of my head might explode, but that doesn’t mean I ever thought for one second that having a daughter wouldn’t be worth it! Do they think I’m just over here thinking, Hmmm. I’m not sure if this baby is going to end up being worth it after all. Gee, I sure wish someone would confirm that for me real quick, make me feel better? Come on. I’ve got all the guilt I can handle already without that implication, thanks.

“Relax and just enjoy being pregnant.” HA! Hahahaha! I really enjoy this. Walking is over-rated. Constant pain is fun! Crying is the BEST! Getting kicked in the bladder rocks. Wine is so unnecessary! No, people. No.

“She’ll be here before you know it.” Yeah. That’s true. So I have to literally crawl through the days ‘til then. Then I have to deliver her and I hope that doesn’t result in even worse circumstances for both of us. Then I hope my ligaments go back into place and I don’t need surgery. Then I need to consider doing all this again if I want to have another one. Which I would do in a heartbeat to give my husband a son… or another lovely daughter. Whom I already know will be “worth it.”

“What a precious time.” “You’re going to miss being pregnant!” I can’t I’ll ever agree with those statements. I DO constantly keep in mind three facts though. For us, getting pregnant was every bit as ridiculously easy as we all feared it would be back when we were 17, so I KNOW how blessed I am for that. I even was lucky enough to find someone who loved me in the right time frame to make a baby with while I was physically able. AND he stayed with me and I don’t have to do all this alone like 40% of women out there today! (If you’re a single mom, you’re a HERO to me now. Officially.)

Look, I know this baby is an incredible, undeniable gift. I would gladly scoot downstairs on my ass, be laid up in bed, bear stretch marks and cry five times a day for her. Some people never get the opportunity to suffer a pregnancy like this to bring a child into the world, or they do and that’s when the troubles just begin. And I am thankful every day that it’s me who’s suffering and not my baby girl. But, you know, I had a platform to vent and… like, pregnancy complication awareness!... and like I always say, be careful with your words and stuff. Yeah. So, that’s why I wrote this.

Meanwhile, I’ll be mostly in this bed for the month of May riding out the last Crymester and hoping to not being holding my baby at my baby shower. Text me, comment on my social media, I’m an open book, just don’t do the “Sad” reaction on Facebook, ok? It’s not sad. That’s dramatic. It’s life. And it’s temporary. So, if you know anyone who is pregnant, whether they’re having an easy time or not, say something thoughtful to them because they really need it. Women are freaking amazing. Pregnancy should be revered. Even for those skanks that can zip up their pre-pregnancy jeans on the way home from the hospital. Everyone deserves to have this unbelievably tumultuous time recognized no matter how easy or hard it was. Ok? Ok. That’s all from me then. Until next time… when I’m a mom… -Kelly

The American Locket: Sneak Preview #4: Audrey's Story: "Henrietta Freudenberger"

            Emilio Castiglione loves all of his grandchildren, but Audrey is particularly special to him. And for good reason. Audrey's got spunk, which she comes by honestly. One of her great grandmothers, the incomparable Mrs. Henrietta Freudenberger, was an acid-witted, whip-smart pioneer woman who crossed the Oregon Trail in a Conestoga wagon while expecting her first baby. But she wasn't just fighting back morning sickness and the American wilderness along the way. The modern age didn't invent dysfunctional families, and the Freudenbergers knew that first-hand. With a father-in-law with a Napoleon complex, a mother-in-law who was little more than a servant to him, and FIVE sons who couldn't stop bickering to save their lives. the Freudenbergers have their work cut out for them if they're going to band together and get to Oregon safely. As they prepare to leave Independence, Missouri, in the early spring of 1849, even their pre-trip shopping is a battle. And later, on the Trail, when they befriend a large party of pioneers called "The Donners," things get even more dire. Will Henrietta get to the Oregon Territory before the birth of her baby? Will the Freudenbergers all make it there alive?  And when it comes to being understood by the their new friends the Donner Party, just what's eating the Freudenbergers to begin with?

             This excerpt begins on Page 4 of the story after we meet Henrietta, her husband Wilhelm, and his family, which she calls by their title's acronyms: Henrietta's Father-In-Law (FIL) "Fil," Mother-In-Law, Mil, Brothers-In-Law, The Bils, two of The Bils' wives, Winnifred and Ernestine, and Henrietta's baby in the making, which she refers to as Biscuit. With that introduction, I proudly present the fourth sneak peek of The American Locket, Emilio's granddaughter Audrey's Story, "Henrietta Freudenberger."

Audrey's Story:

Henrietta Freudenberger

Independence, Missouri, America

1849

          Henrietta thought back a week to the day, April 1st, when they had stocked up the supplies before setting off. They had been at Matt’s General Store in Independence. Matt was a character. His blue eyes shown out from his little glasses and he would twitch his dark handlebar moustache mischievously at the little children in the store to make them laugh. He was kind, and so they trusted him and put faith in the supplies he led them to buying. But Matt was no pioneer in the end of the day. He was a salesman. And sold he did. They had pooled all their money and ended up with $1,350.00 in total. Fil had decided it was best not to spend it all up front. Not that Henrietta had expected any less. I’ve seen pennies downright bruised from Fil’s pinching!

            Matt welcomed them, saying, “Now, come on out here to the stockyard. That’s right. First thing you’ll need is a couple yoke of oxen! Now, there are two of these suckers,” (He smacked one hard on the behind and it bellowed and snorted and walked away.) “in a yoke. Now, I recommend at least three yoke, now. Ain’t gonna get there with less than three.”

            Fil put on his most discerning face. “How much?”

            Matt smiled. “Forty dollars. Forty bucks, here. For a yoke. Need at least three, now. You won’t get there with less.”

            Fil was dubious. “What’s the difference between getting oxen and getting cows? I’m just curious.” Did he really just ask that?

            Matt stifled a laugh. “Oxen are cows, Fred! And the difference is, well, cover your ears little lady, castration. If you know what I mean.” Matt very helpfully ran his finger across the front of his lowers and made a cutting sound. Delightful! “Now, with all due respect, now, can’t nobody make it out west in a wagon pulled by cows. Cows are girls- give milk, see? Bulls could pull you, if they wanted to, but they don’t. Can’t make ‘em listen. Got a couple a minds of their own, you know? Hahaha! What if you get stuck in a whole lotta mud, now? An ox can plow through. Cows can’t do it; bulls won’t do it. No, siree. Get you some oxen like a real pioneer.” Eureka.

            “We’ll take three.”

            “We’ll take four. Yokes, that is. Eight oxen total,” Wilhelm said, interceding. He handed Matt $160.00 right on the spot. Matt smiled, “Smart man, now. Smart son you got here! Four yokes. I’ll have my guys shoe ‘em for ya even. An ox’s got them cloven hooves, you know, two sides! So really you’re getting, well, 64 ox shoes thrown in! Hell, if that ain’t a deal, now!”

            Henrietta had just smiled and said nothing, as usual. Who put Fil in charge of this operation? And, for that matter, who gave Matt a store?

            Next, it was time for food. This was difficult. It was all just a guess. No one knew the right amount. Every voyager’s story and journey would end differently. Matt said, “Now, we’ll be doing flour, sugar, cured salt pork and coffee for you. I recommend you get, 200 pounds of food for everyone in your party. You’ve got ten, you say? That’ll be 2,000 pounds of food at $.20 a pound… so… $420.00.”

            “$400.00” Henrietta corrected him. Matt was no math scholar. Or he was a scheister.

            “Right you are, little lady! Woo-wee! She’s quick! Don’t see that very often in women.”

            What a charmer you are, Matt!

            Fil nearly cried, but dished out $400.00, and they moved on to clothing. This was getting more and more difficult and costly. Two sets of warm clothing per person, Matt said, and each set was $10.00 in his store. That would be $200.00, Matt. Don’t try to get clever. On to ammunition. Henrietta watched in amusement as the blood drained from Fil’s face, a drop, it seemed, for every dollar he was being forced to spend. “Oh, I don’t know that we’ll be needing much ammunition.” That’s because you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

            Friedrich Freudenberger was a lot of things, but a marksman, he was not. He could build things, and to be sure, he made a show out of everything he ever made because he thrived on attention and recognition, but he honestly couldn’t hunt, couldn’t fish, couldn’t shoot to save his life. He was rotund as they came and avoided any tasks that would illuminate his shortcomings. Thank goodness at least two-fifths of his sons were capable of manning up with a gun and feeding the brood.

            “Why… not need much ammo? Listen now, Fred, you’re gonna need some ammo! You won’t last long without relying on hunting for most of your food.”

            Wilhelm looked concerned. “How many bullets in a box, Matt?” he asked.

            Matt replied, “Twenty.”

            “We’ll take five for now. We can always buy more at stops along the way.” Will handed Matt ten more dollars. And Fil died a little more with every cent. He was going to need a second life by the time Matt was done with him. Next they bought spare wagon parts; two wheels, two axles and two tongues. Their Conestoga was big and it was going to be carrying a lot of weight and a lot of stress along the way. Best be prepared.

            Sixty-dollars worth of preparedness later, the father-in-law Friedrich “Fil” Freudenberger and company were stocked and ready to light out on the Oregon Trail. They had spent $830.00 in all, which left them with $520.00 left. Fil was distraught, but Henrietta thought that number sounded promising. Wilhelm’s face showed that he agreed. They were well supplied, but they also had over a third of their money left for the trip.

            Matt, of Matt’s General Store, was lighting his pipe as they left. He puffed his cheeks in and out, cursing the match for burning his thumb. “Well now, looks like you’re ready to start. Good luck!” he yelled. “You’ll need it! You have a long and difficult journey ahead of you!”

            That Matt is such a comfort… They loaded the wagon, yoked up the oxen and set off for the unchartered American West via The Oregon Trail.

LATER THAT SUMMER …

            “Fog’s gettin’ awful, ain’t it?” a man from a neighboring wagon train called to Fil. Everyone had just stopped to make camp for the night because the fog was too deep to see more than a few feet through. Henrietta inspected this band of pioneers as Fil shouted his response. Their wagon was massive. It had two stories! And there were over three dozen people in their party it seemed. Dismounting from the driver’s seat, their leader walked over to the Freudenberger camp.

