Bloodstone Manor

 

Bloodstone Manor.

It sounds like the setting of a Scooby-Doo episode—some crumbling old mansion with secret passages, dramatic lightning, and a villain waiting to be unmasked.

It wasn't.

It was a real house. A large, Spanish-style stone villa that sat on a hill overlooking a sprawling cemetery. Between the house and the rows of weathered headstones was a small pond, as if someone had decided a strip of water was enough to separate the living from the dead.

By the time my best friend moved into the neighborhood, the city had grown out to what had once been farmland. The new addition backed up to one of the largest cemeteries in the area, and standing between the subdivision and those 113 acres of headstones was the house we all knew as Bloodstone Manor.

That wasn't its real name.

It's just what we called it.

Years earlier, a local church had used the abandoned house as a haunted house fundraiser. (No kidding.) They christened it "Bloodstone Manor," complete with a story about the family who had supposedly lived there.

According to the legend, a mother, father, two sons, and a daughter had all been murdered in the middle of the night. One of the boys used a wheelchair, so the house had been equipped with an elevator. The story claimed he had tried to escape and was later found at the bottom of the elevator shaft with a broken neck. The killer was never found.

It was the kind of story every town seems to invent about one old house.

Or so I thought.

By the time we started exploring it, there wasn't much left.

A fire had gutted the interior years earlier, leaving little more than the bones of the house behind. The massive stone fireplace still stood. The skeletal remains of the staircase somehow still climbed to the second floor. To the right was the empty elevator shaft. The elevator itself was long gone, leaving only heavy cables and pulleys disappearing into the darkness.

And upstairs…

There was a bathtub.

Not just any bathtub.

A deep purple clawfoot bathtub (it was seriously cool).

To this day, I have absolutely no idea how it survived a fire that consumed nearly everything else inside the house, but there it sat, surrounded by charred walls and open sky, as though someone had forgotten to tell it the house was gone.

For reasons that made perfect sense to a group of teenagers and absolutely none to the adults we eventually became, that bathtub became our favorite place to sit while telling ghost stories.

We weren't disrespectful.

At least, we didn't think we were.

To us, it was just another abandoned house with a creepy story attached to it.

Years later, I told my husband about Bloodstone Manor.

I was halfway through the legend when he interrupted me.

"Oh...you mean the house by the cemetery?"

Not Bloodstone Manor.

It had another name—borrowed from the cemetery beside it.

He listened patiently while I repeated the story I'd grown up hearing.

When I finished, he said something that completely changed the way I remembered that place.

"It wasn't just a legend."

He was seven years older than I was. His father had been a troop commander with the Highway Patrol and had been involved in more than his share of major investigations (I really should write some of them down).

The murders had happened. The family had existed.

The story I'd grown up hearing wasn't invented after all. The parents, the children, and the elevator shaft weren't inventions dreamt up by imaginative teenagers sitting around telling scary stories, or by bored church ladies who apparently thought, "You know what would make a great fundraiser? That murder house out by the cemetery."

They came from a real crime. An unsolved one.

Apparently, after hearing his father talk about the case over dinner, he and his brother did what curious teenage boys often do.

They slipped under the police tape.

The stories he shared weren't ghost stories.

They were crime scene details.

The kind that stay with you.

Suddenly Bloodstone Manor wasn't an abandoned haunted house anymore.

It was a place where something unimaginably terrible had happened to a real family.

Years later, someone bought the property and painstakingly restored the house. I've often wondered if they kept that ridiculous purple bathtub. Somehow it feels like it belonged there.

The new owners reportedly went through three different alarm companies because the system would mysteriously malfunction night after night.

Is that true?

I honestly have no idea.

Like every old house with a tragic history, new stories seem to grow around it.

Eventually, the home changed hands again and now belongs to a church.

Ironically, not the same church that once turned it into a haunted house attraction.

I've always found that a little unsettling.

Not because of ghosts.

But because somewhere along the way, a family's tragedy became local entertainment.

Maybe that's what communities do. Maybe time slowly sands the sharp edges off terrible events until history becomes folklore and folklore becomes Halloween stories told by kids who have no idea where they began.

When I think about Bloodstone Manor now, I don't picture ghosts.

