Dem Bones: The Movie

Yeah. I know. I have a thing about skeletons.

I blame my fascination on stop-motion animation master Ray Harryhausen. Even if you don't recognize the name, I'll bet you've seen his work -- and if you haven't see classics such as The Golden Voyage of Sinbad or The Valley of Gwangi, you've missed out on some great old-school animation. The fighting skeletons Mr. Harryhausen created are probably part of the reason I write (and read) fantasy -- they intrigued me as a kid, and that led to a search for more of the same, and now here I am.

The photo of the skeleton above is taken from a short movie I made this afternoon. The skeleton is a five-dollar Halloween prop that normally sits on my writing PC. I spent half an hour adding some stiff wire to him, so that he can stand and pose.

The thick wire (flexible aluminum antenna grounding lead, actually) extends down about half an inch below his heels. I drilled same-diameter holes in a scrap piece of plywood, and that became his stage. Hang a scrap of red velvet on the wall, and viola, the stage is set for DEM BONES, a short (very short) film about a dancing skeleton.

I took 104 still photos, moving Mr. Bones a bit between each shot, making the little film. Putting the still images together as an animation was easy -- I imported the photos and then used Windows Movie Maker to stitch them together with a 0.2 second display time for each frame. Add an opening sequence and some credits, and it's a wrap.

But let us dissemble no longer! Watch the movie by clicking here for the DEM BONES video on YouTube.

Or just press PLAY below!

Yeah, I know, don't quit your day job. But it was fun, the animation actually worked, and you get to see a short movie rather than read yet another tearful entry in the 'writing is hard' parade o' writer's blogs.

I'm still working on the new Markhat novel, which is going well. It's fun, having an established stable of characters to draw on, and then introducing someone new. Without giving away too much, Markhat finds himself running afoul of the new and improved City Watch, now run by a man named Holder, who is no fan of Markhat and his casual approach to proper police procedure. 

The rest of the gang is back as well. Or at least the ones I didn't kill off in the upcoming book, BROWN RIVER QUEEN. Ha! See what I did there? I know. I have a thing about skeletons, and money. Mostly money.

Hope you enjoyed the film! I've got to get back to work, so until next week -- DEM BONES!

Worth 885 Words!

I had a mild case of the Black Death this week. Or maybe it was a touch of Ebola. Either way, it left me so weak I am barely able to water ski, so this week's entry will rely heavily on the posting of fascinating photographs, such as the one below (see what I did there? For those of you in my writing class, it's called a transition! For everyone else, it's called sloth).

Those of you who read my old Wordpress blog may have seen this photo before. But it's still quite possibly the best photo I've ever taken. I love the exploding firework and the motion-blurred crowd, and yes it is entirely possible I have absolutely no ability whatsoever to judge the quality of photography.

I took that photo with a vintage 1969 Pentax K1000 fully manual SLR film camera, using the time-honored method of holding the shutter open and hoping for the best at a Fourth of July fireworks show here in Oxford. I love messing that old camera even though getting film developed is becoming harder and harder to do.

Next up, I have captured the Moon in my evil moon-capturing device! Bwhahahaha. I actually had to alter the Moon's orbit just to take this photograph. Sorry about the extra high tides, folks, but art accepts no half-measures.

This is Jake. I know, I know, it's blurry, but Jake exists in a special state of quantum doggie excitedness, which means he is always moving in at least two directions at once. I was amazed I got him to be still long enough to get this image. Jake enjoys long walks and reducing entire century-old oak trees to splinters. Seriously, beavers watch in awe.

Above is Mr. Fletcher. He's our special-needs guy; last year he developed diabetes, and now he's on a strict diet and he gets two insulin injections a day, twelve hours apart. He bears it all with quiet good grace, and he's still a goofy puppy at heart.

Meet Petey, who is so camera shy I have very few pictures of him. He's peering down at me from the loft in the study, and I snapped this before he saw the camera.

