Chapter Eight: Further Back in Time
In this special bonus chapter, you can journey even further back in time than twenty-five years. Delve back in time fifty, seventy-five and a hundred years, read a strange but true ghost story and learn about a childhood social anxiety disorder that can still have effects in adulthood.
A Long Look Back
By Norma Huss
Written in 2010
Norma Huss did some research in her local Lancaster, PA newspapers and discovered these colorful tidbits.
Fifty years ago, in December 1960, the United States was building fallout shelters to protect their families from atomic disaster. On December 6th, one was dedicated in down-town Lancaster, PA. The shelter was designed to protect one family of six for two weeks. The 10 by 10 by 7 (the height) structure had eight-inch-thick masonry walls and was stocked with bunk beds, canned food, stove, radio, flashlight and games. (I do hope they included water, although that wasn't mentioned.)
Also that December, three days later, a truck loaded with Christmas trees missed a curve and plunged into the Susquehanna River. (The driver made it out of the submerged cab and survived.) In another three days, a surprise storm dumped twelve inches of snow that must have stayed around a while as the temperature dropped to 10 degrees.
Seventy-five years ago, residents of a nearby town were startled when four goats broke through a fence and raced through the streets. Residents scurried to the safety of their porches while the guests at the General Sutter Hotel wondered if wild mountain goats were common in the area. In other news that day, the Lancaster Liederkranz mourned the loss of Gaboot, a twenty-man beer stein known as the mightiest mug ever to cross the club's bar. A man lifted it to refresh the orchestra members, and kapow! The Gaboot fell to the floor and broke into pieces.
One hundred years ago, on December 6, 1910, eight inches of snow fell on Lancaster. Never fear...large snowplows and gangs of shovelers helped keep all the trolley lines operating. They must have done a good job because the next day, 450 children lined up for free shoes given by two local stores as a result of a fund-raising venture. However, there were only 150 pairs available, so a second benefit was scheduled for the 300 children turned away.
Oh yes, there was another incident two days later of extreme family discord. Residents in a tenement over Woolworth's store heard a woman screaming at her husband. After she'd turned the air blue, she pulled a stocky horsewhip from her dress and lashed him as he ran down the stairs and out into the street. (Hmmm. Never happen now. No horsewhip, no place to hide it in skin-tight jeans, and...that building is gone.)
Norma Huss calls herself the Grandma Moses of Mystery. Yesterday's Body is the first of the Jo Durbin Mysteries. The first of the Cyd Denlinger Mysteries is Death of a Hot Chick. Her non-fiction title, A Knucklehead in 1920s Alaska, retells her father's teenage adventures.
The Ghost of Mr. Stetson
By Darcia Helle
Written in 2011
Max Paddington, the main character in my novel Into The Light, is a ghost. He refuses to cross over until he finds out who murdered him. Unfortunately for Max, he is somewhat ineffectual as a ghost. He's clumsy, can't figure out how to navigate the world in his spirit form, and only one person hears him. The journey is an odd one for Max and his unlikely partner, private detective Joe Cavelli.
Max's stubborn attachment goes a lot deeper than finding his killer. Of course, this is fiction—or maybe it's not. Can our spirits linger here in this world because of what we perceive as unfinished business? Can we haunt people? Help people?
Based on my own experiences, I'd have to say yes to those questions. I know, you now think I'm crazy. But hear me out. I grew up in a haunted house. What might sound even stranger is that I never found it odd to be living with a ghost. Our house was an old New England tenement. My mother, my brother and I lived on the first floor. My grandparents lived above us. The third floor was a full-sized attic. Two of the rooms were completely finished, with heat, wallpaper, nice windows, closets, etc. The central area of the attic had windows, a floor and heat, but the walls and ceiling remained open, unfinished. The house was the first built on the street named for its builder. The owner lived and died in that house.