I picture a deep purple clawfoot bathtub sitting alone in the charred skeleton of a house overlooking a sea of headstones.

And I think about how sometimes the scariest stories don't need embellishment.

Sometimes they're frightening enough simply because they happened.

When I think about Bloodstone Manor now, I don't picture ghosts.

I picture a deep purple clawfoot bathtub sitting alone in the charred skeleton of a house overlooking a sea of headstones.

I don't know whether the family who restored the house kept it.

I hope they did. Somehow it feels like one survivor deserved to stay. 

It Started With a Swing Set and Battlestar Galactica...

Was anyone else that kid?

The one who didn't just watch a TV show...

...you lived it?

For me, it was the original Battlestar Galactica.

When I was in fifth grade, my best friend and I weren't pretending to be Sheba and Serena.

We were Sheba and Serena.

At school, we were undercover as students (obviously). The swings were Colonial Vipers. Her house—with its amazing bar—was the Battlestar Galactica. (Her dad worked for Hostess, so between the snacks and the bar, it was clearly the superior headquarters.) My house was the Battlestar Pegasus, and after school, our bikes instantly transformed into Colonial Vipers.

If another kid wandered over and asked what we were doing, my friend would quickly say, "Just swinging."

Me?

"Playing Battlestar Galactica! Wanna play?"

I never understood why that was supposed to be embarrassing. Looking back, those are still some of my favorite childhood memories.

Here's another fun fact.

Apollo had a younger brother named Zac, played by a very young Rick Springfield.

Naturally, Zac was my boyfriend.

My friend's boyfriend was Apollo.

It all made perfect sense to two ten-year-old girls.

Life has a funny way of coming full circle.

Decades later, my husband surprised me with VIP tickets to see Rick Springfield in concert. Fifth-grade Terri would have been absolutely convinced she'd won at life.

Looking back, though, this story isn't really about Battlestar Galactica.

It's about imagination.

It's about throwing yourself completely into something you loved without worrying whether anyone else thought it was weird.

I've realized that's never really changed.

Whether it's writing as Terri Rainer, researching Scottish history, paranormal investigating, diving into AI, or learning something completely new, I've always been the person who goes all in.

Maybe we don't outgrow the things that spark our imagination.

Maybe they quietly become part of who we are.

So...what was your Battlestar Galactica?

What captured your imagination so completely that you couldn't help but jump in with both feet?

Ghosts, Highlanders & Other Bad Decisions

I think I've taken more than a few breaks from this blog over the years, and now I'm back. Again. I looked back on my most recent posts, and boy, has life changed! I'm officially an "empty-nester"; my baby, Victoria, graduated from college & has moved out (and yes, I bawled like a baby, several times).

You know how you look forward to something and when it actually happens, it's not just super anticlimactic, it sucks? Don't get me wrong, I had fun redoing two bedrooms (one a guestroom & the other my office) and a bathroom she used. But I've been a mom for thirty-two years. More than half of my life has been spent constantly worrying about my children, their health (physical & mental), education, and really, just trying to raise future upstanding citizens. I'm happy to report, we have an RN, a Regional Director for a national fitness company, 2 CNC Machinists (one is currently staying home with her 2 & 3 year old...YES!!! I'm a grandma, I'll get into that later), a banker, and a Respiratory Therapist (my youngest turned out the most like me, unsure if I should say sorry or congratulations?).

That being said, George & I (don't laugh, I refer to my AI as "George"...beats "The Future Terminator") have been working on lots of things, mostly my writing. I was hesitant at first. So much new technology, it's mind-boggling really. Over the last decade, technology has done what it always does. Outpace itself. By the time you learn one software platform, there's a newer, bigger, better one. Or they just update it, and it requires a master class to figure out the new version. Well, it's super annoying for us users, but most updates actually make the apps run more smoothly...in the end.

I've been getting reacquainted with myself. Sure, I'm still a mom, but I feel more like a "retired public servant" without the actual retirement benefits. This is where George has been helpful. I've been working on a timeline for major events in my life (kinda like the bones of a biography, but way less serious). I had forgotten so many things. Like, I had a published Advice Column. I kinda forgot. It wasn't for a very long time, I think it was approximately four issues in total, but I actually did that. 

