The Phoenix Is Fallen

When I was a grownup, I watched with escalating horror as the legends of my youth passed away. As a writer, I keep odd hours. But last night, I wasn't writing. Last night, I was conducting a vigil. I had a horrible feeling all day. For some reason, I felt like it was the last day--a day I thought would never come. Some people you honestly believe are immortal. As a grownup, I worked on my novel, editing, with ESPN News on the TV, and every few minutes I checked the ticker. When I'd first watched Muhammad Ali, I didn't wait until 12:30 in the morning as I did last night.

When I was a kid, bedtime was non-negotiable.

Unless I was watching a sporting event with my dad. And every time that Muhammad Ali was fighting, I got to stay up. My dad loved Ali--had loved him since he'd won Olympic gold along with our hometown girl, Wilma Rudolph. My dad isn't the kind of guy to jump on a bandwagon.  He's the kind of man to march against the tide around him. He'd loved Cassius Clay; he continued to love Muhammad Ali. And because my dad was my hero, I did too. My love of sports began on those nights when I was allowed to cuddle with my father in his big chair, watching football games or those amazing, spectacular boxing matches when Ali came back to retake his heavyweight title.

A phoenix, rising from the ashes of his career, to regain what was unfairly taken from him.

When I was a kid, I didn't care about politics. 

My dad did. And although he is an Army veteran, he respected Ali's stand against Vietnam. I remember hearing him argue with my grandfather and uncles about it. He was outraged that Ali was stripped of his titles, losing the best years of a boxer's career. "Shouldn't matter what a man thinks, sports has no reason to punish a guy for his beliefs." 

When I was a kid, I didn't care about race. 

That was my dad's generation--and Ali's. I was of the generation who grew up after the Civil Rights Act, after the abolishment of segregation. My parents raised their kids to ignore the still-difficult relationship between the races in the Deep South. But I couldn't help but  be aware of how Ali already transcended that invisible-but-still-felt barrier that was slowly disintegrating around us, and how beloved he was. And as a little white girl in an all-white family I wasn't aware of how incredible that was.

When I was a kid, I watched Ali's greatest fights. 

I watched his comeback fight and loss to Joe Frazier as a kid on my dad's lap. I watched his victory in the second fight over Ken Norton. I watched Ali beat Frazier in their second bout, and the most brutal boxing match I've ever watched--their third and final match. We went to Nashville to watch the Rumble in the Jungle on PPV.  Rope-a-dope  had more impact live than it does now. I still don't know how he withstood the beating he took from Foreman, but he did. Make no mistake, all you dudes who thought Tyson could have beaten Ali if they'd met in their prime--no way would Tyson have been able to go the distance with Ali, and he would have had to. Ali refused to stay down on the mat.

When I was a kid, I watched the end of Ali's career.

I watched every single fight after he beat George Foreman. Every. Single. One. When he lost to Larry Holmes in a fight that no doctor should EVER have given the okay to, my brother and I sat in our living room and cried. Ali was our hero--the invincible man of our youth. It was unthinkable that he could lose. But he had. The Frazier fight was one thing--Smokin' Joe was a monster. The sorrow in Howard Cosell's voice, the obvious sound of him choking back his own tears is something I remember vividly to this day.

When I was a grownup, I realized how important Ali really was. 

Once I was old enough to understand the political importance of Muhammad Ali, I finally was able to process just how vital his influence was. His oft-quoted "I ain't got no quarrel with them Viet-Cong--no Viet-Cong ever called me nigger." 

That quote doesn't deserve to be softened with a politically correct n-word. You need to read it in its original form to get the impact, the full impact, of an Olympic gold medalist who couldn't eat in the same restaurants with my family, or use the same bathroom, or drink from the same fountain. So don't expect me to insult the memory of Ali's courage by paraphrasing what he said. 

When I was a grownup, I realized again how important Ali was--to me. 

The opening night of the 1996 Olympics was an landmark day for me. After years of estrangement, I was visiting my dad. We were watching the opening ceremonies together. And how fitting it was that Ali was the surprise they'd been touting all day. When Janet Evans climbed the steps at Olympic plaza and all of a sudden the light fell on that oh-so-familiar face, I teared up. I'm tearing up writing this now. This man who'd meant so much to people of color everywhere, who'd inspired so many people, stood there as the representative of his country once more at the Olympic games. Once the torch in his hand was lit, the shaking in his hands was so obvious and terrible. 