            “Name’s Freudenberger,” Fil said, extending his hand.

            “Donner. George Donner.”

            From what Henrietta could gather, George Donner was a farmer from Springfield, Illinois, in this early sixties with a whole slew of family along for the ride. “This’s my wife, Tamzene, and our kids, Frances, Georgia, Eliza, Elitha and Leanna.”

            Hmm… Elitha? Like, Frantheth, Georgia, Elytha, Elitha and Leanna? Yeth? Well, then Elitha, meet Bithkit.

            “And that’s my brother Jacob Donner, his wife Elizabeth, and their kids, Mary, George, Isaac, Samuel, Lewis, Solomon and William.” Doggone. That’s a lot of kids. “You got a wife, Froyberger?”

            “Freudenberger. Yes, my wife Mildred is in the wagon. She’s a bit under the weather. But that’s my eldest Wilhelm and his wife Henrietta” (and Bithkit) “and then that’s Johann and his wife Ernestine, and over there is Dietrich and his wife Winifred then Ulrich and Rudolf.”

            “Mighty pleased to meet you. Looks like we might wake up to some tough conditions if the fog keeps up,” Mr. Donner said. “We’ll make the most of it though. Can’t go trudging off into the clouds and expect to get anywhere. This trail’s about survival. Gotta do whatever it takes. Ain’t always a pretty shake.”

            “That’s for sure,” Fil said, but it was obvious he was uncomfortable. “We FreuDENbergers have a way of doing things though, and we like to stick to our methods. Because things always work out if you just do a thing right the first time.”

            “Gotta be flexible, though, you know? Say, do you all need anything? Your party’s small. Any way we can trade or help out?”

            To Henrietta, George Donner seemed like a real pioneer. A smart, savvy man who was generous to boot. She hoped Fil wouldn’t think he was offering charity and be overtaken by pride and shut him out in the cold. To her surprise, he admitted they were well stocked with everything but food, and some trades were made. Will met Jacob and some of the Donner Party’s older sons, and they made some plans to do a bit of trading with the other wagons if the fog was too thick yet by morning to move on, which it was. After a day laid up in the thickest of fogs, 100 more pounds of bear meat was added to the Freudenberger wagon through trade, and a new friendship with the Donners was officially struck up. Fil and George Donner agreed that they might do well to stick together on the trail for awhile, so now they had neighbors. What a fine example of the pioneer spirit! And someone other than a Freudenberger to talk to!

***

            “She’s sick. She can’t even get up. And he’s completely unconcerned,” Henrietta said, literally digging in her heels. The line of Bils all looked at their boots, and the wives said nothing. “Are we going to tell him we need to stay here and rest for a few days?” No one spoke. She was growing impatient… and emotional in her condition. “Wilhelm?” He just looked at her, confused and scared.

            “Fine. FIL!” she bellowed, heading toward the campfire. Chasing after her, Wilhelm called her name, but it was too late. Friedrich looked up from his work poking the fire coals into perfectly symmetrical piles. “Is something wrong?” he asked, displeased at her tone.

            “Yes, something is wrong. Mil…Mildred is sick. Sicker than anyone seems to want to admit. There’s not much of a rash, but she’s burning up. She has barely eaten in days. She can’t even stand.”

            “It seems as if you’re upset about this,” he said, calmly, sternly. You don’t intimidate me, Fil. She glared and then said, “Yes, I’m upset about this. My husband’s mother is dying and no one else will tell you we need to rest here for a few days. So I will.”

            Friedrich Freudenberger looked at his son. “Are you going to stand there and let your wife speak to your father this way?” He was clearly more afraid that she was right than angry that she was speaking out.

            “Father, Hattie is right in saying that mother is…” but Will never got to finish.

            “Well, say no more,” Fil said, his red hair flaming bright in the glow of the fire. “If your wife says we need to sit around and lose time on the trail, then we all bend. We raised you to be a man, not to let a woman wear the pants! And let me tell you something, little lady. I don’t know what kind of father raised you to 15! Any girl capable of the kind of insubordination you just showed the head of this family was obviously raised by parents just as manipulative and melodramatic as you are… being… right now.”

            He’s not even man enough to sling an insult! What kind of parents raised me, Fil? How about ones that immigrated here from Munich, destitute and impoverished and starving so that I could have a better, more promising, more peaceful life? How about a father that would never teach his children to be elitist and obnoxious and rude? How about a father that didn’t treat women (or even servants!) like they were lowly, brainless possessions? She thought all of these things and said none of them out of respect for her husband, but she felt terrible knowing the baby probably caught the surge of anger exploding inside her.

            Henrietta Wagner Freudenberger just sighed in her sadness, helplessness, hunger, frustration and exhaustion. Placing a hand over her stomach, she said quietly, “I don’t care what you say against my family. I just want to help yours. Mildred is sick. We need to camp here for another day.” She looked at her husband.

            “She is right,” he managed to say. Golly, what a lionheart this one is!

***

            Mil’s fever was at least lower when they started back out; luckily the Donners had lent them some aspirin tablets to help lower it to a safer range so they could travel again. Now to catch up to them! It had been work enough to convince Fil, Will, the Bils and the Dils that Mil was ill!

            It was the Fourth of July by the time the Green River came into view, 57 miles outside of the South Pass camp. Henrietta looked up at the stars that dark July night. Some boys from a nearby camp were lighting off small firecrackers in an open field. She watched the colorful explosions they created and thought of the baby that was within her. Life was about to change so dramatically. This baby, no matter its gender, its name, its birthday, would be its own kind of firework, an explosion of talents, a light in the dark itself. Her daughter or her son, would one day be her “sun.” As the boys laughed and chased each other through the grass and lit their tributes to the independence of this young nation which they now traversed, Henrietta looked up at the sky and thanked the Lord right on the spot for all she had been given in this wonderful life. But more than anything, for this little baby, this spark, this “sun”. The now trick is going to be keeping us all alive long enough to see it dawn on us.

***

THANK YOU SO MUCH for your interest in the previews of my second novel, The American Locket. It has been the most intense labor of love for me, and like Henrietta, when the time comes in a few months for my other kind of labor of love, I am honored to have your love and support to get me through. Please feel free to like and comment on this post and please, please SHARE away on social media, as it helps my cause so much. It's still a dream of mine to work to support my family through my writing, and it's friends like you that make dream that a possibility. Love you all- Kelly

The American Locket: Sneak Preview #3: Emilio's Story: "Elianora Astoria Bestia"

What's your superpower? The thing you're better at than anyone else? The gift you have that you can't explain where it came from or how or when you acquired it? Elianora Astoria has a talent so unfathomable and inexplicable that even SHE doesn't believe in it. And yet she's managed to stay alive all these years. I'll tell you a secret. The people of Ancient Rome credit Elianora will a certain gift, but her truest gift is an unwavering faith. But can faith alone keep you alive in the face of extreme danger? You'll have to read to find out. Let me take you back to Ancient Rome in the year 79AD where family and faith were sometimes truly the only things to live for. 

Elianora Astoria Bestia  

Roma, Senatus Populusque Romanum

79 A.D.

                     Favor in Rome, thought Elianora Astoria Bestia as she sat in the warm Roman sun looking into the imperial Farnese Gardens, is like a flower; if the sun and gentle rain fall upon it, it can bloom and grow beautiful and strong, but one storm, encroaching weed or careless boot can end it all.

            And if she had had her choice, Elianora would not have chosen to be a delicate Roman flower at all.

Her eyes lingered on the cypress trees and the way they towered over the blooming hyacinths and marigolds, narcissi and violets, casting their looming shadows over the colorful blossoms, and she felt the chill of the shade herself. In Rome, it seemed, everyone stood in someone else’s shadow, and everyone fought for their place in the sun. Elianora had come across hers quite by accident, and nothing had ever been the same since. There were times when she felt that she didn’t belong here, in the palace and in the court. There were times when she felt, deep down, that long ago she had been planted in someone else’s garden entirely. But once you were planted in the Emperor’s garden, there was only one way out.

            The tears were slipping down her cheeks now, and the warm summer breeze was doing its best to dry them up before they fell onto the stone window ledge of the imperial palace. It had only been a week. But without him, it had been the longest week of her life. The image played over and over in her mind… Opening the door. Seeing him slumped at the table, the chalice still in his hand, the purple stain of poisoned wine still on his lips. They should have seen it coming. They should have been more careful. She should have been making his dinner, and it never would have happened. But none of that mattered now; there was no bringing him back. Her husband, Vibius’s life was squelched by poison at the hands of an unknown enemy, whose thirst was not for wine, but for power.

            As a cloud moved over the garden, throwing it into shadow, the baby cried out in the room behind her. Elianora went to her little son, picked him up, and held him close to her heart. His tears stopped instantaneously, and he fell back to sleep in her arms. She rocked her sleeping child and gazed out into the gardens once again, wondering what kind of world she had brought this little baby into. Someone in this cutthroat court had murdered his father, who had been a prominent senator. But Elianora herself, was too low-born to remain untouched in the position Vibius had secured for them. Surely, the new emperor, Titus, was just giving her a few days to grieve before he ousted her and the child from their home and took away their land. He had no reason to let them stay in the palace complex; they had nothing to contribute.

            Well, that wasn’t entirely true, Elianora reasoned as she rocked Marcus in her arms. There was one special gift that had kept her on the radar in Rome for most of her life. It wasn’t even a gift, really, it was… dumb luck. But it had worked so far. And now, she thought, as she stood at the window looking down into the arena of the Roman Forum, if there was any hope to keep herself and Marcus safe and provided for, she was going to have to do it again… and hope her luck hadn’t run out quite yet.

            Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Who is there?” she asked through the door as Marcus fussed in her arms.

            “It is I,” came a gentle, giggling voice. Elianora smiled for the first time all day and opened the door.

            “How are you faring?” Septima asked her friend, this time with more solemnity. “I can barely think lest my thoughts settle on you.”

            Elianora laid Marcus down in his cradle and embraced her friend. “I am as well as I can be. You are thoughtful for visiting, Septima. Will you sit for awhile?”

            “No, I must not stay. I fear that the cause for my visit is not purely social.”

            “Oh?”

            “They are planning another one. It is to occur in eight days.”