While our ghost was a living person, he became quite ill. He eventually moved into the attic space, into one of the finished rooms. His nurse lived in the other finished room. We assume he did this in order to rent out the two floors below for income. He died up there, in one of those rooms. His body was removed but his spirit never left. Our ghost wasn't mean or, for me, scary. Not everyone in my family agreed on that last point. Our ghost was definitely mischievous. And this I loved about him.
My street was called Stetson Street and I called our ghost Mr. Stetson. He would often play practical jokes, move things around and occasionally something he didn't like—or maybe he liked a lot—disappeared. When I was very young, my mother had three plaques hanging on our kitchen wall: Hope, Charity and Faith. One day, one of those plaques disappeared. No trace of it was ever found. I don't remember which one, though I wish I did. That word must have been significant to Mr. Stetson.
My grandfather did carpentry work and always wore work boots. At night, he'd put his shoes on the base of the attic stairs. He'd get up in the morning to find them laced upside down and tied in a nice bow near the toe of the boot. Mr. Stetson enjoyed his pranks. At about the age of twelve, I began spending much of my time in the attic. My brother had one of the finished rooms, I had the other. We moved our stereos up there, arranged the rooms with old furniture and hung our music posters on the walls. I remember one day I was in the middle of hanging my posters and I ran out of tape. I ran downstairs for more. When I came back, one of my posters was upside down. Another was missing. I said, "Mr. Stetson, you don't like The Who? That's okay. I'll hang a different poster instead."
As I mentioned, I liked Mr. Stetson. I spoke to him all the time. My brother, however, wasn't as enamored with Mr. Stetson's presence.
One day, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I was in my grandmother's kitchen with her, baking donuts. My brother, who is two years older, came charging down the attic stairs. His face was pale, his eyes wide. He raced past us and downstairs into our apartment. He refused to talk about what he'd seen or heard. To this day, I don't know what happened up there. But my brother never returned to the attic.
I was not in the least bit deterred by my brother's fright. In fact, I was thrilled to have the attic to myself. One room became my second bedroom. The other room was my hangout, where I kept my stereo, my books and my notebooks for writing. I spent nearly every weekend up there, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone. I always felt Mr. Stetson's presence. Each day, I'd greet him with a hello or good morning. He'd occasionally remove a poster I'd hung or rearrange them to suit his mood. Little things would disappear or move from one room to the other. But he never scared me or my friends.
My mother remarried when I was fifteen. We moved to a new home of our own. My grandparents sold the house and moved down to Cape Cod. I was sad to leave Mr. Stetson. I often wonder what held him to our physical world, to that house. Was he that attached to his home or did something else hold him there? I hope that he was happy in his spirit state and that he was able to find whatever he was looking for.
On a side note, I found it interesting that, after we left, Mr. Stetson's house was never kept by one owner for very long. Every two or three years, I'd notice it up for sale once again. About twenty years passed before one owner seemed to settle in. Either Mr. Stetson finally approved or he'd moved on to his new spirit home.
Darcia Helle lives in a fictional world with a husband who is real. Their house is ruled by spoiled dogs, cats and the occasional dust bunny. Suspense, random blood splatter and mismatched socks consume Darcia's days. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative.
Finding My Voice
By Stacy Juba
Written in 2011
Recently, I spoke on an author panel during a crime writers conference and had a terrifying moment where my past confronted my present. As I was sitting up there at the table alongside the other authors, waiting for the moderator to introduce me, a momentary feeling of panic seized me.
What if my throat muscles froze and my voice wouldn't come out? It's a feeling I haven't had in awhile, but that was all too familiar.
When I was growing up, I was considered painfully "shy," though I strongly dislike that word as it implies meekness. I would talk freely at home with my parents or with my friends, but when in social settings such as school, parties or gatherings with extended family, I froze. As much as I wanted to speak, the words literally would not come out. If I needed help at school, I'd whisper to one of my friends, and he or she would tell the teacher for me.