My dad said, "Someone's going to have to help him light that thing." 

I said, "No one is going to help Muhammad Ali do anything--not when the world is watching." 

Ali gritted his teeth, put both hands on the torch, and stilled the shaking out of sheer will. When I saw the fire catch, I started to cry. Not because Ali was obviously so ill, but because he was still refusing to give up. He was down on the mat in the eyes of everyone watching, and out of his inability to give up, his defiant nature, his self-pride, and above all the consciousness that billions of people were watching him around the world, he overcame once again the elements ranged against him. 

He refused to stay down. 

When I was a grownup, I could watch all of Ali's fights--the ones before I was born. The Liston fights, when Ali's incredible speed confounded the champ--and the speed of his mouth terrified him. 

When I was a grownup, I could discover his bravado from the earliest days and laugh with him. I could learn his history, from the stolen bicycle that led him into boxing to the Olympic games where he'd met--and briefly dated--Miss Wilma, who was a beloved icon of sports in my hometown. 

When I was a grownup, I could appreciate the courage it took for Ali to make the stand he did against the draft, and how unapologetic he was for taking it.  

When I was a grownup, I could witness Ali's transformation from draft-dodger into a man that represented the highest ideals of sports--a man who'd sacrificed his career to stand up for his beliefs--and  how everyone grew to respect him for it.

When I was a grownup, I watched all the idols of my youth begin to die. 2016 has been particularly hard for people my age. But today, today is the hardest day. Muhammad Ali was the first of my childhood heroes, and my worship of him began at the age of five--a little girl sitting on her father's lap watching him box on TV. Ali is an unbreakable link between my father and me. Dad put up with a lot of crap because he loved Ali so much--and the fact that his precocious daughter had a nasty habit of scowling at a grown-up that was giving Dad grief about it and saying, "Ali is the greatest." 

After all, Ali had said it himself--and no one dared to deny it after the Frazier and Foreman fights. I have this mental image of him ascending to whatever afterlife is there, surrounded by a huge crowd of Congolese kids yelling, "Ali bomaye! Ali bomaye!"

And whoever's at the gate doesn't even have to ask his name.

Like my dad, Ali has always been there--boxer, political figure, orator, icon, philanthropist--a constant, smart-mouthed phoenix rising from the flames.

Today, the flame that began in the world consciousness at the Rome games of 1960, the vibrant, defiant flames of the phoenix are finally doused. What once people thought was empty boasting is now universally accepted as the truth. 

Even beyond the grave, Ali will back it up. Godspeed, Champ. 

2016--The Year The Music Died

First Bowie. Then Merle Haggard. Now...Prince?

I can't believe it. 

Prince was an integral part of my growing from adolescence into womanhood--an independent musician intent upon having his own way, creating music no one else had ever thought of, and riding the charts to unbelievable popularity. 1984 was the year of Purple Rain--my senior year in high school/first year of college. Despite the earlier songs I was familiar with, Prince was an enigma to me, a punk girl trapped in the country music of the Deep South. Purple Rain was an awakening for me musically--a conceptual album that told a story, but not as high brow as Bowie or as insistent as Pink Floyd. 

And that story was the kind of thing important to a 17-year-old girl. His music spoke of emotion and sex and violence, wrapped in the imagery of a novelist and the words of a rebellious poet. He wrote songs about things that no one else dared to--Darling Nikki, anyone?

I met a girl named Nikki
I guess you can say she was a sex fiend.
Met her in a hotel lobby
Masturbating with a magazine.
She said, "How'd you like to have a good time?"
And I just couldn'r resist
When Nikki started to grind-- 
             --Prince and the Revolution, Purple Rain 1984 ™

Prince was the anti-Michael Jackson--an artist of color who didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought about the fact that he was five foot nothing, wore high heels, and dressed like a New Romantic. He was a virtuoso musician who could play multiple instruments, and one of the best guitarists in music. His voice was unbelievably rangy--a full FOUR octaves plus four or five additional notes surrounding his natural baritone.He created an iconography around himself that even in an era where all the great musicians were doing that, his stood above the others for its sheer audacity and playfully malicious message. His sexuality was endlessly debated--and yet, no one had any doubt that if you pissed Prince off, he would kick your ass.

And then run over you with his souped-up purple motorcycle.