            “Surely they are not expecting me to… But I have just lost my husband! How am I to endure all of this?”

            “I do not know. I was told that Emperor Titus wants to see it for himself. He was away fighting when his father called upon you, and he has heard it is a wonder, what you can do. And I fear, well, that it was Vibius’ murder that has brought your name up in the first place.”

            “We are in the hands of brutal maniacs. I have no choice in this matter?”

            “You do not.”

            “Septima, with Vibius gone,” Elianora started, as her eyes welled up again, “if I do not… could I count on you to…” But she couldn’t even finish the question. She just gestured at the cradle that held the entirety of her world and looked back expectantly at her only true friend.

            Touched, Septima reached out and cupped Elianora’s face in her hands. “It would be my honor to raise the son of two as great as you and Vibius. However, that will not be necessary, I am certain. You are special. And the gods favor you. Surely, all will be well.”

            “Thank you for your kindness,” Elianora said. “And for your warning.”

            “Of course. Now I must go. I am not supposed to be here.”

            When the door shut behind Septima, Elianora stepped to her son’s cradle and peered down into it. Marcus slept peacefully, unaware of the pact that was just made over him. Elianora was fearful, but not surprised. She had hoped this new emperor, Titus, would be less sadistic and cruel than his predecessors. But sadism and cruelty seemed to be required traits for Roman emperors. He would be as the rest. Like the others, the people would probably come to loathe his despotism and relentless taxation and yet adore him for the techniques he used to distract them from them. The great emperors’ plans for the people: panem et circensus. Free bread and circuses to prevent revolt.

            The previous emperor, Vespasian, who was Titus’ father, had been fascinated by her gift and had called on her multiple times. And as the tail-end ruler in the year 69, which was called the “year of four emperors”- a terrible time of bloodshed and wickedness in the Empire where the throne turned over four times in a year- Vespasian hadn’t been the only one. Emperors Vitellius, Otho and Galba had been just the same. Blood-thirsty. Ruthless. Drunk with power. And enthralled with Elianora’s talent. And, of course, it had all begun with the great and terrible Nero, who discovered her gift himself one day. It was a day she nearly died. And it was also a day she made the move from a slave girl to becoming the newest and most fragile flower in the Emperor’s garden.           

***

            “Romans! Behold!” Nero had once shouted unto the people, years and years before Septima’s warning to Elianora. The day’s gladiator tournament was underway already. The entire crowd at the Roman Forum’s arena was silent as, with bated breath, they awaited Emperor Nero’s cue for the entertainment to continue. A maniacal dictator, Nero had murdered and pillaged his way to Rome’s supreme world domination. He was untouchable, the most powerful, fearsome man on Earth. There was no telling what he would do, and the people brought their curiosity for the salacious to each and every free public event he held. There had already been much gladiatorial spectacle at the Forum that afternoon.

            The equites fought first. They had entered on horseback, thrown their lances and then dismounted to finish the battle with their long swords. This day, both were badly injured, so the match was called a draw and ended. The silly andabatae came next, hooded and blind-folded and swinging their swords comically as they were pushed closer and closer together as the Romans laughed. The dimachaeri fought each other with their double swords after that, and one was badly injured and not expected to live. The crowd went wild with delight.

            Then the essedari rode in on their war chariots and pummeled each other near to bits. The people remained unsatisfied, though no real quantity of blood had been spilled. And where were the venatores and the bestiarii who slayed, or were slayed by, the wild animals? Was there to be no good entertainment today in Nero’s free show? The Romans waited in anticipation of what their emperor was going to introduce next.

            “People of Rome! Today, a treat!” Nero roared. “You Romans have heard of the rebellion by the Jews, the people of the east who have come to our lands, but refuse to believe in our gods!” Boos came from the crowd at this. “Now we are learning that they would try to rise up against the Roman Empire- against me! I looked the other way at their strange customs of worship, however, I cannot ignore their revolt!”

            The Romans cheered with jingoism for their powerful ruler. “There are even some Jews who think they have found a new god. A man named Jesus Christ, a Jewish leader, whom they said was a king of men, a living god on earth- when he was alive!” Laughter exploded from the masses at Nero’s antagonism. “Romans, should not I be called divine, myself?” More cheers.

            “After all, I have fought in wars! I have slain great, exotic beasts! I have conquered lands and people without mercy! No Jesus Christ did those things! But I have! Am I not a god among men, my people?” And the Romans roared their agreement. “Today, we will witness a match of great power. We have a man… Where is this man?” Nero asked, looking about impatiently. On the dusty Forum floor, a man in shackles was led into the center of the arena. He had no armor, no weapon; he was attired only in a dingy loincloth, his hair matted and filthy.

            “Look at this mighty gladiator!” Nero declared, clearly on a roll. “He is a Jew- more than a Jew, even! He calls himself, can you believe, a ‘Christian!’ But I call him… our next contender!”

            The crowd of highly entertained slaves, soldiers, plebs, senators and patricians alike hooted and hissed and laughed at the man in the center of the arena. Nero had them in his palm when he asked them, “Shall we meet his opponent?” Screams from the people clearly voiced their excitement at seeing who would enter the ring next. “Bring him in!” the Roman Emperor ordered.

            People craned their necks and rose from their seats gawking in all directions for the first glimpse at the opposing gladiator. Would he be a veteran killer so heavily armored and armed that the man wouldn’t stand a chance? Would he be a slasher? A net fighter? A bowman?

            From a side entrance, a door swung wide. A large square vessel covered with a tarp was rolled out and placed next to the man. “Christian!” Nero shouted, his joy spilling over in his tone. “Remove that cloth and face your gladiator!”

            People were shocked when the man, unflinching and without hesitation, grabbed the cloth and pulled it back. The crowd gasped. In the cage was a huge male lion, which roared at him in fear and frustration. From a safe place in the stands, a servant with a hooked pole unhinged the cage. The lion roared again at its facing enemy, and began to step out of the cage. But the man stood his ground. When the lion was out, the two opponents simply stared at each other, mere feet between them, as Nero crossed his arms and stood back smiling, watching the nail-biting scenario he had staged. The people went silent. Unexpectedly, nothing happened.

            Nero wasn’t having it. “Christian!” he bellowed again. “Take a step toward your opponent! Show him that you are not afraid.” The man didn’t do it though; he seemed too terrified to move. “Come, man! Will your god not protect you? Have you no faith? Show the Romans you believe! Go forth!” The crowd surged with noise and energy once more, and the distracted lion looked around at the spectators. 

            After a few seconds of hesitation, the man did step forward, and when he did, he fell to his knees, folded his hands and pressed them to his forehead. It was clear that the lion did not know what to make of this. It swatted, and the man fell to his side in the dirt, huge bloody gashes appearing on his arms and chest where the beast had connected. Romans cheered loudly from the stands, but grew silent as the beast made its second approach. It sniffed at its foe, and when it caught wind of his iron-rich blood, it snarled. It swatted again, and the man screamed aloud, and when he did, the cat began to maul him. Not wanting to miss a moment, the crowd watched in quiet anticipation as the man tried in vain to fight off the lion, crying, screaming, begging and praying as his body was being shredded. Nero was enthralled until, suddenly, a scream came from the stands. Down by the gate there was a baby. It wailed louder, it seemed, than anyone had ever heard a baby cry before. The lion stopped, and, looking to the stands, began to walk away from the bloody man and toward the crying child.

            “Go after him, Christianius!” Nero called sarcastically, but the man remained on the ground crying and sobbing and calling out something unintelligible to the emperor. Unable to fathom how a crying baby had distracted a lion mid-kill, he leaned into his advisor. “What does he say?” he asked.

            “He is speaking the Hebrew language. He is saying, ‘My daughter.’ Yes. That is what he cries, ‘My daughter, my daughter. Lord, you save me with her help.’ The crying one must be his.”

            The lion stood at the edge of the arena, watching the baby as it screamed. The people were confused. They booed and hissed. Some stuck their thumbs up, some stuck them down. But despite their racket, the baby screamed on as the man crawled to the far side of the ring calling his prayers of thanksgiving to his God all the way.

            None of this was going according to the Emperor’s plan, and as he made his way through the crowd and down the stands, Nero- apparently riled- yelled out, “Woman! Woman! Shut that child up! This man is a traitor to Rome and you interfere with my execution of him!”

            The woman, obviously the man in the arena’s wife, turned her tear-stained face to her emperor, as the child continued to scream. When he had reached her, Nero, the great leader of the entire Roman Empire, yanked the baby from her hands and dangled it over the edge of the arena.

            “Noooo!” the woman screamed, and Nero turned his face back to her and smiled before he dropped the baby into the arena at the bloody paws of the lion.

            The Romans were shocked at this. They had known Nero to be a despot, but this was unthinkable. When Nero stepped back from the edge, he turned and slapped the mother across the face.

            He said, “You do not speak to your Emperor in that way! I would do well to drop you in there too, but as I am feeling generous today, I shall not. You shall watch instead.”

            The stunned woman could only cry as she looked on. Back in the arena, the man had begun to move as soon as he saw his tiny daughter being dangled over the rim. Despite his injuries, he ran to the baby girl, scooped her up in his arms and began to run back to the far side of the ring. The crowd cheered, but the lion was already in pursuit. Running straight into the wooden wall of the Forum’s arena, the man sank to the ground, shielding his child, helpless and hopeless as a man could be. The lion approached, and the father and daughter cowered together in each other’s arms. Emperor Nero, and the rest of the Romans leaned in to see the bloodbath.

            Strangely, the great beast with its bloodstained paws and fearsome fangs, stopped its charge a few feet from them. It seemed to study them cowering against that wall for a second, and then walked calmly right up to them and sniffed at the baby, who sat silent and blood-covered in her father’s arms. Spellbound, the spectators waited for the worst. The lion opened its terrifying jaws, taking the baby girl’s head in its mouth.

            “No! No!” the Christian man pleaded with the monstrous animal as it pulled his daughter out of his arms. And that is when the miracle happened.

            Her head between its teeth, the lion carried the baby to the middle of the arena. It set her down in the sand. Then it laid down next to her.

            The audience held its breath. But baby Elianora was smiling now. She cooed at the lion who lounged next to her in a lazy, protective sort of way.