This is the storefront to the right of Taylor Grocery, which serves up the finest catfish in north Mississippi. Notice the smaller busts on the shelves behind the pale lady. Creepy. Oh, and that bright orange line coming out of the pale lady's head? Looks like a ballistic path marker used by CSI techs to determine line of fire in shooting investigations. What it's doing there is a mystery to me.

The old general store on the town square in Bruce, Mississippi. Taken on a motorcycle ride just after a rainstorm.

I've been experimenting with a camera probe, and it took this image of my spleen Thursday evening. At least I think it's my spleen. Frankly, it's hard to tell, nothing in there is labelled. 

A nice red sunset. Or a distant nuclear test blast. Either way, it's pretty, especially the way the gamma rays highlight the clouds of noxious carbon monoxide.

I was already forty feet up in this tree when I decided to stop and take the picture. Then I leaped gracefully to the ground, landing with catlike agility and only a pair of shattered femurs. You're welcome.

Here's a skeleton, holding a book. I don't know about you, but when I see a skeleton holding a book, I feel compelled to rush out and purchase said book. Is it working? Working at all?

I had this toy when I was a kid. It walks, and the eyes light up. There's also a red light in its mouth, because apparently biology and physiology were played fast and loose in the early 1960s where toys were concerned. How I've managed to hang onto this guy for all these years I couldn't say. I think maybe he follows me from place to place, plodding along one slow step at a time, red eyes glowing in the night...

This is what the inside of a 300 disc CD player looks like. It stopped working a few weeks ago, so I took it apart and found a stretched drive belt. When the new belt arrives, I'll spend a good five hours fitting it around various pulleys only to learn that some other irreplaceable component has also failed, because that's how these things work.

One of my steampunk prop pistols. This is a Mauser Armaments Type II Aether Disruptor, favored by airship pirates of the late 19th century. Making these is a good cure for writer's block.

Here is a carved oak wand. Yeah, you've probably seen it before.  It;s the one I use to alter Lunar orbits and add extra cheese to take-out nachos. Such power is not to be wielded lightly.

Next week I promise to return to actual written content. Oh, one last thing -- BROWN RIVER QUEEN has a page up at Samhain, click here to see it!

Meet my Muse

If you're an author, you're supposed to have a Muse.

It's an ancient tradition, stretching all the way back to early Greece, where the Muses were said to be the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne.  The Muses inspired mortals to create great works of art and literature, which couldn't have been an easy day's work since neither pants nor Microsoft Word had been invented.

The Muses were actively sought by artists of the day, because having a Muse whispering in your ear pretty much guaranteed you the Bronze Age equivalent of best-sellerdom. The poet Homer even dedicated the first book of his Odyssey to a Muse, stating:


"Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy." (Robert Fagles translation, 1996)


I don't agree with the Fagles translation above. What Homer really wrote was this:

"Let's sell a few hundred thousand scrolls, baby, because Daddy needs a new pair of sandals."

And, since Homer's Muse was one of the original nine, he did just that, becoming the J.K. Rowling of his day.

I don't live in ancient Greece, which is fine by me, because no number of finely-carved Corinthian columns could ever make up for the inexcusable lack of wifi. Seriously, it's no wonder that all ancient cultures did was fight and brew increasingly powerful alcoholic beverages. Who can get through an whole day without checking their email at least once? I'd be ready to sack Troy on a whim too.

But even modern-day authors a long way from Athens claim their own Muses. Not any of the original nine, of course -- Amazon's introduction of the KDP self-publishing platform spawned a recent sharp increase in the number of people claiming to be authors, which means Muses are in short supply and often working double or triple shifts. In fact, the shortage is so severe demigods from other pantheons and areas of endeavor are often pressed into Muse service, resulting in situations where Andraste, the Celtic goddess of rabbit-magic, winds up red-faced and mumbling into the ears of half a dozen romance authors who don't understand why their characters twitch their noses so often these days.

I've wondered about my Muse for years now. Aside from occasional distant snickers or airy whispers of "Oh, not that again" I don't get much divine inspiration while writing.