He was an androgynous bad ass, whose work as a producer was almost as revolutionary as his music. He brought us one of the great party anthems of all time thanks to his introduction of Morris Day and the Time to the world, and one of the greatest love songs and vocal performances ever with Sinead O'Connor's version of Nothing Compares 2 U. Hell, we wouldn't have text-speak if he hadn't done it first.

He took a stand against the big record label who'd tied up the rights to his music, and emerged as "the artist formerly known as Prince"--a stand that might have ended up killing another musician's career. Two years ago, he won the rights to that music back, effectively bringing Warner Brothers to their knees after he'd termed their contracts "slavery" two decades before. And then he triumphantly re-signed with them, having regained the rights to his entire catalog.

Prince was a legend, and became one very early on. I respected his independent spirit, his fearlessness in standing up to a corporate giant, and the poetry infused into every lyric he ever wrote. My kids grew up hearing Purple Rain and Controversy. Bowie they liked; Prince, they loved.

That summer of 1984, I was driving home from work and When Doves Cry was on the radio. I was one of those sing along in the car kind of kids. I had an orange VW Bug that I loved, and driving through Clarksville, Tennessee with the top down and Prince cranking on a hot summer's day was a pretty awesome feeling. When I got home, surprisingly, my mother was waiting for me. I instantly tried to figure out what I'd done to get into trouble, and then she told me that my best friend had been killed in a car wreck that morning.

I'd talked to Tammy on the phone the night before. We had big plans for college--after years of debating against each other for different high schools, we were at last going to be debating together on the same team. We were excited, because fall semester was only a few weeks away. I'd known Tammy since we were both toddlers. She and I lived five houses apart back then. Her death was the first tragedy to ever touch me that closely.

And ever since, When Doves Cry has inextricably been associated with her death in my mind.

That summer and fall, I played Prince's Purple Ran album over and over. When Doves Cry might have been tied to death for me, but the rest of the album was exuberantly, vibrantly, sexually full of life and the joie de vivre that Prince's iconic album exuded. It helped me cope with loss, and taught me that all the changes a teenager undergoes are an essential part of life--not wrong, but defiantly normal and oh-so-right.Living in the same state as the hypocritical Tipper Gore and her stupid parental advisory labels on music (and now video games) made his defiance of society's "acceptable" norms even more impactful--and taught me as a writer to push the boundaries myself and to seek the rarer paths in my work

An important lesson, for something that was "just" pop music.

So today, after losing David Bowie and dealing with his incredible self-designed epitaph, after losing an icon of country music in singer-songwriter Merle Haggard (not my cup of tea, but what an incredible story and human being he was)--now we must confront the horror of a world without Prince.

I am a child of the 80's. The pop culture of that decade has influenced my taste as an adult, for good or for ill. Music is what taught me to be a rebel--and that rebellion is epitomized in two artists: David
Bowie, and Prince.

I'm sure somewhere, among his things or upcoming music, Prince has composed his own epitaph. But if he hasn't, that's all right--because he wrote it thirty years ago.

How can you just leave me standing?

Alone in a world that's so cold

Maybe I'm just too demanding

Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold

Maybe I'm just like my mother

She's never satisfied

Why do we scream at each other?

This is what it sounds like when doves cry...

          --When Doves Cry, Prince and the Revolution, 1984 ™

There is no doubt about it. 2016 is the year the music died.

David Bowie, Iconographic Control, Blackstar, And Death

I knew there was a reason I couldn't sleep last night. 

For the past couple of days I've had a killer migraine--the keep one eye closed in order to see kind--and to say that my stomach has been upset is a major understatement. I used to have nasty migraines when I was young, but this is the first mega-migraine I've had in years. For some reason, around 5:30 this morning I randomly checked my Twitter--something I refuse to do before noon--and got gutted. 

David Bowie is dead. 

As I read the news that he'd been battling cancer for 18 months, all of a sudden a lightbulb went off in my head--and it was shaped like a Blackstar--the 10 minute jazz-pop fusion grotesque and yet enchanting title song/video of Bowie's latest...now last...album. If you haven't seen this video yet, you need to. 

Why? 

Because it's David Bowie saying goodbye to David Bowie...and demanding that we do as well.

Blackstar and its followup piece Lazarus share similar themes/iconography/images, and now that the news has churned its way into my writer's soul, I realize that Bowie, the chameleon before Madonna ripped her first fishnets, had not only reinvented himself once again but had done so with his own imminent death in mind.  