Classmates would say hi to me at the grocery store, and even though I wanted to respond, I couldn't. My throat muscles just would not work, and too late, I'd raise my hand in a wave. I feared that the other kids considered me a snob or standoffish and they probably did, but I didn't know what I could do about it.
Recently, I learned that there is a name for this experience and that it's called Selective Mutism, which is defined as a disorder of childhood characterized by an inability to speak in certain settings, such as at school and in public places, despite speaking in other settings (for example, at home with family.) It's estimated that 1 in 1,000 children referred for mental health treatment has Selective Mutism; although several researchers have suggested that the true prevalence of SM in the general population is largely underestimated. There are even organizations that provide guidance and support with this disorder, including The Selective Mutism Group-Childhood Anxiety Network and the Selective Mutism Network.
When I was growing up though, my family and I had to deal with this issue on our own for the most part. My elementary school was concerned about my lack of speaking at first, until the psychologist observed me at my house and witnessed me talking and playing like any other child. I even said to my parents, "Why won't that man go home?" I was sent to summer school before kindergarten and was pulled out of class for a year to work with other kids in a small group, but after that, the school system said that my problem wasn't serious enough to warrant special services.
Although I was still considered "shy," I managed to get by in social settings, except for when I needed to do oral reports before the class, and then I'd agonize over it. My freshman year in college, I was forced to take a speech class and give three presentations. I'd worry myself sick the night before, and as I waited for my turn, my heart would pound, I'd sweat, and this clammy feeling would grip me.
After graduating, I became a newspaper reporter of all things, and needed to be aggressive, interview people and ask tough questions. Since I usually interviewed people one-on-one or in a small group, I was able to do this—and do it well. Initially, I dreaded approaching strangers for comments at town parades, municipal meetings and other events, but I got more used to it over time. Although I preferred feature stories, I did my share of hard news and investigative pieces as I wanted those bylines.
I came out of my shell for my job, but I was still introverted in social situations. You would never find me being the center of attention. I preferred drawing people's attention on paper—through my newspaper byline. Writing was just the way I communicated best. Deep down, though, I knew that what I really wanted was my name on book covers.
When I finally launched my book-publishing career, boy, did it come as a surprise when I learned that public speaking often goes hand-in-hand with being an author! I found myself speaking at libraries, bookstores, to book clubs and on conference panels. I discovered five things:
1. That even though I was nervous, my physical reactions were much less extreme than during my college speech class, perhaps because I loved talking about books and writing.
2. That I preferred panels or speaking with at least one author to being up there alone. I did well when speaking alone...it just made me more nervous.
3. That I was far more uneasy speaking before friends and relatives than to a room full of strangers.
4. That once the panel got going, I'd have fun and sometimes even be sorry when it was over.
5. That microphones were my best friend, as I didn't have to worry about projecting my voice, and that having notes made me more confident. Not that I would read the notes verbatim, but glancing down at them was reassuring.
During the above presentation at the crime writers conference, I was a little more anxious than usual because I knew several writers in the audience and it was also a large crowd. I was relieved when my voice worked after all, and I felt myself relax. At one point, a movement out of the corner of my eye distracted me and I stumbled over my words when trying to wrap up my comments. I haven't done that in awhile, and it threw me for a moment. I hate tripping over my words, though my always supportive husband assured me afterwards that this can make the speaker less intimidating and more likable to the audience.
I wish the presentation had gone perfectly, but I guess I've come a long way since those childhood days of my voice freezing up. I suspect there will be more presentations in my future, since I'm in the book business for the long haul. Now and then, I might get that irrational fear—what if my voice freezes? But, I've learned that even though there is a small piece of that girl with Selective Mutism still inside me, with every book that I write and publish, the author part of me becomes more confident and is now dominating my personality.
I might worry that my voice will freeze, but rationally, I know it won't. Not anymore. I've learned one important thing about myself since that psychologist came to my house and observed me when I was five—I'm a writer and I have something to say.