But I am a writer, and I do have books on Amazon, so by the Ancient Code I get a Muse. It only took a bit of digging through old bookstores and a brief glance inside the Kindle version of the Necronomicon (Second Edition, Mad Abdul Press, with illustrations throughout) to discover the ritual for invoking one's personal Muse.

The tricky part of the ritual involved getting the Klein bottle inside the tesseract without spilling the two-headed squid, but after that, it was simply a matter of reading off a few words of ancient Greek. As the final echoes of the words died away, the air inside the summoning circle shimmered, and a voice spake the words 'All circuits are busy, please try again later, you will find a charge for $29.99 added to your wireless data bill, thank you for using Verizon.'

I haven't gotten my Muse to materialize, but after six repetitions of the summoning ritual I finally got an email, which I've reproduced below.


Date: Fri, 11 Jan 2013 11:52:43 -0600 [12:52:43 PM EST]
From: Visavarevagsitaga <Visavarevagsitaga@ancientwritingmuses.org>
To: franktuttle@franktuttle.com
Subject: Enough With the Summoning Already

Mr. or Ms. (Insert Author's Name Here),

Greetings! I am (insert your name here), your personal writing Muse. I am pleased that you have attempted the ancient rite of summoning. We Muses deeply regret that our current schedules and work load do not allow us to meet with every client.

Please make no further attempts at a summoning, as they will go unacknowledged. Also the squid will explode.

As your Muse, I, (insert your name here), am always ready to provide you with Divine inspiration for your writing endeavors. If you find a spiritual connection does not meet with your needs, you may use this email address NO MORE THAN ONCE PER JULIAN CALENDAR MONTH to ask six brief questions of me. 

We look forward to providing you with quality literary inspiration.

Sincerely,

(insert your name here).

An afternoon of research revealed that my Muse Visavarevagitaga was the daughter of  the Sumerian god of pointed sticks and his consort, Eatalottasalsa, who was reputed to hold dominion over red feather-dusters and a small plot of land east of Ur.

Of the goddess Visavarevagitaga herself little is known, save for her disdain of shorn oxen and songs featuring the lyrics 'la la la.' The only recorded miracle performed by Visavarevagitaga resulted in the sudden appearance of half a dozen lethargic toads and a tankard of beer later described as 'just more of that sour Egyptian stump-water.' She is said to have vanished from the Sumerian pantheon in a snit after being depicted on a temple fresco as having the head of a wombat and a length of toilet paper stuck to her shoe.

But, as we know, one must take the Muse one is assigned, and hope for the best. With this in mind, I sent her an email yesterday and asked my six questions. The reply just came in, so read along with me...



Date:  Sat, 14 Jan 2013 11:52:43 -0600 [04:51:43 PM EST]
From:  Visavarevagsitaga <Visavarevagsitaga@ancientwritingmuses.org>
To:  franktuttle@franktuttle.com
Subject:  Re: My Six Questions

Mr. or Ms. (Insert Author's Name Here),

Greetings! I am (insert your name here), your personal writing Muse. I am pleased that you have chosen to ask My wisdom in regard to your six (6) allotted monthly questions. My replies are below. Sorry about the squid, but you were warned.

Question 1: What can I do to improve sales of my existing books?
Answer: How in Hades should I know? I'm a Muse, not an Oracle. I whisper inspiration in your ear. What happens next isn't my problem. I can do a couple of toads, if that will help. Moron.

Question 2: Lately, I don't feel the same motivation to write that I once did. Why? What can I do to change this?
Answer: Look, monkey-boy, stop trying to cram three questions into one. This ain't my first rodeo, got that? And maybe you'd feel more 'motivated' to write if you'd listen to me once in a while instead of messing around on Twitter. Yeah, you think I can't see that? Hashtag lazywriter, pal. 'Nuff said.