            “Shhhhh!” her father warned from the wall, but his fear seemed unmerited. The lion… was it sleeping? No one watching could believe what they were seeing! Sweet baby Elianora looked over at her father and clapped her little hands and giggled at him.

            Well, that was all the Romans needed to see. They went wild, cheering and laughing and tearing up and exclaiming their relief to each other. Normally, when they came to the Forum it was to watch people fight and die. Execution by animal was a regular occurrence, but this time their hearts were warmed.

            “Let them live!” they shouted at Nero. “The child tames lions!” and “Free the Christian!” and “A fine beast!” Were being called out as well. But Nero never had cared for a happy ending.

            “Fetch me my bow!” he roared over the din, and when his bow and quiver were presented to him, he lined an arrow up right at the Christian man in the ring, who laid slumped against the arena wall, bloodied and panting from exhaustion- his daughter guarded by a sleeping lion as Rome looked on. He could only submit as his emperor was about to personally execute him.

            “Christianius!” Nero said mockingly, as he aimed at the man. “Was it my gods or yours who saved your daughter?”

            The man was silent a second; he heaved a deep breath, and then he called back to his king, “It was mine. My God sent His Son to die so that we may live. So must He also have sent my daughter today to save us so that I could live.”

            Nero sneered, but the Romans jumped from their seats cheering for this answer, this bravery, this man, this family, the power of this new God.

            “What is your name, Christian. Tell us what to write on your tomb!”

            The man summoned all his strength. He stood. With great pains, he ambled past the lion to his daughter and picked her up. Then he said, “I am Lucius Astorius Cordus. And this is Elianora Astoria. She is a miracle and a child of God.”

            Nero squinted his eyes and lowered his bow a bit. Now, let it be known that Nero didn’t care about the sacrilege of the Roman god Jupiter. He cared about bad karma as a result of the sacrilege of Jupiter. People knew that, and in the stands, the Romans waited to see what he would say to this brave Christian’s retort. He didn’t disappoint.

            “You, Astorius Cordus, because of your miraculous daughter are a free man today. You take with you a gladiator’s pay, as you seem to have bested the beast.” Cheers and whoops exploded from the crowd, and then Nero spoke again. “Your daughter needs a third name so that all of Rome may know of her gift. Henceforth, she is to be Elianora Astoria Bestia.”

            Bestia. Like an animal, or beast. It was the perfect added nickname for the little lion tamer. The spectators erupted with more cheers of approval, unable to fathom the heart that their ruthless emperor was showing this day.

            “Yes, Romans, yes. I have good in me. I can see a miracle for what it is. This girl is special. That is why she will come and stay with me in my court. Elianora Astoria Bestia, now a member of the Imperial Court of Nero Claudius Ceasar Augustus Germanicus! WHAT SAY YOU, ROMANS?”

            The roar of the crowd shook the very bones of the Roman Forum with that pronouncement. Everyone was pleased. Except Lucius and his wife, who knew that while they had to give up their baby girl, that she was getting an opportunity slaves like them could only dream of.

            “Bring her to the palace!” Nero shouted amid the cheers, but as Lucius made to walk out of the arena with his daughter in his arms, the sleeping lion awoke.

            It stood, looking longingly after the baby as the two begin to exit, and Nero, like the true Roman Emperor he was, lifted his bow and shot the kindhearted lion straight through the chest.

Baby Elianora survived to adulthood, meaning she must have gotten lucky more than just once inside the arena of the Roman Forum, and later, the Coliseum. But, how long will her luck last? Is there an opponent who can best Bestia?

Thank you for reading this excerpt from Emilio's Story: Elianora Astoria Bestia. It is another one of my favorites- a story that speaks to my personal faith and truly moved me as I created it. Stay tuned next week for the last sneak peek from The American Locket. It's such a joy to share these with you.  -Kelly

The American Locket: Sneak Preview #2: Miles' Story: "Elias Hayes"

I hope you enjoyed last week's offering, Rose's Story: "John Henry James" an excerpt of historical mystery set during the Revolutionary War. For my second unveiling, I wanted to share a story for all the horror/sci-fi buffs out there. While last week's protagonist was a Patriot with important friends and a righteous mission, this week's lead... isn't. You see, we'd like to think all our ancestors were good guys, but that isn't feasible. Long before the modern conveniences we enjoy today, our predecessors grew up in a dog-eat-dog world, and the main character of this week's story, Elias Hayes, was one of the outliers of the family tree.

In 19th century Edinburgh, Scotland, there were The Haves and The Have-Nots and Elias was a hopeless Have Not. As a night watchman at a graveyard, Elias is truly stuck in a dead-end job. But one night he gets an offer he can't refuse from the most diabolical doctor in town. You see, there's some bad business afoot in Edinburgh and local savvy entrepreneurs have started doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons. With medical science exploding in popularity all over the city, brilliant medical minds are learning more than ever about human anatomy, but the only way to learn is to get hands on with the corpses of those who have donated their bodies to science. But a low supply and a high demand create the need for more bodies... and, thus, more body snatchers. Tempted into the unthinkable, Elias Hayes reluctantly becomes a body snatcher, but when murder enters the mix, where will Elias draw the line? I now give you, Miles' Story: "Elias Hayes."

Miles' Story: Part II

Elias Hayes

Edinburgh, Scotland

1828 AD

            “Excuse me, sir? My name is Dr. Robert Greene. I was wondering, are you the only night watchman on duty this evening?” Greene asked, stepping up to the stone security booth of Edinburgh’s Greyfriar’s Cemetery.

            “Why ‘es, sir. I am. I’m ‘ere every night. Elias Hayes, sir. ‘Ow can I ‘elp you?”

            “Yes, Mr. Hayes. Do you happen to know if there were any burials that took place here in the churchyard- or what do they call them here in Scotland, the kirkyard?- yesterday or today?”

            “Why ‘es, sir. A woman was interred ‘ere jus’ this mornin’. Jus’ over there.”

            “Were you here for it?”

            “No, sir. M’ friend Bart Clark was though. E’s the daytime watchman.”

            “Say, Mr. Hayes, if you don’t mind me asking, does this job pay well? I know that’s an awfully forward question for a stranger, but I was wondering if you might not like to make a bit more money for your troubles since you’re something of a night owl anyway?”

***

            “Oolrigh’ then, Elias?”

            “’m oolrigh’,” Elias had called back in a shaky voice from beneath a growing heap of wet earth. But he was only partially alright. His head ached and his stomach was doing flip flops in his belly. Who could blame it? The two exchanged nervous glances as they dug, the smell of dirt and earthworms penetrating their cold, dripping noses. A light rain began to fall from the black night sky.

            “Looks li’ we’re ‘bout to ‘ave ourselves a lan’slide, Bart,” Elias said. “Jus’ a bi’ furthah.”

The rain drops struck the tombstones and the cold Scottish dampness chilled the men to their very bones as they dug into the mud. The two jerked with a start as a crow cried a soggy, solitary caw a few graves away.

            “Bloody bird! I’ve a splitting ‘eadache already! So wha’ we going to do if she’s not ‘ool in one piece then?” Bart asked nervously with a yellow smile that faded all too quickly from his snuff-stained teeth to be so casual.

            “Dunno. Guess we’ll jus’ pick up the pieces, and be on with her then,” Elias smiled. Grave robbing was an ugly business, he thought, but it beat the task that doctor would be put to when they got the body back to the lab.

            “Cutting up corpses. Wha’ a righ’ mess of an occupation!” Elias snickered under his hot breath; a cloud of steam formed. It was getting colder and wetter. The cemetery’s night watchman may be around soon. A loud “clink” brought Elias’s mind back to dark, damp reality. Bart leered over Elias’s shoulder and the two threw their digging spades aside and jumped into the deep hole. A few swipes at the residual dirt uncovered the wooden coffin below them. It groaned under the weight of their bodies.

            “Coas’ clear, Bart?” Elias called as he began to pry the lid. Bart craned his neck to see over the piles of dirt. “Yeah. Looks li’ … Hold on. My word, Elias. There’s a woman. I think she sawr us!”

            “Wha’ are you on aboutchu blubbering lug?” But Elias realized that Bart’s eyes were not playing tricks on him. An old woman was walking towards them. She had long braided white hair and wore a gray dress. The men saw her coming and ducked for cover hoping they had not been seen. Bart peered out again after a few moments and the woman was upon them. The grave robbers both scrambled to their feet.

            “We were just…we…” Bart stammered.

            “Better bend than break,” the old woman said pleasantly. It was an old Scottish adage that she had spoken. Her face looked kindly enough. Was she the night watchman’s wife? Was she a distraught recent widow here to visit a grave? Bart and Elias looked at each other.

            “Uh. Yeah,” Elias replied, hesitantly.

            “Right?” the old woman asked inquisitively. “Better bend… than break?”

            “Sure,” Bart offered. “Listen, mum, i’s righ’ cold ou’ ‘ere an’…”

            “Better bend…” the old woman whispered, and she stepped behind a large angel’s statue and out of view. At that moment, Bart fell to the lid of the coffin yelling in pain.

            “M’ leg!” he shouted. Elias dropped to his knees to help his friend. When they looked up again, they were completely alone.

            “Ow! What was she on about? Oi, ow!” Bart said, seething with pain.

            “Dunno,” Elias replied. “She was a strange old bat, for sure, walking ‘round a graveyard alone. It’s almos’ midnigh’! Maybe twas a sign tha’ we shouldn’ be ‘ere! Le’s get you back to the doctor. He can fix whatever’s wrong with yeh leg, but ‘elp me get this body ou’ firs’.”

            The two men couldn’t open the wooden coffin lid, so they bashed it to splinters instead. Steam rose off their backs as they labored in the cold and the rain. Elias grabbed a sack and threw it over the body as they hoisted it out of the grave, Bart working one-legged. They looked around wondering where the woman had gone who said so strange a thing in a graveyard.

            Elias supported Bart as they shouldered the weight of the body and the three hobbled to the edge of the cemetery where the horses were tied outside the kirkyard. The stallions snorted and pawed the ground fiercely in anticipation, their hardened hooves clanking off the cobblestones.

            “Dirty deeds,” Elias admitted through gritted teeth, as they hoisted the limp body into the wooden wheelbarrow.