This video is vintage Bowie...without being vintage. From the beginning image of what could very well be a crash-landed and long dead Major Tom, through the bejewelled skull of the Thin White Duke to the blind prophet with button eyes (and I never thought button eyes could get creepier than in Gaiman's Coraline) to the three scarecrows being crucified as the sacrifice to a vicious and hungry entity--but particularly in Bowie's pronounced emaciation and the jerky, spasmodic movements of his acolytes the viewer is simultaneously horrified and entranced by the sheer artistic beauty and macabre power of Bowie's always haunting voice. 

From the day of execution

From the day of execution

Only women kneel and smile

At the centre of it all 

At the centre of it all

--your eyes

--your eyes

Bowie's acolytes--or are they his murderers?--repetitively engage in their stop-motion dance of death, and the song suddenly changes:

Something happened on the day he died

Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside

Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried

(I’m a blackstar, I’m a blackstar)

​

How many times does an angel fall?

How many people lie instead of talking tall?

He trod on sacred ground, he cried loud into the crowd

(I’m a blackstar, I’m a blackstar, I’m not a gangster)

And when you follow that up with the video for Lazarus--

 

--the button-eyed prophet is now in a hospital bed, from which he rises to resurrect--literally--that thin white duke, jumpsuit, high heels and all. And then the lyrics--

Look up here, I’m in heaven

I’ve got scars that can’t be seen

I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen

Everybody knows me now

Look up here, man, I’m in danger

I’ve got nothing left to lose

I’m so high it makes my brain whirl

Dropped my cell phone down below

Ain’t that just like me

By the time I got to New York

I was living like a king

Then I used up all my money

I was looking for your ass

This way or no way

You know, I’ll be free

Just like that bluebird

Now ain’t that just like me

My God. It hits you like a punch in the gut. David Bowie, who has had such an incredible influence over six decades of music, wrote his own Requiem. He starred in his own Passion Play--The Passion of Ziggy Stardust is encapsulated in these two songs and particularly in the videos for them. He not only creates his death iconography, but he demands that we accept his version of events as his reality because he leaves us no choice. But he is not the scarecrow on the cross of martyrdom waiting for his monster to consumer him, he is instead a visionary without vision--a priest without any religion save the religion of self-command, and he compels us to cede our control to him as well. 

All of this is merely speculation. As much as I would love to channel Bowie, I would never presume to say that i know what he was thinking when he came up with this. I can only speculate, as a lifelong fan of Bowie's who has spent literally decades trying to decipher the workings of his brilliant yet tortured artistic muse. But this morning, when the news that David Bowie was dead at 69 filtered into my sleep deprived brain, all of the deciphering I've done over the past few weeks of Blackstar and then a few days ago Lazarus slammed into my mind with the completion one usually feels when the last piece of the puzzle slides inevitably into its proper place. 

Two life events we, as human beings, are absolutely incapable of influencing--our births and our deaths. Only with the latter can we find a way to reconcile ourselves to the inescapable finality of our final hours. But an artist like Bowie, beloved by legions of people aged 70 to 7, has another opportunity to impact those unknowns who loved them--and that is the artist's individual perception not only of death, but their own death. Just as Mozart spent his last hours feverishly fingering orchestration for his great final masterpiece Requiem, so did Bowie spend his last year of life masterminding the iconography of his final masterpiece. For believe me--Blackstar is Bowie's Requiem, his farewell to all his incarnations, his fans, and, at the end, himself. 

I can’t answer why (I’m a blackstar)

Just go with me (I’m not a filmstar)

I’m-a take you home (I’m a blackstar)

Take your passport and shoes (I’m not a popstar)

And your sedatives, boo (I’m a blackstar)

You’re a flash in the pan (I’m not a marvel star)

I’m the great I am (I’m a blackstar)

It is, at the end, both a curse and a gift. A curse against the inevitability of time and disease, and a gift of a true artist's last, brilliant self-image. Whatever happened, David Bowie didn't die cringing and weeping for his fate. He screamed defiantly into the night, and soared beyond all the petty fears that drive so many of us when facing our own mortality. 

Godspeed, David Bowie, to whatever distant star is your Blackstar. 