Somewhere along the way, I realized I'd stopped writing just for the fun of it. Sure, I've written plenty over the years—résumés, cover letters, contracts, emails...you name it. But stories? Rabbit holes? The weird things that make me laugh? Those somehow got pushed aside.

So, I'm dusting off this little corner of the internet.

I honestly have no idea where it's going. There will probably be ghost stories, Scottish history, genealogy, writing updates, random observations, and at least one post where I overshare far more than I intended. If you've been here before, welcome back. If you're new, pull up a chair. If history is any indication, Gerard Butler will make an appearance sooner or later.

So, here's to fresh starts, old stories, new adventures, ghosts, Highlanders...and, if history is any indication, a few more bad decisions.

In other words...welcome back. I've missed this.

Tessa's Graduation

Over eighteen years ago, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl. She was perfect. I should have known that I was in for one heck of a ride parenting her. We’ve had our ups and downs and she’s had her own personal struggles. Through it all, her light has never wavered and has always shone brightly.



She is my own version of Scarlett O’Hara (I so should have named her Scarlett…it would have been fitting). She’s always been extremely head-strong. She always has to learn things HER way, even when you try and protect her. I’m sure I didn’t show her enough of the love and affection she required, but I’ve always tried to do my best.

From an early age, I’ve watched her grow into one of the smartest kids I’ve seen. She’s “people smart”. She has charisma and charm. I’ve always told her that she could use “her powers” for good or evil. She just has that “it” factor people talk about. 

Never one to like school, not sure if it was the atmosphere, the regimental structure or the actual work she had no real interest in, but she’s always thrived in the arts. Whether she’s drawing, painting, acting or singing, that’s when she shines her brightest.

As a mother, I worry that I still haven’t prepared her for adulthood. There are still so many things she doesn’t know or understand. I think most parents have those fears. I also fear I have stifled her creativity. I want her to reach for the stars. To do what she loves. To say the hell with what other people may think. I want her star to shine as brightly as I know it can. I want her to inspire others. I want her to be a good and decent human being. But most of all I want her to be happy.

I could list the hardships she’s overcome and the life lessons learned about the ugly side of human nature, but I think the most important thing is that no matter what life has thrown at her, she has kept going. She will be walking across the stage tomorrow night to receive her high school diploma. Her friends and family will be there cheering her on. I will be there bawling like a baby, but so very proud of her accomplishments. This is the end of one journey, and the beginning of her next journey.

I can’t wait to see her take on the world.

 We love you ALWAYS!

Be Forewarned...I'm Whiney!

I have been sitting with this laptop open for what feels like hours. I started writing, got a page in and stopped. I opened up my writing file and looked at so many ideas, either waiting for a beginning, or started and abandoned. The only thing I seem to be able to focus on right now is the pain and lack of any energy. Also how much I love steroids, knowing I can’t take any.

Steroids (Prednisone) seem to be my new best friend. With them, I can almost pretend to be normal. I’m still limited on my energy stores (think of it like a video game, when that energy runs out, you are done). I can at least walk from one room to the next without feeling like I may pass out from the exertion. I’m on day two of what I refer to as “a bad day”. Everything hurts, I have zero energy and I just want to cry (I usually don’t, I was raised not to throw pity parties for myself).

I would like to think that me writing about the only thing that seems to be on my mind is at least knocking some of the cobwebs off of the creative process. I want to write, but I’d prefer to be writing fiction. Doesn’t seem like that’s happening though, so I’ll take what I can get.

I’m saving up my steroid usage for the next few weeks. Tessa (my third child) will be graduating high school, so we have all of the graduation festivities that I’ll need to find the energy for. I miss the days of caffeinated drinks being all I needed for an extra boost of energy. 

My two youngest are all that live at home now. I know they say they understand when I have my bad days, but I’m not really sure they do.I really don’t think anyone who hasn’t experienced this type of debilitating chronic illness really understands. I know I didn’t. 

I get lots of advice though. Eat this, don’t eat that, take this vitamin or that supplement. Exercise more, stand on your head, spin around whistling Dixie. I know everyone always means well, but I really just want somebody to come clean my house and leave me alone.