Question 3: How can I make my characters more realistic, more sympathetic?
Answer: I am Visavarevagsitaga! I once ruled the entirety of Mesopotamia, and you ask me questions barely worthy of a community college Creative Writing instructor? Expect a pair of toads in your Cheerios, bub.

Question 4: Will I ever be a big commercial success?
Answer: Again, you want an Oracle, not a Muse, but let me save you a couple of squid and answer anyway -- you will be a big commercial success about the same time I sponsor a NASCAR team. So when you turn on ESPN and see a bright orange Camaro with "Visavarevagsitaga Racing" plastered on the hood, you know you're about to hit the big time. Idiot.

Question 5: Is it better to start by carefully outlining the plot, or by just diving in and letting the book shape itself?
Answer: Once upon a time, when I rolled My eyes in disgust, mortals dove for cover. So let me answer your question with a question -- What is the sound of  one hand slapping you upside your head? THWACK. The book gets written either way, and I couldn't care less. Mollusk.

Question 6: Is it best to provide a detailed physical description of main characters, or give minimal details and let readers create their own images of the people in the book?
Answer: I have no reply, because you just BORED ME RIGHT TO DEATH. So now I have to petition Otoralit, Dark Lord of the Underworld, for a bus pass just to get home. Thanks ever so bleeding much. That was your last question. Your height is five-six. There's your final answer. Go away. 

Best,

(insert your name here)


From now on, I believe I will seek inspiration elsewhere.

Frank's New Year Resolutions

I don't usually waste time on new year's resolutions, for the same reason I stopped putting teeth under my pillow -- the effort is futile. Plus it's hard to get bloodstains out of the pillowcases.

Look, I only had so many teeth, and the Tooth Fairy only leaves a quarter for each, so I had to start outsourcing. Saving for retirement is hard.

But I digress. The new year has arrived, all smiles and waves, full of hope and dreams and renewed determination.

I know. Annoying, isn't it?

Nevertheless. I don't want to put a damper 2013, so for the first time ever I'm making New Year's resolutions of my own.

Frank's 2013 Resolutions:

1) I will end my nightly hang-glider attacks on Bosnia and Herzegovina. You're welcome.

2) No more wee-hours experimentation with dead body parts and resurrection machines.

3) In reference to #2 above, I will clean out the basement.

4) I will write at least a thousand words a day. Different words, this year, although I can now spell yacht without looking it up.

5) I will seek to bring peace and harmony to all those in my life, every other Tuesday, between 4:46 PM and 5:11 PM .  As long as they bring snacks. And not a crappy Walmart pound cake, either. Put some effort into it, people.

6) I will stop silently mocking beliefs or opinions that differ from mine, because mocking beliefs or opinions that differ from mine aloud is a lot more fun.

7) I will establish a healthier lifestyle -- for my Sims. Seriously, what a lazy, nacho-gobbling bunch of hypertensive artificial intelligences they are. Getting them up at five AM for a brisk six-mile jog before settling down to a nutritious breakfast of grapefruit and air is just what they need!

8) I will spend less time on the computer and more time outdoors, experiencing the splendor and wonder of Nature. As soon as I recover from the fit of gut-wrenching laughter induced by typing the previous sentence. Hey, have you looked at Nature lately? It's hot, it's full of bugs and snakes, and if you get lake water in your ear you die because amoebas eat your brain. If I want Nature, that's what the Animal Planet channel is for.

9) I will get to know the people in my life better. Wait. No. A variation of Rule 8 applies here, just replace Animal Planet with The Biography Channel.

10) I will sell my fleet of gently-used hang gliders and un-expended munitions on eBay.

Anybody else want to take a crack at Bosnia?

In other news, The Oxford-Lafayette Public Library is starting an adult writing class this Thursday evening. If anyone reading this is in the area and interested, shoot me an email and I'll give you all the details.

I'll be teaching the class, or at least making mouth-noises from the instructor's chair. My hope is to present an even mix of fiction story crafting mechanics and a nuts-and-bolts look at the business side of writing -- how to submit, where to submit, what you should never do (it involves penguins and propane canisters), and so forth. Hopefully we'll have some fun too, or I've wasted a lot of money hiring Grammar Mimes.