Stacy Juba, the editor of 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back and an award-winning journalist, has authored books for adults, teens and children. She has written about high school hockey players, reality TV contestants targeted by a killer, teen psychics who control minds, a theme park Cinderella, teddy bears learning to raise the U.S. flag and lots more.
Appendix: Website Links
We hope you've enjoyed this collection! All of the authors who participated in this project would love to hear from readers via e-mail and social networks such as Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads. You'll find their website links below. You'll also find them on this web site: http://stacyjuba.com/blog/25-years-in-the-rearview-mirror-52-authors-look-back/
Foreword:
Elaine Raco Chase: http://elaineracochase.com
Chapter One: School Days
Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com
Maria Savva: http://www.mariasavva.com
Susan Helene Gottfried: http://westofmars.com
Matthew Dicks: http://matthewdicks.com
A.W. Hartoin: https://twitter.com/AWHartoin
Alina Adams: http://www.AlinaAdamsMedia.com
CJ Lyons: http://www.cjlyons.net
Sharon Love Cook: http://www.sharonlovecook.com
Chapter Two: The Jobs That Shape Us
Laura DiSilverio: http://www.lauradisilverio.com
Gwen Mayo: http://www.gwenmayo.com
Ann Littlewood: http://zoomysteries.com
Loni Emmert: http://thewordmistresses.com
Stephen D. Rogers: http://www.StephenDRogers.com
Monica M. Brinkman: http://theturnofthekarmicwheel.blogspot.com
Kenneth Weene: http://www.authorkenweene.com
Carole Shmurak: http://www.carole-books.com
Sarah E. Glenn: http://www.sarahglenn.com
Mike Bove: http://www.mikebove.net/index.html
Chapter Three: Remembering the Romance
Steve Liskow: http://www.steveliskow.com
Mike Angley: http://www.mikeangley.com
Cara Lopez Lee: http://www.CaraLopezLee.com
Lillian Brummet: http://www.brummet.ca
Chapter Four: The Ups and Downs of Family Life
Mary Anna Evans: http://www.maryannaevans.com
Tracy Krauss: http://www.tracykrauss.com
Barbara Ross: http://www.barbaraannross.com
J. R. Lindermuth: http://jrlindermuth.com
Donna Fletcher Crow: http://www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com
Deanna Jewel: http://deannajewel.com
Maryann Miller: http://www.maryannwrites.com
Chapter Five: Hard Times
Michele Drier: http://www.micheledrier.com
Beth Kanell: http://bethkanell.blogspot.com
Cherish D'Angelo (Cheryl Kaye Tardif): http://www.cherylktardif.com
Jaleta Clegg: http://www.jaletac.com
Red Tash: http://RedTash.com
Chapter Six: The Writing Journey
Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com
Patricia Gulley: http://www.patgulley.com
J.E. Seymour: http://jeseymour.com
Marja McGraw: http://www.marjamcgraw.com
Karen McCullough: http://www.kmccullough.com
Velda Brotherton: http://www.veldabrotherton.com
Peggy Ehrhart: http://www.PeggyEhrhart.com
Bonnie Hearn Hill: http://www.digitalinkbooks.com
R.P. Dahlke: http://rpdahlke.com
Chapter Seven: Characters Have Pasts, Too
Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com
Darcia Helle: http://www.QuietFuryBooks.com
Suzanne Young: http://www.SuzanneYoungBooks.com
Mary Deal: http://www.writeanygenre.com
Norma Huss: http://www.normahuss.com
Vicki Delany: http://www.vickidelany.com
Leslie Wheeler: http://www.lesliewheeler.com.
Ellis Vidler: http://www.ellisvidler.com
Douglas Corleone: http://www.douglascorleone.com
Caitlyn Hunter: http://caitlynhunter.com
Chapter Eight: Further Back in Time
Norma Huss: http://www.normahuss.com
Darcia Helle: http://www.QuietFuryBooks.com
Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com
Below is an excerpt from the mystery and romantic suspense novel Twenty-Five Years Ago Today, the book that inspired this anthology.