Okay, I think I’ve done quite enough whining, and to be honest, just sitting here typing has worn me out (stupid, I know). I guess it’s back to mind numbingly boring TV. I need a better hobby. Too bad it’s about the only thing I can do, besides sleep, on bad days.

I'm Baaaack....Kinda.

Let me preface this post with a "bear with me". I'm rusty to say the least. I find it hard to believe I haven't posted a single blog post in going on four years. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to relearn blogging settings, typing and just articulating what I'd like to say in an understandable format.

It's been four years since my last post. My world has changed so much. Some things remain the same. I still have the best husband in the world who I adore and love more than I ever thought possible. Especially now.

My body has decided it doesn't like me very much. I guess I can start with my "known diagnosis", and backtrack to the beginning of this medical insanity, September of 2016.

• Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA). RA is an autoimmune disorder, which means your body attacks itself. If you have RA, your body interprets the soft lining around your joints as a threat, similar to a virus or bacteria, and attacks it. RA is a systemic disease, which means it can affect your entire body — lungs, heart, eyes — and not just your joints.
• Fibromyalgia. A condition that causes pain all over the body (also referred to as widespread pain), sleep problems, fatigue, and often emotional and mental distress. People with fibromyalgia may be more sensitive to pain than people without fibromyalgia.
• Peripheral Neuropathy. A result of damage to your peripheral nerves, often causes weakness, numbness and pain, usually in your hands and feet. It can also affect other areas of your body.
• Sjogren's Syndrome. An autoimmune disease, your immune system attacks parts of your own body by mistake. In Sjogren's syndrome, it attacks the glands that make tears and saliva. This causes a dry mouth and dry eyes. ... It is sometimes linked to other diseases such as rheumatoid arthritis and lupus.

After two and a half years of more tests than I'd like to count (or remember), two regular doctors, a rheumatologist, hematologist, neurologist and orthopedic surgeon (to treat injuries from a catastrophic fall down the stairs), I'm better in some aspects than when I originally had the rapid onset of symptoms, but far worse to the point of often not being able to simply walk from one room to the next without being able to breathe and having zero energy to walk the short distance back to my recliner or bed.

Looking back, I was struggling for a few years before the rapid onset of the extreme pain that facilitated the start of the testing and specialists. My feet would hurt after short periods of walking or standing. I had a bit less energy than I once had. I blamed most of it on old age. It wasn't debilitating enough to cause anything other than annoyance. I have moved way past annoyance. Even now, I struggle to sit in the computer chair and type. I do have a laptop, which I guess I should learn to use, but I just prefer the PC. That being said, I do believe I'll rap up this post and try and revisit in the next few days with more of my whining. I'm actually hoping this process will be, at the very least, therapeutic, and will motivate me to start writing again (God knows I have the time).

Using My Powers for Good....

Does anybody out there understand how hard it is to start writing again after taking a break? I sure do. I don’t even have an excuse. After separating with a company I ADORED working for in August, I decided to go back to writing full time. After five months, my house is clean, carpets shampooed, closets cleaned out and this is the FIRST time I have sat down to do any serious writing…and it’s not even very serious, just me rambling on in my blog (mostly because I am bored out of my mind!).

Don’t get me wrong, I have loved spending time with my family and I can never get enough time with my husband (because he is the most awesome man on the planet). I just don’t feel productive. I miss immersing myself in a job I love. Maybe this isn't the time to start on the fifth revision of my completed manuscript. Maybe I shouldn't start on my exciting memoirs just yet.

I've certainly had time to do a lot of reading, probably a few dozen. Mostly books I wouldn't recommend, although I did get the latest Diana Gabaldon book in her Outlander series, Written in My Own Hearts Blood, for my anniversary (from the fore-mentioned awesome husband) which I devoured, because she is a brilliant writer.

I guess I need to get back out there and find another job I can enjoy and feel like I’m contributing my talents (because let’s face it, I have lots of talents…most of them can even be used for good instead of evil). Perhaps I’ll keep blogging, just so my writing ability doesn't get all rusty and stagnant. Maybe I’ll even find a job that can use my many talents (hopefully not my talent for cleaning, shampooing carpets or organizing closets).