            “Indeed,” Bart sniggered. He painfully mounted the steed he would ride ahead on, as lookout.

            “Chk, chk, Brom Bones,” Bart whispered. “We go’ a body to deliv’r.”

***

            The still death-shrouded body hit the table with a loud thud, which made Elias’ headache worse. He and Bart stood shaking with damp and cold as the candles in the basement laboratory flickered around them. “Where did you get it?” Greene asked.

            “Greyfriar’s, of course. Uh, doc,” Bart simpered through his pain. “’ow ‘bout looking at me leg? Fair bit o’ pain, I’m in. I ‘urt it when…”

            “When we realized ‘ow late it was gettin’,” Elias finished. He looked cross at Bart, who seemed to get the message.

            “Yeah, right, I um, fell.. and could you just check on me leg?” Dr. Greene, to whom mending broken legs was laughable, looked annoyed, but reluctantly agreed. 

            “Here. Drink this for the pain,” he said, handing Bart a cup. “And here. I won’t wait for you to complain about your back pain again, either,” he said, handing a cup of relief to Elias as well. “Now, take that sack off it while I’m doing this,” Greene snapped. He pulled up Bart’s trouser leg as Elias untied the rope on the body’s shroud.

            “Broken. How on earth did you snap your infernal tibia?” he asked.

            “Wha’s a ruddy tibia?” Bart answered, wincing in pain as the doctor began to set his leg.

            Elias yanked and pulled at the burlap that covered the frigid corpse. He yelled, horrified, all at once, and leapt away from the table. Startled, Bart and the doctor both jumped, resulting in Bart screaming in pain, “Wartch it, doc!”

            Elias just stared at the table and slowly stepped backwards away from it. When Bart turned, he was equally horrified by the sight.

            “Blimey,” he said. “It’s ‘er.” The flickering candlelight illuminated the bluish-gray face of the corpse. It was the woman they’d spoken to in the graveyard, and their blood ran cold moments later when Greene revealed that she, too, suffered from a broken tibia.

“Better bend than break.”

***

            “I need another one,” Dr. Robert Greene said to the backsides of his two young grave-robbing henchmen. Bart and Elias groaned groggily from the hard stone floor of the Edinburgh University dissection lab.

            “Wha’s tha', doc? We jus’ got you one,” Bart moaned, still delirious with sleep. Elias was startled. What for? It wasn’t even light out yet. 

            “Exactly what I said, you oaf. I need another body. Tonight!” Dr. Greene shouted impatiently. He slammed the heavy wooden door of the laboratory.

            Elias sighed, sitting up and brushing the greasy dark hair from his eyes. He was at eye level with what was left of the creepy woman’s corpse. Organs floated in jars. The smell was… unpleasant. Wax was melted onto the table from a candle that had burned clear down to the wick.

            Apparently, Dr. Greene had worked on through the night, his counterparts passing out on the floor nearby. Even though Elias and Bart weren’t exactly used to luxury, waking up to this was a shocking eye-opener. Elias shook the last traces of sleep from his clouded mind.

            “And ‘ere I though’ ‘e was bringin’ us breakfas’ in bed!” Bart rolled over laughing a disgusting, slimy laugh.

            “Well, you’re off the ‘ook. Broken leg and all. Bu’ where am I gonna ge’ another one yet?”

            “Dunno,” Bart replied, straightening himself up and meanwhile coming face to gruesome face with the dissected corpse. “Think the ol’ bat’s got ‘erself a ‘usband?”

***

            “Edgar, I’ve go’ a proposition for you,” Elias said to his younger brother. The boy was just 15, but tall and strong and as capable as any man. Elias’s green eyes met Edgar’s. He was going to have to tell it quick. Like pulling off a bandage.

            “Stealing bodies?” Edgar exclaimed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Why?”

            “Twelve guineas apiece. Tha’s why.”

            “Blimey!”

            “Blimey’s righ’. But to answer your question, the docs in the medical school cut ‘em up. See how they tick, you know? Makin’ all kindsa discov’ries, they say. I say they’re a lo’ of nutters lockin’ ‘emselfs up in the dark and cutting blokes open, but they pays well.”

            An hour later, Elias, who was still not recovered physically or mentally from the night before, and his younger brother, Edgar Hayes, were on their way to the Edinburgh Vaults to meet with a man named McGee who had a few hot tips on “freshies.” Not to be put behind schedule, Dr. Greene had coordinated the meeting between Elias and McGee since it was costing him time and money to have one of his snatchers laid low with a broken leg. On their way to the Vaults, little brother Edgar had a lot of questions.

            “Why’d we gotta dig ‘em up, ‘Lias?”

            “Well, they can’t rightly cut up live ones, now can they?”

            “But I though’ only the criminals go’ sold to the schools to ge’ cu’ up!”

            Edgar was right about that. The bodies of Edinburgh’s truly sinister convicted criminals were often condemned not only to death, but also to dissection, and the practice worked as something of a crime deterrent.

            “Well, Scots mus’ be straightenin’ themselfs ou’, see? No’ as many being condemned anymore. Them docs go through convicts right quick. Even ‘em poorhouse chaps and the blokes what die in the asylum… all of ‘em get donated to the medical schools. But it’s never ‘nough for all the docs that do the cuttin’ up. An’ they do this all over. Even in London. I know a fella what sells to Oxford and Cambridge! But them are the types what always wants more, what can I say? Greene pays me well for my services, and anyone willing to pay so well can be my boss any day. Now listen. After we meet McGee at the Vaults, we’re headin’ back to Greyfriars. To the Potter’s Field section of the kirkyard. Tha’s where they bury ‘em poor paupers no one cares about. No grave markers even. Just a field a dead people. Tha’s my drill. Scout the cemeteries lookin’ for a funeral, go back at night and dig ‘em up.”

            “Brilliant! I think I might like this, ‘Lias!”

            “Let’s hope no’, then…”

***

            Elias and Edgar had just arrived at South Bridge where a man called Derby McGee was waiting to take them to a place Elias had never been- deep below the city of Edinburgh and into the legendary South Bridge Vaults.

            “McGee?”

            “Hayes? Follow me. Who’s ‘at?”

            “M’ brother.”

            “Lit’le young. Very well. Come on then.”

            Elias’ head pounded as they followed McGee around one of the towers of the bridge, trailing him as he passed through a wrought iron gate and into a stone corridor. They were inside the bridge itself now as McGee ushered them through heavy wooden door beyond which was a dark stone staircase that appeared to be so long and so deep that it could very well have descended into hell itself. Edgar looked to his brother with trepidation, and a pang of unease shot through Elias at Edgar’s concerned expression. This was no business for a boy. What had he been thinking?

            “You comin’ or not?” McGee shot back at them as he stepped deeper into the Scottish earth, his tiny lantern being the only source of light or warmth. Until.

            They rounded a bend. In front of their eyes, an endless labyrinth sprawled in the dank, dark depths. Elias gawked, stopped in his tracks by the sight that seemed to go on and on and on. It was all made of stone and there were countless hundreds of tiny stalls lined up inside the corridor. Some were storage units, filled with myriad items. Everything from furniture to wooden crates to chests of clothing. Other stalls were rooms squatters inhabited, featuring entire families asleep in piles of straw, right then in the middle of the daytime. Surely these were some of Edinburgh’s lowliest, most destitute dregs of society. There were stalls outside of which scantily clad women stood. They beckoned at the passing men slowly, their missing teeth, pasty hunger-panged frames and the rancid smell of whiskey and vomit only luring in the most desperate of customers.

            A sweet smell emanated from other booths yet… heady, smoky, deep… Passing by, Elias could see men and women in various states of dress and undress sprawled on exotically patterned cushions on the floor. Some were passed out, others smoking from a long pipe, all seemingly completely unaware that there even was a world around them.

            Banging and hammering and cutting sounds came from other units where cobblers and hatters worked on their wares. In the darkness, people would dart from one stall into another, only shadows left in their wake. The Edinburgh Vaults were Scotland’s biggest rat’s nest and these people were its ugliest, most sinister vermin.

            “In here,” McGee said finally, after it seemed as if they had been walking for miles through the debauchery. “Mr. McMasters, this is Elias Hayes and his brother.”

            McMasters sat the dark room in a wooden chair. His fine, expensive suit was a dark forest green, his bald-top rotunda of curly hair was redder than fire, his skin a sallow yellow, his teeth brown and rotten and his light green eyes watered in the smoky air. He looked like a deranged clown in a real nice suit. He cut to the chase. “Who do you contract with?”

            “Dr. Robert Greene.”

            “Unfortunate. He’s talented, as the rumors go, but he’s not liked anywhere in Britain. Bit of a rotter, most say. For a young chap.”

            “I don’ much like him m’self.”

            “You need a body for him tonight?” he asked, and Elias nodded. “I know two lads name of Burke and Hare who get the job done. For a small cut, I’ll get you in with them.”

            “Greene’s go’ enough to make it worth the while. He does surg’ries in the medical school’s operating theatre. He buys the bodies from us for 12 guineas apiece and charges all his students 3 guineas each to watch him perform the surg’ries.”

            “What a greedy blighter. How many students he got?”

            “Fifty.”

            “He’s making a hundred and fifty guineas a night?”

            “Tha’s righ’.”

            Wiley old Duffy McMasters just shook his head. His wheels were visibly turning. “Greedy bastard. Might be time for us to take a cut on him then. We be the ones doin’ the dissectin’. That is, if you blokes don't mind your hands getting a little... bloodier than normal. Wha' you say?”

***

The Hayes boys are obviously in over their heads. Will Elias let his young brother stay caught up in the underworld life? And as for Elias himself, is his conscience gone for good?