Twenty-Five Years Ago Today Excerpt
by Stacy Juba
For twenty-five years, Diana Ferguson's killer has gotten away with murder. When rookie obit writer and newsroom editorial assistant Kris Langley investigates the cold case of the artistic young cocktail waitress who was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology, not only does she fall in love with Diana's sexy nephew, but she must also fight to stay off the obituary page herself.
Kris Langley stared at the bright newsprint lit up on the microfilm reader. The top headline leaped off page one. "Missing Barmaid Murdered." She squinted over the story of Diana Ferguson, a young woman found bludgeoned to death in the woods. In little over a week, it would be the twenty-fifth anniversary. A quarter of a century ago, Diana must've dressed and driven out as always. An evening like any other. By the end of the night, she was dead, her life extinguished like the other victims on fate's hit list.
Most people had forgotten Diana by now. In the black and white yearbook photograph, she didn't smile. Straight dark hair curtained her serious oval face. Diana had her arms crossed on a table, slender fingers too delicate to protect her from a killer.
Kris flipped to a blank page in her notebook, scribbled "Diana Ferguson" and stopped writing. Resurrecting the tragedy in her "25 and 50 Years Ago Today" column would catch readers' attention, but it seemed inappropriate.
She jumped as Dex Wagner, the seventy-year-old editor-in-chief of the Fremont Daily News, slapped a rolled-up newspaper against someone's desk. "Jacqueline, why the hell didn't we have this theater group feature? The Fremont Community Players are in our own backyard."
Suppressing a grin, Kris swung around in her seat. She could use a distraction right about now. Dex waved the competition paper in the air, red circles and slashes marking half the page. In her three weeks as editorial assistant, Kris had enjoyed Dex's tantrums. So far, none had been directed at her.
Managing Editor Jacqueline McCormack tossed back her blonde ponytail, gathered in a tan fabric scrunchie. She owned a world class selection of ponytail holders that complemented her designer wardrobe. Kris couldn't help thinking of her as a thirty-five-year-old cheerleader. Corporate Barbie.
"We ran a story last week in our entertainment section," Jacqueline said. "They got the idea from us. Gosh, Dex, are you trying to blind me with that underlining?"
Dex paced to the oak bookshelves and back to Jacqueline's neat desk. His stomach bulged under a rumpled gray suit and his wrists hung out of jacket sleeves a couple inches too short. "I think we missed it."
"Trust me," Jacqueline said. "I put a headline on it myself. You do read beyond the front, don't you, Dex?"
Grumbling under his breath, Dex opened The Greater Remington Mirror, a large daily that covered the ten towns in their readership area and more. Kris saw another column ballooned in red marker.
He pressed his index finger against the lead paragraph, his penguin-patterned tie flapping as he stooped forward. "What about the stabbing of that Miles kid? We should be talking to his family and we haven't even contacted them. For Christ's sake, do I have to keep track of everything?"
"Relax, I'm working on that," Bruce Patrick, the police and court reporter, said from the doorway. He swaggered over and hopped onto the edge of Jacqueline's desk.
"I just got off the phone," he said. "The parents are basket cases, but the siblings said I could come by tonight. And it's an exclusive."
A 19-year-old college student had murdered his classmate, Scott Miles, in a fight that went too far. Kris had edited the obit, stomach queasy as she cut "beloved son and brother" out of the text. Dex insisted such phrases only belonged in paid death notices.
Unlike the Diana Ferguson case, there was no mystery to this homicide. Many young people had witnessed the brawl, which started over a girl. It had lingered in her memory, though, a teenage boy who went to a party and left dead in an ambulance. Another individual singled out by fate, never suspecting he had no future. He picked the wrong girl. For that, he died.
Kris shuddered despite the heat in the newsroom. The family members must feel like their world had spun out of control. She remembered the grieving process well: walking around as if in warm Jell-O, arms and legs heavy, head difficult to hold up, and crying until numbness froze the tears. Forgetting had disturbed her the most, slipping away into the calm relief of sleep, then jolting awake in cold horror.
