Please welcome special guest author, Erin O'Riordan.
I myself have never seen a ghost, but I became enthralled by my sister-in-law’s true haunting story. She told it to me on the night of my brother’s bachelor party, as we headed for a girls’ night out at a Michigan casino. We passed through Indiana’s LaPorte County, where my SIL (to protect her privacy, I’ll call her Missy) grew up. She shivered as we passed historic Posey Chapel Cemetery.
Missy was a young teen, working at a Dairy Queen. After work, she and some friends went out to Posey Chapel to see if they could channel some paranormal activity. They brought with them a Ouija board of sorts, improvised from fast food boxes. Missy and her friends found a grassy spot in between the ruins of the chapel and a wooded area nearby.
Their Ouija board seemed to make contact with some invisible entity. They asked it a question: “Are you an evil spirit?” At that moment, Missy heard a peculiar sound. It was a rustling sound, almost like the wind, but distinctly coming from the woods. She describes it as a “rising” sound. It was different from the soft movement sounds of a deer or small animal in the brush - it was more like the woods themselves were rising and coming toward Missy and her friends.
Panicked, they picked up the Ouija board and ran for the car. They drove back to the Dairy Queen, pulled up around back, and set the Ouija board on fire on top of the bare concrete. The cardboard contraption burned to ashes, all except for one word…Yes.
The Smell of Gas at Melange Books
Erin O’Riordan home page
Pagan Spirits blog
The Smell of Gas Official Book Blurb: Love pulp fiction? Just try putting down The Smell of Gas. TSOG is full of saints and sinners you'll love to hate. There's Brigid, the high school basketball player and secret heroin addict. Fred, a Catholic lesbian teen, loves Brigid, but doesn't know about her affair with Edward, a married Evangelical preacher. Sex, ethics, religions and mythologies clash as you dig deeper into their connection to the death of a young couple.
About Erin O’Riordan: Erin O'Riordan lives in the Midwestern United States with her husband and co-author Tit Elingtin. Her erotic stories, essays, and film reviews have been published in numerous magazines and websites. She loves myths and folklore and refuses to choose any one faith. A trap designed to catch her should contain dark chocolate, espresso drinks and Christian Bale movies.
If this was some Goth kid’s idea of decor, Fred had seen worse. At least there weren’t gargoyles mounted on the walls and tacky candleholders shaped like human skulls. She stepped closer to the shadowy figures gathered at the far end of the room. Three men stood in a circle, all wearing black robes. One was tall and skinny like Dennis. Fred thought she recognized him as one of the underclassmen at her old high school, but it was hard to tell with his head shaved. The others were older, possibly in their thirties. One was very fat, and grinned at Fred until she felt icky inside. The other was brawny and had a coiled snake tattooed on his bare head.
Fred figured that the woman, who wore a purple robe and had an angry scowl on her face, must have been Eva. Eva, apparently, was not required to shave her head. Her hair was blonde with purple streaks that matched her robe. Her face was pretty, but her features were hard. Fred thought of Marlene Dietrich.
Leander picked up a black robe from a pile as he passed the yellow couches. He picked up a purple robe and tried to hand it to Fred, but she refused. “Hell no,” she said. “This is getting too weird. Let’s get out of here.”
Leander grabbed Fred by the forearm and jerked her toward him. “For Chrissakes, Fred, just be cool. I promise you it will be worth the trouble.”
She stared into his deep brown eyes, wondering if she could detect the truth in them. Not that it mattered. If what Leander had told her was true, Eva had great connections. This was Fred’s one chance to be done with common street skag once and for all. She pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and ran her fingers in between the sores.
“Okay,” she said. “But I’m not sacrificing any small animals.” She clutched at the crucifix that hung from her neck.