There is a subplot that weaves its way around this story. It's that of Dr. Greene's paramour, Arabella Ainsley and her father, Edinburgh's most brilliant surgeon (and Greene's boss). When some disappearances begin to happen, Greene finds himself in trouble and Elias is left "holding the bag," one might say. You do not want to miss the rest of this story and all the snatching, murder, ghostly encounters and intrigue that go along with it. I hope you liked this sneak peek and I can't wait to share more with you! As always, your likes, comments and shares here and on social media go a LONG way in helping me get the word out, and I appreciate all of you who read and help me share. I've got a story from every genre in this book. What would you like to read next week? Thank you to you all. -Kelly

The American Locket: Sneak Preview #1 - Rose's Story: "John Henry James"

As The American Locket opens, we find family patriarch Emilio Castiglione looking down upon his funeral luncheon from Heaven as his family mourns his passing. But as they tell stories about him and learn never-before known facts about his life, he is above learning that there was much more to his "life" than just the eight decades he spent on earth. In heaven, Emilio discovers that within every person (and, more expansively, within every family) lies the secrets of the ages- the concept that in our souls we all harbor a little piece of every ancestor from whom we have descended- a part of them that is eternal, immortal. But who are these people? To Emilio, part of heaven means finding that out. But a family doesn't begin and end with one person's history!

After the death of his first wife, Andriana who emigrated to America from the same little Italian town he did, Emilio remarries a woman of German and Great British decent named Rose. Unbeknownst to her, many of Rose's ancestors have been Americans from the very earliest days in our nation's history. In fact, one of her great grandfathers played an integral role in a period of American history that, you could say, was quite... revolutionary. 

I figured that to preview a book called The American Locket, why not start with the most patriotic story? It is my pleasure and honor to share with you today a small piece of Rose's Story: "John Henry James" in the sincerest hope that you like it and will share your thoughts with me. Enjoy. 

Rose's Story:

John Henry James

Boston, Massachusetts

1773 AD

            “It’s so bloody dark, Sam. How’re we supposed to make our way through?”

            “Faith, John Henry. Allow your faith in our mission to guide you…” Sam whispered, “and quit stepping all over my damn feet with those obscene clodhoppers! What proper Indian wears English boots with his loincloth, I ask you?”

            “What proper Indian shows up to a political protest forgetting to bring a lantern? And smelling like a brewery!”

            “I did not forget the lanterns! Hancock forgot the lanterns! And I will have you know that I have more than once encountered an Indian who has smelled of brewery. Two, I think. Yes, at least two.”

            “Enough, you children! Keep your voices down!” John Hancock yelled, clearly perturbed by Sam’s lantern accusation. After all, it was Sam Adams who was supposedly the leader of these Sons of Liberty and, thus, in charge of this secret mission… and its lanterns. But John Henry James was right about two things. Sam Adams did, indeed, smell like a walking mug of beer tonight, and sometimes that was the norm. Few could blame him. Every man has his passions, and for Samuel Adams, those passions were liberty and lager- interests that often went hand in hand for him. The other astute observation was that it was quite dark that night and cold as hell in Boston Harbour. Especially for a group of patriots dressed up as Mohawk natives.

            “Alright, you lot of radicals. Let’s do what we came here to do, and I’ll meet you all ‘round the pub again at midnight,” Sam Adams said, smiling at his compatriots. They were as ungainly a bunch of Indians as Boston Harbour had ever seen, standing there looking mischievously at each other, white, pasty and hairy in their buckskin loincloths in the cold Massachusetts night air.

            “In all utter seriousness though,” Paul began, solemnly, emotionally. But Sam Adams started to laugh and John Henry James released a snicker along with his friend.

            “Oh, here he goes once again,” Sam chortled, impatiently. “Tell us, Paul. Tell us about the importance of this mission and the impact it shall one day have on ol’ King George and his treatment of his New World subjects. Because I, for one, am in no certain hurry to return to my britches and beer.”

            Even John Hancock had to laugh. So did Isaiah Thomas and Ben Edes and James Swan and Joseph Warren and Thomas Young and the other Sons of Liberty- they all laughed in spite of themselves as they stood dressed up in Indian costumes upon the deck of the British import ship that listed unsettlingly in the frigid New England waters.

            “Well then,” Paul Revere sniffed, defensively. “I do not mean to keep you men from your pants and your pints. Or whatever you’ve said!” He said it like a snotty little girl whose… tea party was being rushed.

            John Henry James looked at his haughty friend Paul Revere. He reached out and laid a hand upon Revere’s bare shoulder. The chuckles fell away, but the smiles remained.

            “Paul, we know. This night we make history. We rise up for what we believe in and for the country we’ve fought to create. Tonight King George will learn that in America we will not allow our hard-earned money to be taken and our voices to be silenced.”

            The men were quiet at John Henry’s thoughtful words.  He grinned at Paul Revere and at the rest of the Sons of Liberty.  Sam Adams smacked John Henry on his bare back. “Hear, hear! Now, Revere, if you’re done pouting, be a good lad and help me hoist this chest to sink their damn British tea to the bottom of Boston Harbour!”

            Paul Revere smiled and aided John Henry James in lifting the chest up over the ship’s rail. They released it and a second later, the Sons heard the most fantastic splash as the symbol of America’s monarchial oppression sunk deeper and deeper into the drink.

            From the hold, another group of disguised men hauled more giant chests of East India brand tea up from below, and one by one, the horde of angry colonists tossed them over board. Headdresses flapped in the wind, loincloths blew about, the curse words flew, but there was no violence at all. Although, there was a fair bit of testosterone-fueled yelling. A right bit of preening. And even a touch of malice.

            “Take that, Georgie boy!” 

            “Tax THIS!” 

            “Freedom for America!” 

            “Rise up!” 

            “Give me liberty or give me death!” (Revere wanted ol’ Patrick Henry to be there in spirit.)    These were some of the protest cries that sounded through the Bostonian air that night as some 340 chests of heavily taxed British tea were tossed into the sea. But there was one cry that was much more refined and poignant. In fact, it had come to be the rallying cry that led to this incident. There, on a British trade ship in Boston Harbour, the trio of Paul Revere, John Hancock and Sam Adams heaved the very last tea chest from the ship’s hold together and said the Sons of Liberty’s motto in unison: “No taxation without representation.” And they threw the last chest overboard.

            As they watched it sink, they all stood silent. Hopefully this was the beginning of the end, they thought, but they knew it wasn’t. After going into debt for a costly war with France for custody of North America, the victorious British decided the American colonies needed to pay their share of the debts. After all, the colonies were still British territories and were being offered trade and protection by their motherland. Why shouldn’t they pay?

            But to be charged heinously expensive taxes on British goods with no American representative being invited to join the British Parliament? No American voice was allowed to weigh in on the laws governing America? That was not justice, it was not fair trade, and it was not diplomacy at all. It was tyranny. And tonight was the first time the colonists had truly fought back. England would hear their message, and the message was this: You tell us we can only buy British tea and then you tax it to death? You want to tariff our own goods so steeply that we cannot afford them? You want to look down on us because we still stand for the very freedoms that made us leave you to begin with? Well, here’s what we think of you, your government, your “protection,” your goods, your taxes, and your damn tea. Welcome to the Boston Tea Party.

***

            When he was not half-naked dumping tea into Boston Harbour, John Henry James was a postman. His beginnings were as humble as he was. Like his most accomplished and influential friend Benjamin Franklin, John Henry was the son of a candlemaker. The seventh son, to be precise; whereas Franklin had been the 10th. But he had not yet risen through the ranks in the American colonies to quite the acclaim Franklin had.

            As such, the other Tea Partyists- Revere, Hancock, Adams and the nameless rest- liked John Henry James, however, because he was a truly good and decent man. He was an excellent postman, a loving husband and a devoted father to his six children Nellie, Robert, Wade, Eli, Theodosia and Abigail. In fact, his life was something of an American Dream in and of itself. Living on the outskirts of the colonial hotbed of excitement, Boston, and participating in the raucous nightly pub discussions of freedom, liberty and independence that were the sentiments in vogue at the present, John Henry James was an American Patriot on his way to making a name for himself somewhere in the annals of history.

            After all, he wasn’t just any postman, although he had started out that way. These days he had become something else... a spy, to be exact.

***

LATER IN THE STORY, the Revolution has begun and the Sons of Liberty worry the Brits might be getting wise to John Henry James' letter intercepting. So they send him to a local eccentric genius and fellow Patriot who has just the trick to keep the Redcoats in the dark...

***

“Do you see this coin?” Franklin began, but looking up, quickly bit his lip. “John Henry, listen. I feel that you are a small child at a candy counter at present, and I find it distracting and exhausting.”

            “My apologies, I… oh my word! What does this do?!”

            “Put that down.” Franklin frowned at John Henry. But the inventor’s face was distorted to John Henry’s eyes, because he was viewing it through a large magnifying glass that was strapped on a flexible wire and attached to Franklin’s head. John Henry reached out, curious at the springy-ness of the wires. “How did you…”

            “I assure you,” Ben Franklin muttered quietly to the tiny screwdriver he was using, “he does not want to touch that wire. Tsk, tsk, tsk. No sir, he most… certainly… does… not.” John Henry, who had pulled his rogue hand back at the warning also stepped back from the table to avoid further temptation. He stood with his hands folded, an innocent smile upon his face. For a moment.

            “It is finished,” Franklin said, seemingly to himself, right before the crash sounded. He looked up once more at John Henry who had knocked over a large copper pot that he should not have been touching.

“Nothing!” he said, to Franklin. “Nothing! Nothing happened!” He replaced the pot, nearly knocking over a glass instrument as he did. “It is fine! All fine!”

            The inventor sighed and wiped at his large, magnified right eye. He removed the head strap with the magnifying glass on it and replaced his homemade bifocals. “I shall start again. Do you see this coin?”

            “Yes! Yes. I see that coin.”

            “Well, good. Because it is not a coin. Look.” He ran his fingernail around the rim and the front of the coin popped open, suspended on a tiny, nearly invisible hinge. John Henry James’ eyes grew wide. “It is a vessel!”

            “Indeed. An unsuspecting, glorified envelope.” He handed it to the mailman.

            “Is that parchment inside?” John Henry asked, pulling a tiny, folded piece of paper out of the coin. And Ben Franklin smiled. “Why, no. It’s more. It is a letter.”

            John Henry turned the small paper over and over in his hands, but it appeared to be blank. Franklin smiled again, clearly pleased by how easily impressed the messenger was, and at the drama of the situation. He held the piece of paper near the candle’s flame. Is he going to burn it? What am I missing? John Henry thought, but felt too stupid in the presence of this grandfatherly genius to ask out loud.  After a few seconds near the flame, words began to appear on the paper. The postman gasped. “How? How did you do that?”