Jacqueline's ponytail bounced in glee. "They'll talk?" She turned to Bruce. "Terrific. Have you assigned a photographer?"
Bruce rested his notebook on his thigh. "You bet. I didn't mention the photos, but once we're there, I'm sure they'll go along with it."
"Get two or three color shots for the front," Jacqueline said, a lilt in her voice.
Kris abandoned her quiet corner of the newsroom and strode over to the group. Bruce and Jacqueline had never suffered tragedy in their lives, or they wouldn't act so blasé.
No one noticed Kris's presence. She spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. "I know you want a good story, but have a little sympathy. Sending a photographer unannounced would be taking advantage of these poor people."
Her co-workers regarded her with blank expressions.
"Why?" Bruce asked. "The kids are of age. It's not like we're exploiting pre-schoolers."
"If they're inviting a reporter into their home, they should realize we intend to play up the story," Jacqueline said.
"They'll be emotional," Kris said. "A photographer will make them feel worse. The least you could do is prepare them."
Jacqueline folded her arms, covering a horizontal row of gold buttons on her biscuit-colored blazer. "I'm sure they expect it, but Bruce was smart in setting it up this way. If they have doubts, they'll be more likely to say yes once our staff has had a chance to develop a rapport. If the pictures bother them, the family can always decline."
"They'll feel pressured," Kris said. "They have enough to deal with right now. You've got your exclusive. Why can't you just run photos of the boy who died?"
"Kris, this is our job, not yours." Coldness had replaced Jacqueline's lilt. "This paper tells it like it is. If you can't accept that, then maybe you shouldn't work in a newsroom."
"Maybe you should treat your sources like human beings."
"Why don't you stay out of things that don't concern you? As I recall, you have no news experience. I'm not even sure why you were hired in the first place." Jacqueline glared at Dex.
They all knew the answer to that. The previous editorial assistant had quit on Jacqueline's vacation. Dex grew impatient and placed a classified ad. Kris admitted she preferred the dreaded four-to-midnight shift, and he hired her on the spot. His judgment wasn't good enough for Jacqueline, who had reminded him of the three-month probation for all employees.
Dex's shaggy salt and pepper eyebrows curled downward. "Kris does fine. She's bright and talented. Give her a chance to learn." He glowered at Bruce. "Next time you're working on a hot story, check with me."
He stalked to his desk, leaving the others gaping after him. Her neck and shoulder muscles tense, Kris released a deep breath. She needed this job. Like it or not, she was stuck working with Barbie. "Sorry if I offended you, Jacqueline. I just wanted to give you another perspective."
Jacqueline ignored her and gestured to Bruce. "Come on, let's discuss tomorrow's budget."
He snapped to attention and followed her into the conference room. Jacqueline carried herself with the posture of a model, her back straight and an upward tilt to her chin. Jacqueline and her budget. Kris had once asked Dex if the paper was in okay shape, money-wise. She'd assumed Jacqueline was obsessed with the editorial department's finances. Dex just laughed and said, "That's news lingo for story line-up."
As others in the newsroom headed out, Kris drifted back to the microfilm machine and her research. Her editors demanded eight historical facts per issue. Dex told her to play up light local fluff as people liked seeing their names in print, while Jacqueline said to emphasize hard news. Kris found herself trying to please them both.
At first, she had enjoyed exploring the older editions. Fifty years ago, chunky blocks of type took up the front page. Most articles came over the wire and staff-written pieces had no bylines. Dex had explained how reporters worked for "the paper" in those days, not for the recognition. But now if Kris spent too much time on the machine, the scrolling of the film gave her motion sickness. The focus lever didn't work right, so she'd press her finger over the tape, holding it in place.
Frowning, Kris stared at the bold black headline splashed above the subhead "Body Found In Fremont State Woods." For the second time, she skimmed the article about Diana Ferguson.
For more information, visit:
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