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!

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).

Pride, Insecurity and Trust

You would think that pride & insecurity wouldn't be a trait shared by one person. Alas, it often is.

Insecurity can poison almost any relationship. Everyone is insecure, but sometimes you have to learn to trust someone in order to conquer that insecurity. That’s where pride rears its ugly head and can completely obliterate that fragile trust, giving even more power to our insecurities.

Speaking on a personal level, I have serious trust issues. It seems anytime I put my trust in someone, they betray that trust. It makes me insecure in my own ability to judge a person. It also hurts. My pride kicks in every so often and I get all filled with bravado and push away the people I love the most.

I previously mentioned The Brain, The Heart & The Libido here. I’m sure anyone can tell you The Libido cares not about pride, insecurity or trust. That would definitely be left for The Heart & The Brain to fight it out.

So here’s an example of that conversation:

The Brain: “I was lied to. Over and over. I trusted this person. I was wrong. Why did I trust them? I shall never forgive them for doing this to me. My pride will not allow it. How can I be so stupid? What makes people think I will just keep forgiving each and every time?”

The Heart: “It’s because of love.”

The Brain: “Love is a poor excuse for being treated like a welcome mat. Stop butting in and trying to control things Heart, you only cause problems. Look at the past 5 years. You've wreaked havoc on our life with all your silly feelings.”

The Heart: “It doesn't matter what you think. It only matters what you feel. In the end, you are fighting a losing battle, because we both know I am stronger than you are. It’s been your over-thinking everything that has caused the problems.”

And the fight continues…there is no right or wrong. In the end, it really isn't The Brain or The Heart that has any control…it’s the person who the fight is over. Unfortunately, they have the power to end this battle. One way or another. It’s too bad their own internal battle with pride, insecurities & trust make this a battle that can’t be won by anyone, unless they learn to conquer their own pride & insecurities and take that leap and learn to trust.

Brilliant Book Covers Lead to Odd Musings...

Ever have one of those conversations that you later look back on and can’t decide if it was either brilliant on both sides, or just plain weird? A while back, I had numerous talks with someone and it was exactly like that. I saw the picture of a book cover that reminded me of it today. It’s just brilliant, in my humble opinion.  

“So, you've read 50 Shades of Grey, now its time to inject a bit of colour and have the time of your life.... read the tongue in cheek adventures of the hapless libido.” 

Check out the BRILLIANT Mark McIntyre 

and pick up a copy of his new book 

A Positively Healthier Lifestyle 

You may wonder what kind of bizarre discussion I could have been having after seeing that! Well, the truth is, it was a very odd third person conversation. I referred to three separate entities as though they were actual people. There was The Brain, The Heart and of course, The Libido.

Now, as you can imagine, The Brain was the only reasonable opinion in these conversations and was constantly at odds with ANYTHING The Heart had to add. The Libido was pretty much willing to side with either of them, as long as she thought it would somehow benefit her.

In the end, The Brain won any and all discussions. The Libido pouted but was more than willing to patiently await her next bath or shower (don’t ask). The Heart, well, that poor girl; what can I say? If you’re very quiet late at night, you can hear the slap and scrape of more bricks being added to her already impenetrable wall. She got all worked up over nothing. The really sad part is she almost won all those arguments with The Brain. I suppose it’s a good thing she didn't  A girl can only take so many beatings before she’s not only broken, but ceases to exist.

So as long as there’s a tidy little wall to protect her, there’s still hope that one day, Prince Charming will scale the walls and rescue her from her solitary existence. Corny, huh?