            “My dear, dear, John Henry, this is the first lesson you shall have in never doubting the limitless power of American ingenuity.”

***

I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek of Rose's Story: "John Henry James."  Please come back next week because if espionage and history aren't your thing, I've still got a story in this book for you to love! Horror, romance, action and comedy are all fully loaded in The American Locket, and I can't wait to share more stories with you! Thank you SO much for reading. Please, comment away!!! -Kelly

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted without the express permission of the author, excepting properly accredited social media sharing for promotional or social purposes. Copyright 2017/2018 Kelly Morris Dreher

Fear In The French Quarter: My Own First-Hand Ghost Encounter

Do you believe in ghosts? The paranormal? Possession? Any of that stuff? There are a ton of elements that probably factor into your opinion on all of it and whether or not you believe. There are also likely a million different pools of thought out there about “what happens” after we die. Most of us give the accepted religious answers when asked such questions, but what about the gray area of it all? Do our spirits die? Can they linger? Does the transition between this world and the next, whatever that may be, ever go wrong? And just why do we, the living, find death to be such a fascinating topic anyway?

A few years ago, during a Spring Break from teaching, my husband and I travelled to the quirkiest, spookiest city in the US, and possibly the world- New Orleans, Louisiana. While in good ole NOLA, I had an experience that pretty much solidified my belief in ghosts. Let’s rap about that super fun night, shall we? Lemme see if I can tell it without peeing my pants…

My husband and I were living in Tennessee at the time and New Orleans was only nine hours away. Yeah, I know. Nine isn’t that close. But we had always wanted to see the city and that was as good a time as any- in March it wouldn’t be too hot yet, and we unfathomably both had the time off work, so we made the drive. Not a bad drive. Although it appeared that Tuscaloosa was fully on fire when we passed through. Is it always like that? That Adele song “Set Fire To The Rain” was popular at the time and came on the radio. We changed the lyrics and sang it with a lisp. “Thet fiiiiyahh! To Tuthcaloothaaaa!”

Anywyay…

We arrived in soggy New Orleans in the midst of a downpour, pulling up outside of our bed and breakfast, The Royal Barracks Guest House as the storm quickened the clouds above us. The place was small and tucked away on one of the back, residential streets.

We’d wanted to stay in the French Quarter, but we were… on a budget… and mostly there for the food, the music and the gallon-sized frozen daiquiris made with grain alcohol that you can drink on while walking down the street. We didn’t care about hotel stars. We cared about shrimp po’ boys and daiquiris, okay? Cheap was fine with us.

Leaving the car on the adorably quaint French Quarter street of inside to see about check in, we opened the door.

An eccentric seeming woman, dressed all in white, greeted us. A black poodle sat on the counter nearby. The lady gave us a key, checked us in to our reservation and then she said, “Princess will show you to your room now.”

We turned around. What princess?

The dog, inexplicably, was standing at the screen door now, barking at us to follow her. Haha, we laughed. Ok… But really tho…

“I’ll be by later. Princess will show you around the place. Let her know if you need anything.”

She wasn’t kidding and this poodle was getting impatient. We followed her. Princess led us down the stairs, through the outdoor courtyard, around the back, up more stairs and to our room. Ok.

She showed us the bathroom and the bedroom of this teeny tiny room and then she pushed the screen open and walked casually back from whence she came. We were just shown to our room, by a dog.

Now, literary friends, I know you have a prob with this story already. In the great Johann von Goethe’s epic German drama Faust, the main character, a doctor, is tormented by a demon from German folklore named Mephistopheles, who often disguises himself in the form of a black poodle. Germans. I can’t. Anyway. I, a bookish minded young lady, thought this was a pretty @#$%&^ up omen. Little did I even know.

We didn’t go to NOLA because it was creepy. Some people like to be scared, and I am not one of them. We’ve talked about this. I don’t think it’s cute or novel to be terrified. Fear isn’t a game or entertainment vehicle for me, so this place was… well… not quite the type of “local culture” I had anticipated.

The room was creepy. Just look at it. Beautiful, you say. Jazz themed. Yeah sure. But freakin’ scary, too.

Something in the room didn’t feel right, guys. That sounds like I’m being dramatic, but let me tell you, it was the most unsettling room I have ever been in in my entire life. When I sat on the bed, I could almost feel someone sitting next to me. When I looked in the mirror, there was something else in there looking back besides my reflection. The room felt repressive, it bared down and it was overwhelmingly sad. The feeling of that room took my breath away.

We went out for the night, met up with some people we knew in town and enjoyed ourselves. Later we went back to the room. Sean fell asleep right away; he doesn’t… feel things the way I do. But it wasn’t just a feeling. I could almost make out something moving around the room. And upstairs it sounded like someone was dragging something heavy. Like a big trunk… or something… else. It would go across the floor one way and then stop. Then it would start again and go back. There were bangs, then more dragging. It went on all night. What the heck were the people staying up there DOING? I have never been so scared in all my life as I was lying there trying to fall asleep, and eventually I just began to pray. I prayed for hours, stopping to only wake Sean up intermittently, asking him, “Did you hear that?” He did hear the dragging at one point. I barely slept. So. Dang. Scary. And the worst night of rest ever. Yeah, that went on for the next two nights. It was worse on the second than the first.

On the morning of our third day, we went down to the courtyard where, legit, “Princess” (Mephistopheles!) was holding court hosting her demonic poodle breakfast for the guests as usual. We sat outside for awhile before popping into the lobby for a map that would point our lame tourist butts in the direction of Café DuMonde. Mmm, beignets.

“How did you sleep?” the lady in white asked.

“Okay,” I said. “It sounded like something pretty crazy was going on though. There was just a bunch of banging and dragging or something going on upstairs above us.”

“Upstairs?”

“Yeah, who ever is staying there must have been partying all night!”

“You heard banging and dragging upstairs?”

“Yes. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble though.”

“You won’t. There is no upstairs. The Royal Barracks only has one floor.”

You know that feeling when your heart feels like it’s stopped and all of the blood drains out of your face and all your hairs stand on end and you can’t help but shudder? Yeah. I did that.

“There’s no upstairs?”

“No. But it seems you’ve met our ghost. She must have known you were sensitive. She doesn’t perform like that for everyone, you know. Does she Princess?”

Princess, who had somehow frickin’ manifested at the door again “ruffed” once in agreement. My blood literally ran cold. Maybe she was trying to freak me out. Maybe Madame Bedsheet and Princess Demonpants were up on the daggone roof themselves in hopes of this exact moment. Who knows. We headed directly for daiquiris. It was 10AM.

We survived The Royal Barracks Bed and Breakfast, but I can truly say it was the most scared I’ve ever been. Would I go back? I’m not sure. At least I’d know what to expect this time, but it probably wouldn’t change the feeling of something being truly disturbed in that place. New Orleans is a creepy, quirky place and I want another shot at it, especially because I’m a different person than I was the last time I was there. I’ve got a couple horror stories of my own now that have got to be enough a scare a ghost. The lady was right though, whatever it was, it was feeling me, and it knew I could feel it. There are other experiences that have made me a believer, but none quite as intense as that night in the French Quarter and the dragging “upstairs.” -Kelly

Freaked Out: Our Top 10 Phobias and The Secrets They Reveal About Us

It’s October, and it’s time to talk about what scares you. Listen, I’ve seen your social media posts. You’re that person whom- back in gorgeous, perfect July- was like, “I can’t wait for the leaves to turn, sweaters, campfires, pumpkin spice everything and Halloween.”

If that’s really how you feel, how ‘bout I snatch up your next summer for myself and you can have my fall and the slurry of freakin’ football controversies, frost, squash and daggone nutmeg that comes with it? I digress, but I don’t apologize: I’m in seasonal mourning.

Now, back to the topic at hand… Phobias. Even you fall lovers have them. I know, you’ve told me. You LOVE Halloween! You’ve seen the new IT movie 13x (muhaha!) You decorate your foyer with Jason masks. You squeal with joy when watching blindfolded children place their trembling fingers in a bowl of peeled grapes. When black cats cross your path it causes only spontaneous skipping. You’d shake Freddy Krueger’s sharp little hand. You’d move to damn Elm Street- you don’t care!

(I’ve never seen any of those movies, FYI, but through my book research I learned that there once lived a particularly heinous Nazi SS official named Friedrich-Wilhelm Kruger who organized numerous horrific crimes against humanity during the WWII. He killed himself as the Allies closed their dragnet, but nightmare fodder nonetheless.)

I’m not a Halloween freak, myself. Why? Oh gah, here she goes again…

Fear isn’t supposed to entertain us. It’s supposed to literally scare us, trigger our adrenaline and get our dumb asses out of whatever situation freaked us out in the first place. Sometimes I’m so annoyed at our culture. Being scared is like the new American hobby. We stand in long lines for “amusement” rides that dangle us off cliffs and drop us from the tops of buildings and call it “fun” and “a rush.”

Strap a damn dog to a rollercoaster and watch it nearly freaking die of fright. But no one would do that. It would be “cruel.” Why? Because the dog has instincts; it thinks it’s dying. A dog doesn’t know that rollercoasters are “safe” and that you can “trust” the engineering and the people running it. It doesn’t know that we’re just pretending to die for fun. What the…?

Maybe I’m a cynical, but I put my life in NO ONE’s hands without some real, vested fear.

Rollercoasters, no. Mountain climbing, no. Bungee jumping, no. Sky diving???? Go directly to hell with that.

Airplanes, if there is truly no other choice. But I will cry. And you will buy me wine from the nice lady’s cart and explain aerodynamics to me and list off bullcrap statistics and I’ll put in my earbuds, listen to the calming, gentle melodies of The Nutcracker Suite and sob quietly until I fall asleep. And when I do, refill my wine. Stat.

So I guess you could say I, like 19.2 million other Americans aged 18 and up, have phobias. But what IS a phobia? Spoiler Alert: It’s more than just a fear.

The National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) designates a phobia to be a persistent, irrational fear of a particular object or circumstance. And there are two types: specific phobias and social phobias. Specific phobias revolve around objects or concepts, while social phobias can induce paralyzing anxiety in situations like school, work, parties or family gatherings.