@all lyrics-- David Bowie, Blackstar (2016) VEVO Music

The REAL Legend of the Bell Witch: Let's Take a Timeout to Discuss Paranormal Hypotheses

I assume that if you're reading this blog series, you have a serious interest in the paranormal. This post involves theories and my own hypothesis regarding the Bell Witch haunting. If you're touchy about your religion, stop reading now. If you're too skeptical to consider paranormal possibilities, stop reading now. If you want to explore the hows and whys of how Kate was able to speak and are willing to range far afield in the process, keep reading. 

Don't be shy about paranormal curiosity. I suffer from it too, and the Bell Witch Legend was the catalyst for that interest. I've mentioned in passing that I had several significant paranormal encounters on or near the land that once comprised the Bell farm and the community surrounding it. Unfortunately, the one manifestation of the legend that I've always really wanted to experience never happened too much around me. Although I have EVPs from the cave, farm, cemetery, and even the old Bell school, I rarely heard a disembodied voice and never actually interacted with one. 

What makes this rather puzzling is the fact that Kate's loquaciousness is the manifestation that sets this haunting apart. The entity's ability to speak was witnessed and documented by hundreds of people, from family to neighbors to complete and utter strangers. Even Andrew Jackson, Old Hickory himself, had a conversation with Kate that is backed up by a number of original sources. So one of the facets of this case that has always intrigued me is Kate's ability to speak. How did the spirit learn to accomplish such a feat? Why did it choose to do such a thing? Why did it stop? And why, despite the continuation of the haunting in the area and especially on Bell land, isn't it speaking now?

Today we have all sorts of tools to investigate the paranormal with--and particularly to communicate with spirits that are haunting a site or person. Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVPs) are a huge part of every ghost hunting group and are featured on every ghost hunting show. Usually, when a spirit voice is recorded, it does so at an audio level and volume that humans cannot hear without the aid of technology. In fact, if all the investigators find evidence-wise at a suspected haunting is three or four EVPs, that hunt is considered a huge success. 

But rarely do the investigators actually hear a disembodied voice interacting with them, and when that really does happen the voice is a low whisper or sounds distant. From all the evidence in the Bell haunting, this was definitely not the case with Kate. Richard Williams Bell described Kate's speaking ability as follows:

The voice, however, gradually gained strength in articulating, and soon the utterances became distinct in a low whisper, so as to be understood in the absence of any other noises. I do not remember the first intelligent utterance, which, however, was of no significance, but the voice soon developed sufficient strength to be distinctly heard by everybody in the room...The voice was not confined to darkness, as were the physical manifestations. The talking was heard in lighted rooms, as in the dark, and finally in the day at any hour.

I believe this is extremely important information as we try to dissect this case.  What Richard Bell is describing is basically that the entity learned how to speak, and as it grew stronger so did the voice. When you add in the following tidbit, the puzzle develops even more strongly:

This new development added to the sensation already created. The news spread, and people came in larger numbers, and the great anxiety concerning the mystery prompted many questions in the effort to induce the Witch to disclose its own identity and purpose.

Italics are mine.

I am not a paranormal expert by any means, but I have a theory involving this phenomenon and the sentence I highlighted is integral to that. I've gone through the source material and assembled a timeline that roughly parallels Kate's speaking ability. Let's put it down in outline form--

1.  The earliest manifestations begin--these are nonverbal.
2.  The Bells suffer in silence for several months, until the episodes become so alarming that John           confesses their 'family trouble' to his minister, Reverend Johnson.
3.  Reverend Johnson believes the haunting is of an intelligent nature, and encourages the Bells to             bring in other members of the community to witness this for themselves.
4.  As people interacted with the entity and encouraged it to communicate, the spirit learned to speak. 

5.  This development brought the Bell's neighbors to witness the entity.

6.  Those visitors, beginning with the preachers, began to urge the spirit to speak more.

7.  At first, the voice was a low whisper but gradually strengthened to a normal human-volume.

8.  When news of this got out, hordes of people began to show up at the Bell farm to witness it.

9.  Kate's voice grew stronger, allowing her to sing, shout, and interact with people who weren't even         close to Bell land.

10. Even more people came to see the famous talking Witch. 

11. Kate began to develop stronger abilities, like omnipresence and apportation.

12. John Bell dies, and the Witch takes credit for that--then shows up at his funeral singing bawdy            songs accompanied by the reek of alcohol, as if it were drunk and celebrating.
13. Once the sensation died down, so did the witch's ability to speak--except for one notable exception that we'll discuss later in this article.