Happy 2013, everyone. See you next week!

My Day as a Rental Suit Santa, and a CONTEST!

Everyone faces milestones in their lives.

Your first bike. Your first bloody nose. Your first completely groundless and utterly absurd arrest on suspicion of arson. The opening of your very own secret FBI dossier.

These are things that often mark divisions between the eras of our lives.

I've faced quite a number of them, and each has lacked that heartwarming quality of quiet dignity that fills Hallmark cards. Frankly, I think card-writers are smoking a certain potent herb, and a lot of it.

I faced another milestone last week. And it has marked the beginning of a new curve in the ever-increasing slope of my life's sad decline, for I have donned the red suit and oft-used beard of the Rental Suit Santa.

That's right. Me, ensconced in red and white, booming out 'Ho ho ho' at random intervals like some life-sized but poorly programmed dime-store automaton.

We all know there are very real health risks to being slightly overweight. Increased chance of heart disease. Diabetes. Elevated blood pressure. Blah blah blah. News flash, Doc -- life kills rail-thin health nuts just as dead as it does morose old fat men, but at least the fat guys don't die with a mouthful of granola. Put that in your stethoscope and probe it.

But perhaps the worst side effect of being, shall we say, portly, is the certainty of being singled out to play Santa in some ill-advised act of holiday costumery.

But that's what happens. One moment you're cruising along, not quite fifty, still might have a few moments of youthful vigor left under the hood, and the next you're trying not to choke on fibers of rental beard, last place of use unknown, which are snaking their way down your throat.

Let's back up here for a moment. Rental beard. Think about it. Should those words ever appear together?

No. No, they should not.

But I have worn the rental beard, my friends. I have fixed it to my face, and I have breathed deep the scent of Santas past.

Curious to know how rental Santas smell?

Two words, folks.

Whiskey.

Whiskey, and despair.

Wearing a Santa suit is akin to donning a furry, vision-obscuring oven. Sweat poured off me, soaking the beard, making breathing difficult. Sweat poured into my eyes, the saltiness stinging them, leaving me half-blind.

So there I was stumbling about on the verge of heatstroke, unable to see anything more than blurs and flashes of movement.

Which isn't really all that unusual, for me. Heck, it could describe practically any Tuesday. But this instance was far worse, because after all, I was Santa.

People have certain expectations of Santas. We are supposed to be jolly and personable and kind and merry and cram-packed full of Christmas cheer.

I suppose I could be at least a couple of those things, if you hooked an IV of purest grain alcohol to my right arm and one of Absinthe to my left. Otherwise, I'm about as far from Santa by nature as anyone can be. I can pronounce the words "Ho ho ho," and I did, but whether anyone found them particularly cheerful or not is anyone's guess.

Oh. And let's not forget the children. What was their reaction to Santa?

I'd say 'guarded expressions of horror and loathing' sums it up pretty well. Not that I blame them. Look, I'm sure when I was kid-aged (0.3 or 1 or 7 or whatever that might be) and some fat sweaty lunatic in a seedy red elf-suit came stomping up to me bellowing monosyllables, I probably started bawling too.  There's a reason Fred Rogers never hid behind weird clothes and excessive facial hair.

Anyway, I made my rounds and said "Ho ho ho" and traumatized half a dozen toddlers. And in doing so, I permanently divided my life into two distinct periods: BS and AS (Before Santa and After Santa).

Because now I'm just the fat guy behind the suit. I am one of that small, downcast band of middle-aged men who can look upon a sweat-soaked rental beard and merely nod in silent acknowledgment.

Ho ho ho.

*********************************************************************************

And now, the contest!

Last week I showed you the cover for the new Markhat novel, which should be out by March.

This week, I'm going to ask you a question. Be the first person to email me with the correct answer, and you get two things. One, a signed copy of the current latest Markhat novel, THE BROKEN BELL. Two, when BROWN RIVER QUEEN comes out in print, you get a signed copy of that too.