Heights (acrophobia) and flying (aerophobia) are some of MY specific phobias. But are they actually phobias or just fears? If all our basic instincts point to something being incredibly dangerous, can we bill it as “irrational?” I’m afraid of plunging to the ground from 20 stories in the air. Is that really irrational? Are we honestly THAT cocky in our human abilities? Maybe I was raised with enough Catholic fear of God to think maybe we should be humbler than to think we’re that invincible. Men weren’t designed to fly at 30,000 feet. So color me peeing my pants when I have to. I argue whether heights/flying are true “phobias.”

But the other one. It’s a real phobia because it’s honestly just stupid. I’m afraid of… mice. Ah! I didn’t even like typing that! Go ahead. Laugh. I know.

One time a few Christmas Eves ago, my husb and I returned from midnight mass in time to see a tiny mouse scurry into the bushes. I lost it. Full blown screaming/sobbing/panic attack. A meltdown that lasted for hours as my poor guy had to drive me around town in circles in the wee hours of Christmas because we could “never ever, ever go back there again.”

Ya’ll we were in the dang car and the mouse was outside! It couldn’t have “gotten” me. And what would it do if it approached me? I always picture it crawling up my pant leg… Ho, is it getting warm in here? I can’t stop swallowing. I’m holding my throat. I’m panicking. Hold on, actually I’m surrounded by cats. I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m ok…

My mom thinks this is ridiculous. I’ve watched her legit slay mice with her bare hands like a badass. Ok, well, once decades ago she thwapped one onto a sticky trap and became the hero we all both needed and deserved. She saved my life that day. Amazing.

She didn’t understand though, and she used to get frustrated with me…

Why are you jumping on the bed screaming while holding all the landline phone receivers? (Literally, “who ya gonna call?” Mouse Busters?)

Why are you sleeping on the kitchen counter? That’s where all the food is, btw… just sayin’.

Why are you listening to a WORD your brothers have to say? They’re trying to torture you.

But it’s my phobia. And I’m not alone. One in every 10 Americans suffer from some type of phobia. My fear of heights and mice don’t stop me from living my life except in situations where I have to face them. Heights can be planned for, while mice can appear, well, unannounced. (PS- don’t even ask me about rats. I don’t even know what those are. If my brain had to acknowledge that rats were real and living in the same world as me, I would literally lose my mind on the spot. They killed a third of Europe with their filth in 1348, ok? Need I go on? Shout out to the kids in my 4/5 period who put the plastic rat in my school bag on the 2013 Gettysburg trip. They bought a flashing “Kelly” keychain at the gift shop and hooked it to its tail. They named it KD45. Yeah, I’m looking at you Zach. Dang I miss those brats!)

(My mom also says I shouldn’t blog about this type of thing. That if people know your weaknesses, they’ll find a way to use them against you. Hmm… I picture the evil genius crafty enough to find a way to strap me to the top of a skyscraper with my head stuck in a box filled with critters. There wouldn’t be time. Madness would ensue in the elevator on the way up, and the sweet release of death would take me to Paradise where an army of razor-sharp kittens would ensure my safety for eons upon a well-grounded field of wildflowers. Ahhhh.)

Same...

Anyway, the heart of a phobia is anxiety. Did you know that specific phobias can pop up at any time in a person’s life, while most social phobias are usually conceived between the ages of 15-20, sometimes younger? Also, social phobias, the NIMH has found, often have hereditary factors.

It makes sense to me that my specific phobia might be attached to a social phobia: my dad had always been my superhero defending me against potential evil mice until I lost him when I was 14. In the coming years, was my subconscious wondering how, if a mouse showed up after that, I would ever be safe again? Who would save me? Would I go through my whole life being the girl without a protector? Seems legit. (Even though my ma was Wonder Woman herself.)

Oh, and guess what dad’s phobia was? Heights.

Isn’t it annoying how our brains work sometimes?

Studies have shown that men and women both experience phobias, with men actually being more likely to seek professional help to cope. And it’s very common for people with social phobias to develop substance abuse problems as they try to assuage the accompanying anxiety. Sometimes socialphobics even meld into agoraphobics, being unable to leave their homes and encounter that wide, scary world and all the horrors they feel it holds.

Top 10 Phobias

What about YOUR phobias? Below, I complied a Top 10 List of all the most prevalent fears torturing Americans today and let you in on how psychologists are trying to treat them.

10. Trypophobia- Fear of Clustered Holes: Have you ever looked at a lotus seed pod or a honeycomb or someone’s gaping pores and felt… uncomfortable? I have! Ahhh! Researchers are split this being a legit phobia, and a study tested whether the patterns of (often color-contrasting) holes triggered something in our human instincts to fear poisonous animals, which also usually have vibrantly patterned physical markings. That study was proven false. For me, it’s that “diseased-looking” factor. I believe humans have a natural aversion to anything that looks infected, pock-marked or out-broken and in my eyes, this “ish” is naaaaasty!

9. Aerophobia- Fear of Flying: Duh. I just read that you’re more likely to become a professional athlete than get in a plane crash. Um, have you met me? Mine’s going down. BTW- Shout out to the people on the flight to our honeymoon who wouldn’t let my new husband and I sit together. I hope you still hear my sobs in your nightmares.

8. Mysophobia – Fear of Germs: Coined by a doctor studying OCD and compulsive hand-washing, mysophobia is a fear of dirt, filth and contamination, often leading to OCDish tendencies and occasionally agoraphobic behavior, avoiding all contact with potentially infected objects/places/people.

7. Claustrophobia- Fear of Enclosed Spaces: Ah, remember that adorable after-school favorite Saved By The Bell? How about the phrase “dead ringer?” Well, back in the day when the cholera epidemic reached its peak, so did the incidences of people being buried alive. With conventional medicine in his infancy, being pronounced dead when you were still kickin’ became everyone’s worst nightmare. So the “Safety Coffin” (and our cultural claustrophobia) was born; a string was placed in the buried “corpse’s” hands so that if they woke up, they could sound the alarm, hence these dead ringers could be saved by the bell. Edgar Allan Poe wrote three incredibly famous stories on claustrophobia and being buried alive. And I’ve written one myself. So be on the lookout for my next book, “The Amerian Locket.” ;) xoxox

6. Astraphobia- Fear of Thunder and Lightning: My favorite cat used to hide behind the toilet during thunderstorms. Up to 30% of animals and countless people suffer from this affliction. (I don’t like that insane cracking, ripping thunder myself. But I’m more scared of those social media posters [whom I like to call the Internet Genius Brigade] who put an “e” in the word lightning. UGH.) The professional remedy for astraphobia is usually exposure therapy- listening to and watching thunder and lightning storms repeatedly until some of the fear dissipates.

5. Cynophobia- Fear of Dogs: Often occurring as a result of a bad experience or lack of experience with dogs in early childhood, cynophobia is a fear many people harbor. They say dogs “smell your fear” and that’s somewhat true. Most cynophobes don’t know that dogs recognize humans as the alpha being and thus mimic our reactions. If you show a dog you’re scared, he’ll be scared, too, and with fear comes that fight or flight mechanism that can make dogs look aggressive around fearful humans. If you send out vibes of calm and friendliness, the dog should mimic that behavior as well, leading to a more positive experience.

4. Agoraphobia- Fear of Open OR Crowded Spaces: More than 200,000 people in the US today currently battle agoraphobia, according to the Mayo Clinic, and for most it will be a lifelong fight. Agoraphobes, in the most severe form, are tethered to the closed off, home-based worlds they’ve created, unable to work or go out because of their debilitating fears. Talk therapy, medication and small victories are said to be the best medicine for coping with the issue.

3. Acrophobia- Fear of Heights- Reportedly, 2-5% of the population suffers from a fear of heights, so I’m in good company. The trademark of the fear is the onset of panic when one isn’t high up enough to sustain injury. For instance, if I stand on a ladder five feet off the ground, I’m scared. So it’s not so much the height as it is a fear of uncertainty. I told you. Trust issues.

2. Ophidiophobia- Fear of Snakes: In several studies, humans were show photographs of well-camouflaged animals in the wild. While we were less keen to pick out frogs, caterpillars, fish or flowers, most people were innately capable of finding the hidden snakes. It seems that nature designed us that way. Let’s face it, snakes shouldn’t be a phobia either! Anything that can bite you, inject you with lethal poison or strangle you to death does not constitute an “irrational” fear! Again, I argue that we should respect nature and with respect often comes a good healthy dose of fear.

1. Arachnophobia- Fear of Spiders: Researchers are fascinated by the spider phenomenon, but most agree it’s the number one phobia in the country. In fact, even most of those Halloween junkies I know also have arachnophobia. The American Psychological Association looked into the fear of spiders and determined that it’s not the bite that scares people, it’s the “legginess” and the erratic movements spiders make that freak people out. It’s also conditioning.

When a group of school children was asked to list their biggest fears, most wrote the following:

1. Spiders

2. Being Kidnapped

3. Various Predators

4. The Dark

When the researchers asked them about things like “being hit by a car” or “not being able to breathe,” the kids all agreed that those were much scarier than seeing a spider, but spider was what they thought of first. Genetic links were also studied. If your family members fear spiders, it’s highly likely you do too because you often share both the nature and nurture sides of the coin.

Surprisingly, I don’t have arachnophobia. I usually laugh when I see spiders. They’re so weird. Like tiny octopi scrambling around. BUT the thing that turns me off about spiders (quite like mice and snakes) is the “sneak factor.” They’re lying in wait. Again, the trust issues.

Those 90s "No Fear" shirts lied...

Writing this, I was pleased to discover that I wasn’t alone and that most of my fears are shared by millions of people and made the list. There’s just one that didn’t though: Get me outside and put a bird or a moth or even a butterfly (don’t say bat, don’t even freakin’ say that word to me) close by and have it do that wing flapping thing near me and watch an actual demonstration of someone’s psyche going “Awwww hellllll nawwww!” Horrific!

Anyway, I think we’ve learned something here. Our fears are deeply rooted in our heredity, our social specs and also our most personal experiences. So the next time your kiddo is scared of something or you find yourself in a panic over triviality, remind yourself that everyone has fears and the best thing we can do is try to understand and respect both the world around us and all the kooky things that make us so unique. -Kelly