Ghost Light in the Window
The Drish House Haunting
They say the widow’s ghost lingers in the tower and sets the house ablaze with phantom fire…
In Tuscaloosa, Alabama, stands the restored Drish House, a stately home that now holds a spot on the National Register of Historic Places. However, the Drish House has not always been a priority for preservation. In fact, the Drish House has changed hands many times since the tragic deaths of its original owners, and some think this has to do with tales of its haunting.
Built over the course of two years starting in 1837, the Drish House belonged to slave owner John Drish and his wife Sarah. The marriage was a second for both of them; their first spouses had both died, and Sarah’s husband had left her quite wealthy. Drish’s slaves were instrumental in the building of the new home, and much…
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Where did I get my idea for this story?
It’s usually me asking one of my favorite writers. Because, we all wonder, even favorite writers.
I think the truest answer is: Who knows?
Sure, we plumb newspapers, pore over magazine articles, and scroll the ultimate dreaded time suck: Facebook.
Oh look. A fireman was helping a poor helpless little kitten out of a stormdrain this morning. Oh, wait. What is this? He later told his buddy, in confidence, that when he was down there, when he was almost waist deep, upside down in that wet and smelly stormdrain, he SAW SOMETHING. He felt something wet graze his arm. And when he looked in that direction, it kinda looked like…you know, a tentacle, or something.
A tentacle or something?
…so is that the “idea”?
It may be the start of one. I like to call it the germ or the…
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Clouds of war are gathering over a fogbound London. Twenty-eight year old Jack is poor, lonely and desperate to change his life.
So when he’s offered the chance to be the wireless operator on an Arctic expedition, he jumps at it. Spirits are high as the ship leaves Norway: five men and eight huskies, crossing the Barents Sea by the light of the midnight sun. At last they reach the remote, uninhabited bay where they will camp for the next year.
But the Arctic summer is brief. As night returns to claim the land, Jack feels a creeping unease. One by one, his companions are forced to leave. He faces a stark choice. Stay or go. Soon he will see the last of the sun, as the polar night engulfs the camp in months of darkness. Soon he will reach the point of no return – when…
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Art by Agnes-Cecile (@deviantart.com)
A. M. Burrage, 19xx
While the uniformed attendants of Marriner’s Waxworks were ushering the last stragglers through the great glass-panelled double doors, the manager sat in his office interviewing Raymond Hewson.
The manager was a youngish man, stout, blond and of medium height. He wore his clothes well and contrived to look extremely smart without appearing over-dressed. Raymond Hewson looked neither. His clothes, which had been good when new and which were still carefully brushed and pressed, were beginning to show signs of their owner’s losing battle with the world.
He was a small, spare, pale man, with lank, errant brown hair, and although he spoke plausibly and even forcibly he had the defensive and somewhat furtive air of a man who was used to rebuffs. He looked what he was, a man gifted somewhat above the ordinary, who was a failure through his…
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