Not too shabby, huh?

Okay, there's the cover (points up), and here's the question:

Kanaxa, the brilliant cover artist, has hidden something in the cover. This something is an object which has played a major role in many of the Markhat adventures.  If you're a fan of the series, it shouldn't be too hard to spot. I put a large image up there, so take a good hard look.

When you see it, email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com .

Couldn't be easier.

Next week I'll post the winner, and a cover image spotlighting the hidden thingy, which KaNaxA also kindly provided.

Good luck, and happy hunting!

The Return of the Thing, Or, I'm Back!

Well hello there, loyal fans.

Many of you have been wondering where I've been. Okay, it now appears most of the ones wondering were also the ones to whom I owe money, but I'm sure that's simply a statistical anomaly.

It has been several weeks since my last blog. Please be assured I would not abandon the blog under any but the most extraordinary situations.

Sadly, the past several weeks have been nothing but a parade of extraordinary situations. It's been akin to being repeatedly bitch-slapped by an inexplicable and wholly unscheduled parade of clowns.

Unnerving. Off-putting. Somewhat unpleasant.

But all that is over with now (it's not) so it's back to normal (was never normal) for life at casa Tuttle, including this world-renowned blog.

No ghost hunting exploits today, because I have something even better.

Oh yeah. Stand well back, gentle readers. Don your protective goggles, located in the bins on the back of the shield walls.

Goggles on? Minds set for BLOWN? Adult diapers at the ready?

Good. We're all set.

Because today is the cover reveal for the new Markhat novel, BROWN RIVER QUEEN, available in March 2013 at fine bookstores everywhere.

Not to brag, but I believe BROWN RIVER QUEEN is even better that THE BROKEN BELL, which up until now has been my favorite in the series.

I see a raised hand in the back. What? You're not familiar with the Markhat series?

Then pray continue until the end of the blog, at which time I will provide links to a brief description of each entry in the series. Oh, and a quick and easy BUY NOW button. Because you'll want to. Speaks in Jedi mind trick voice. These are the books you're looking for.

But for now, let's talk about the new cover.

I'm sure many of you are familiar with the previous covers, which have all been beautiful. In fact, let's take a quick look:

There's the cover for THE MISTER TROPHY, which started it all. It even depicts a scene from the story, in which Markhat, who is a sort of private detective called a 'finder' in a world where magic and mayhem mix with murder and, er, mushrooms, has a card reading done which shows his future to be filled with anything but bunnies and rainbows.

Then came THE CADAVER CLIENT. Markhat finds himself working for a dead man, who claims he cannot rest until he finds his former wife and sets things right once and for all with her. But as Markhat learns, one can fully trust neither the living nor the dead.

Ah, DEAD MAN'S RAIN. One of the best things I've ever written. This is my homage to every black-and-white film-noir hard-boiled private-eye movie I've ever seen, with a side order of haunted mansion and a generous slice of dark, stormy night thrown in. Markhat doesn't believe a word of his new client's story when she claims her dead husband has been returning to their home at night. But as a furious storm breaks, he realizes there are darker things than shadows luring in House Merlat's deserted halls...

Brought together in print for the first time, THE MARKHAT FILES is an anthology containing THE MISTER TROPHY, THE CADAVER CLIENT, and DEAD MAN'S RAIN.

HOLD THE DARK sets Markhat on a course for vengeance, when a murderous sect of rogue halfdead break the Truce and robs Markhat of someone he loves. But once you tell the darkness your name, can you ever be truly rid of it?

THE BANSHEE'S WALK finds Markhat on the job far from Rannit's battered city walls. Instead, he's working a case at a remote artist's colony, run by an eccentric noblewoman who believes someone is out to steal her property and eject her from her ancestral home. Markhat is dubious -- until the corpses start to collect. But the thing about corpses in Markhat's world is this -- they don't always stay still long enough to be buried...