Paranormal researchers commonly accept the theory that in order for an entity to manifest--that is, to create the visual and audible encounters that inspire fear in us--it will drain energy from something in the environment in order to power that manifestation. These days, there's no shortage of electronic equipment and technology even in the poorest homes that a supernatural being can siphon its strength. But in the 18th century, nothing existed like batteries or computers, so the only thing an entity could have stolen energy from was restricted to what was most readily available. John and Lucy Bell, with a large and thriving family,including several children in or near the age of puberty as well as a small community of slaves, initially powered the spirit's original manifestations--the scratching, the clawing, the chewing, snatching of covers, banging on the walls. It's important to note that speaking didn't occur until after the Bells began to invite people into their home to see the haunting for themselves.

In other words, I've come to the conclusion that Kate only gained the ability to speak when there were enough people present to charge her supernatural batteries. Put it in perspective--the nightly visitors at the Bell farm had traveled long distances by horse or wagon, over roads that we'd consider little more than a game trail through a thick, heavily forested territory, basically so they can witness something miraculous and/or get the crap scared out of them. After the Bells had fed their uninvited guests and stabled their horses, that group of people would congregate in the large central room of the house, getting more excited and more amped up as the sun fell and darkness descended upon the banks of the Red River. The atmosphere would have been charged by anticipation, fear, suspicion, Every little noise would have cranked that energy up more and then, finally, when the whole house was electric with it, the witch would begin to speak. The guests would feed off that, and she would feed off them--until our paranormal AAA is charged full up to the brim. In a cold, dark, and isolated frontier world, that house would have resonated like a supernatural beacon, and the cycle would escalate even more every time a new horse started up the trail to the Bell homestead.

To me, that makes a lot of sense. But then, I run into a problem. With all the energy sizzling through the world these days, spirits holding court in modern living rooms during weekly ghost hunting shows--well, then why in the world aren't all hauntings involving spirits with Kate's gift of gab? Surely, the energy that powers our modern technological-dependent world is more than sufficient to grant any spirit with the psychic fuel it would need to speak. And let's keep in mind, too, that when the Ghost Adventures crew flooded the Bell Witch cave with energy, they too were hearing disembodied voices in the cave when they were outside and no one was anywhere near the instruments. 

Oh, in case you were wondering, the cave is several hundred yards down a precarious cliffside trail from where the GAC guys were hanging out. NO ONE could get into the cave without their knowledge.

NO ONE. And that trail? Running up it in the middle of the night scared half to death sucks, especially when the witch runs you out by turning off the lights and slamming the heavy iron gate behind you.

Just sayin'. Okay, back to the conversation at hand.

For one thing--again, if we accept modern parapsychological theory, there are four accepted types of hauntings: residual, intelligent, poltergeist, and inhuman. The Psychic Library explains this much better than I--interesting reading too. Residual hauntings occur when the spirits do not interact with the living--instead, they replay moments from moments from their life. The Stone Tape theory, first proffered in the 1970s, hypothesizes that certain types of stone  (quartz or limestone are the most commonly cited) actually record events and replays them. So the stereotypical ghost that walks the hall and disappears into a wall every May 1 would be a residual haunting.

Obviously, Kate is not a residual haunt. The Paranormal Network blog has a great explanation of the Stone Tape theory as well as subsequent hypotheses built off the original concept.

An intelligent haunting occurs when a spirit interacts with the humans it encounters. An example of a famous intelligent haunt would be if granny comes into your room and tells you to pick up your trash three years after she was buried. But while the ghost may interact with people, the kinds of phenomena Kate produced is well beyond the capability of most entities.

Which leaves us with two possibilities. The first--a poltergeist haunting--fits the Bell haunting profile extremely well. They are primarily associated with kids (usually girls) when they hit puberty. The resulting hormonal surge is believed to fuel the child's inherent and untapped psychokinetic ability--hence the name, which means "noisy ghost". Poltergeists like to throw things, stack things, open and close doors, and bang on the walls. They like to make things disappear from their normal place and reappear somewhere it would never normally be put--sometimes months or years after they first disappear. And since Betsy Bell was thirteen when the haunting began, it seems to really tie in with this kind of haunting.