Rumors of war bring Rannit to a panic, but hard-working finders can't afford to turn down work until the enemy is not just at the gates but is storming them. So for Markhat, it's business as usual -- until he uncovers a murderous blackmail plot with its roots in the last War, and influence in the next. Will Rannit's fragile peace be broken, and will Markhat live long enough to solve what he believes may be his final case?

There you have it -- the Markhat series thus far. As I said, I've loved each and every cover, and the unbroken image theme they shared.

Markhat's face obscured by the brim of his hat. Markhat in coat, sans shirt. Those rumors that I posed for each Markhat cover?

True. Every bloody word. That's ME, and those of you who know better, please keep the awful truth to yourselves, because what good has the truth done anyone lately anyway?

Yes. I've been privileged to work with some of the finest cover artists in the business, and I am forever grateful to each of them for making me look good.

The Markhat series has grown, though. New characters have appeared. Some have perished. His world has even changed, as it enters the first years of an industrial revolution. Yes, magic works there. Harsh magic, most of the time. Brutal magic.

But so does physics. Markhat carries a gun now. So do a lot of bad guys. Swords are rapidly becoming decorative props.

Guns and steam engines and cannon. The title of the new book, BROWN RIVER QUEEN, is the name of a lavish gambling steamboat which is the setting for Markhat's new adventure. The Queen is an opulent stern-wheeler, right out of a Mark Twain story.

There are even rumors -- unfounded, this time -- that Markhat may or may not be getting hitched, or has gotten hitched, or has at some point discussed the act of getting hitched with Darla. I'm not saying here. Buy the books.

My point is this -- the series is changing, and my publisher, Samhain Publishing, thought it would be a good idea to move the cover theme along, too.

Most of the time, I embrace change with the ease and quiet grace of a wasp-stung wildebeest. I don't like change, usually because I still haven't quite got the hang of the Old Thing (life, shoes, emotions) and the last thing I want to do is try to learn the New Thing.

But this time, I saw the wisdom of changing the cover style, and I said, and I quote, 'Go for it.'

You're about to see the result, and let me say I have never been happier or more thrilled with seeing a piece of art associated with my name.

Enough. The new cover was created by the brilliant and awesome artist and author Kanaxa. Look upon it, ye mortals, and cry out with voices of loud wonder.

When you stop shouting, I'll be right here waiting.

Superlatives fail me. Markhat is still coyly concealing his face in the shadows, but he's got a snazzy new suit and a vampire-built revolver and if there is any doubt at all that he kicks much ass (that's a writing term) in this book, let those doubts be forever laid to rest. 

And yeah, that's Darla. Big brown eyes, flapper haircut, tasteful pearls. Perfect.

The Queen is in the lower right corner, properly portrayed below the Brown River bluffs upon which Rannit sits. 

Kanaxa, you didn't just nail the cover. You framed it in polished cherry and you hung it in the Louvre. 

Next week, I'll be back to the blog with more tales of Things That Go Bump, and a new contest based on the very cover you see above. So take a good luck -- there will be a test, later.

Now, for the gentleman at the back who wanted links and more info on the Markhat series, please click below:

 The Mister Trophy

The Cadaver Client

Dead Man's Rain

The Markhat Files (Print only)

Hold the Dark

The Banshee's Walk

The Broken Bell

All the above are Kindle e-books. You can also get each in Nook format from Barnes&Noble (click here for that link).

If you prefer print books, Markhat has you covered:

The Broken Bell

The Banshee's Walk

Hold the Dark

Finally, if Amazon or B&N don't provide you preferred format, head on over to the good folks at Samhain Publishing, where you can get any of my titles in print, pdf, Kindle, Nook, Sony, or any other format!

http://store.samhainpublishing.com/frank-tuttle-pa-297.html

Mysterious Mysteries of Mystery, Part 1

As you may have noticed, lots of things in this tired old world don't make much sense.