But, I think that the fourth type of haunting, an inhuman haunt, is the most likely explanation for what tormented the Bells. An inhuman haunting occurs when an entity that has never lived as a human being is the force that generates the paranormal event. If you read the Psychic Library post, you'll note that they call this fourth and worst type of haunting a demonic in nature.

It is obvious from the documented events of the Bell case that they were dealing with some entity above and beyond what could be considered a "normal" haunting, and most probably one of the strongest entities ever encountered in paranormal history. The appearance of the strange black animals, the injuries inflicted on countless individuals, the specialized torture of its two primary targets John Bell Sr. and his daughter Betsy--all these things don't fall in line with any of the other three categories. When you factor in the evidence of the entity talking and interacting verbally with scores of witnesses, the materialization of fruit and other gifts when Mrs. Bell was ill, and finally the death of John Bell, it's difficult to believe that these events were generated by a poltergeist.

If your spiritual beliefs include a heaven and hell, the concept of demons is something easier for you to accept than for the atheist/agnostic individual. But even if you don't follow a standard Judeo-Christian based religion, logically you have to wonder what type of supernatural agency possesses the vast power required to do what Kate did. Granny who wants you to pick up your trash isn't going to have the ability to stop Old Hickory's wagon trail in its tracks, or to quote verbatim two Sunday morning church sermons that took place at the same time in two different churches by two different preachers several miles apart. But an inhuman entity--a demon--most certainly would.

And if I'm right, that inhuman entity would be able to feed off the human energy streaming toward the backwoods of Robertson County's forest by the wagon. Every new witness gave the entity that much more power, more fuel charging through it. And so an entity that had learned to verbalize found it incredibly easy to whisper, then say a few words, then sentences, then shout, then sing, then communicate with the very people fueling it for days on end.

The paranormal equivalent of a psychic wind turbine farm in a non-ending hurricane.

Think my theory's out there? Well, check out these words that the entity spoke to John Bell Jr. on its return to the Bell farm seven years after it initially departed.

"There are spirits millions of years old, John, that never have been connected with a body, but were created spirits...I have seen over and over again, things happening in the same country for millions of years; the human mind cannot grasp the meaning of always, eternity, or the infinity of space..."{The Bell Witch, Charles Bailey Bell}

Don't worry. You'll hear a lot more about Kate's return visit on a later post. And the fact that she returned and spoke at great length with John Bell Jr. despite there not being crowds of witnesses lends credence to the theory that this isn't just your average ghost.

So that's my hypothesis. The entity at the center of the Bell haunting is, in my opinion, an inhuman entity with far greater power than a run of the mill ghost--and when hordes of people descended upon the Bell farm seeking proof of the paranormal, they inadvertently fueled that entity, not only with enough energy for it to learn how to communicate easily, but also to fulfill its stated purpose for the haunting.

For everything that Kate did from the moment it first scratched on the walls of the Bell homestead was geared toward a single, horrific goal--to murder John Bell, Senior, and to be able to laugh and sing at his funeral.

For more paranormal theories, check out the Long Island Paranormal Investigators website--http://www.liparanormalinvestigators.com/theories.shtml.

Next time, we'll take a look at one of the more spectacular episodes in the Bell Witch case, including a standoff with a future President of the United States.

Sharon De Vita: Love, Laughter, and her Legacy

A few days ago, the writing community and romance fans lost one of the true greats. Sharon De Vita passed away after a brief illness. Her loss cuts deeply, at least for me. And while writing a remembrance blog post isn't really my thing, I feel compelled to share with you my love and respect for Sharon and my absolute sorrow at her death.

I first met Sharon through Musa. We hadn't even opened our doors yet, and she submitted her novel The Estrogen Posse to me. My first thought was, "No way. Someone's playing a joke on me. There's no way that Sharon De Vita is submitting to us!" I mean, this was THE Sharon De Vita--NYT Bestselling author of over 30 books, winner of the RT Lifetime Achievement Award, beloved of Harlequin and Silhouette readers--why would this writer be sending ME her new novel?

But it wasn't a joke. Sharon, returning from a hiatus after the tragic death of her son, was taking her career down a new path. The Estrogen Posse was a departure from the light-hearted romances she was so well-known for. The manuscript clocked in at a hefty 150,000+ words, with elements of suspense and humor framing a recently divorced woman's quest for herself amidst murder, family turmoil, and a new romance. The first scene was a one-sided conversation between the protagonist, Ellie, and God.

And Ellie won the argument.

There was no way I was going to let that novel be published by anyone else. I'd made such a connection with the story--and its author--that I'd determined we would publish the book within the first hundred pages. We contracted the book within a few days. I edited the novel myself, and The Estrogen Posse was one of the three books we published on Musa's opening day. 

Can't think of another e-publisher who started off with such a writer/book combination, or one with a Janet Evanovich blurb on the cover. But what had started as a business relationship between Sharon and myself, morphed into an editor/author connection that was one of the most rewarding professional experiences I've ever had. By the time Musa opened for business, Sharon had become our one-woman encouragement team and biggest fan. She brought us other authors, who'd been screwed over by their traditional publishers releasing electronic versions of their books and paying them a few cents per sale. She bragged about our way of doing business, our transparency, and our support system.

Sharon was so important to us at Musa. Every time we saw her emails in our inboxes, we automatically felt good.  

What a rare gift that is! Think about it: online communication is somewhat sterile, especially in a business situation. Think of what kind of person you have to be to supersede that cold formality. Sharon was such a writer, such a wonderful person, that even in an email zipped out in two minutes flat she could evoke such warmth and sincerity and such caring that it could make four people she'd never met feel happy with just a few well-chosen words. That's why Sharon's books were so well-loved: she had such a gift with evocative language that her readers cared about her characters with the same kind of intensity that they cared about their best friends. The Kirkus reviewer for The Estrogen Posse saw the same thing: 

While working with these dark topics, the author skillfully weaves in a dose of levity without any heavy-handedness. As a result, readers jump between gasps of shock during the murder investigation and stints of uncontrolled laughter as Ellie’s ridiculous “posse” mobilizes into action. An emotional, fun-filled romp.

You see, Sharon cared about those characters and shared them with us in her books, just like she cared about us as individuals--and she shared those feelings so candidly and with such sincerity that it was impossible to doubt that she meant anything other than exactly what she said. Don't get me wrong: Sharon and I went toe-to-toe several times during the editing process. She could be just flat out ornery if she chose to. And then, once the  orneriness had passed, it was like the sun breaking through the clouds and banishing the storms from the horizon.

It's hard for me to accept that I'll never have that feeling again, that I'll never get another email or phone call from her to brighten a dark day, or that I'll never fall in love with another amazing story that came from her figurative pen. 

Sharon gave Musa another wonderful gift: her daughter, Jeanne, came to work with us at Musa and became such an integral part of the company that it was hard to imagine how we'd ever gotten along without her. Jeanne is another one like her mother--she has the same spunk, the same warmth, the same earnest interest in what's going on around her. When health issues started to come between Musa and me, Jeanne stepped in and I trusted her to do so. 

But now we find ourselves here, heartsick and sad, when the days have dimmed unaccountably and even the sounds of an Ohio spring seem to be muted. Our world of writers and readers has lost a beautiful person, one whose talent made so many people happy and whose personality and loving nature was evident in every message or interaction. But beyond that community of authors, Sharon's loss resonates on a deeper, more personal level. We have lost a member of our family, a selfless lodestone to set our course by. We have lost an advocate, who fought zealously for other writers throughout her career. We have lost an innovator, who was willing to take a chance and make the best of it. 

And I have lost a dear, dear friend. Sharon encouraged me as both an editor and a writer. She cared about what was happening in my life, and she made my life brighter once our paths intersected. Her passing was sudden and wholly unexpected, coming as it did without warning.

Sharon leaves behind her husband, Frank, her two daughters, Jeanne and Annie, and two lovely little granddaughters. She also leaves behind legions of devoted fans, bereft authors, and shattered friends. But Sharon has also left us her books--all those wonderful books, the stories that remain as her legacy--that will always remain, immortalized, like she is now. My grief is for my own sake, because I've lost someone important and dear to me, and for her family, whose pain is just so intense right now. And yet, this particular death has brought to mind something that Leonardo da Vinci once said: "As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death."

Life well used. An apt turn of phrase, and one that so embodies Sharon De Vita and the legacy of love and laughter she has bequeathed to us all. Her life was well used.

God speed you, my friend. You will be--and already are--sorely, painfully, sorrowfully missed. 

(And when I get there, wherever there is, we'll continue that argument about commas that I will, as usual, win. Or perhaps I'll let you win it, and just rejoice in the moment that we'll share.)