Some of these incongruities are obvious -- the fame of singer Ke$sha, the second-season renewal of TV series Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, fruitcake.

But some mysteries manage to fly under the radar, despite the inherent oddness of the subject. Whether it's a perfectly-machined metal sphere discovered miles underground or an apparent bucket handle encased in ancient quartz, every now and then things turn up which defy both explanation and the kind of easy pigeon-holing historians enjoy attaching to artifacts.

One such object is the Voynich Manuscript.

Screen-shot of a random page selection from the online manuscript!

The Voynich Manuscript is so called because it came to light shortly after it was purchased by an antique book dealer named Wilfrid Voynich in 1912. The book itself was written and illustrated in the 15th century, probably in northern Italy. Carbon dating performed in 2009 puts the manuscript's paper as being made sometime between 1404 and 1438. The name of the artist/author is unknown, as well as the actual title of the book, and that's as good a place as any to start describing the book's mysteries, because despite a century of determined effort, no one (including expert cryptographers and powerful computers) has ever been able to decipher so much as a single word in all the book's two-hundred-odd pages.

The text does appear, at least to linguists, to represent an actual alphabet and language, though one not seen before or since. The Manuscript is composed of about 170,000 glyphs, and the base alphabet is probably between 20 and 30 characters long. Still, it has defied each and every effort to decipher so much as a single sentence.

But the text is hardly the most intriguing aspect of the Manuscript. The book is also heavily illustrated, much in the manner of a Medieval field guide to medicinal plants. It starts out with large drawings of plants, each accompanied by notes penned in a careful if utterly unreadable hand. There are even little text bullets, probably denoting special attributes of each illustration.

In fact, if I were to have encountered the Voynich Manuscript in a used bookstore somewhere, I might have put it back on the shelf after perusing the first half a dozen pages. Here we have a plant. Here we have notes, presumably about the drawing of the plant, even though it's in a language I don't know.

I class plants into three distinct classes -- Plants On The Salad Bar, Plants I Should Never Ever Eat Because They Will Kill Me, and Who Cares, It's A Freaking Plant.

But people who know their flora realize one thing immediately, upon viewing the Manuscript.

These plants simply don't exist, at least on Earth. Not now, not in the 15th century.

And the further you go into the Manuscript, the stranger it gets. The plants become less daisy-like and more Geiger-esque. Pretty soon you've got whole pages of what appear to be brand new astrological charts combined with images of little people being swallowed up by toothed vegetable monstrosities, complete with careful if indecipherable footnotes which probably read 'Don't get too near the one with the purple flowers' or 'Man, these mushrooms are groovy.'

So is it a naturalist's guide to flora and fauna from somewhere else? An alchemical encyclopedia from another world?

Is it some mead-sotted monk's long, laborious practical joke?

The fun part of the Voynich Manuscript mystery is that, thanks to the Internet, you can pull it off its virtual shelf and have a look, page by page, for yourself, right this moment.

I highly recommend you do so. Whatever the Manuscript was, it's trippy. Put on some Pink Floyd and click the link below. It's a good fast connection, right to the Yale University archives, and how can you pass up perusing a book that has kept scholars and cryptographers scratching their heads for all these years?

The Voynich Manuscript Online

Like I said, trippy, huh?

What do I think the Manuscript represents?

Look, it's the year 1415, or thereabouts. Your choices for entertainment are pretty much limited to crapping in a bucket, dying of boils, or being burned at the stake for, well, darned near anything. There won't be anything resembling decent music played for another couple of hundred years. You'll have fleas and worms and lice until another three or four hundred years have passed. Frankly, the world is a miserable place to live, even if you're lucky enough to to be a monk with a passable roof and the aforementioned bucket at your disposal.

I think a very clever monk was born way too early and found himself in a place and time that put creativity in the same box as 'Worship of, Satan, see also Execution.'  I think the Voynich Manuscrip is this clever monk's way of thumbing his nose at his bosses, who displayed the same interest in yet another Field Guide to Boring Weeds of Italy that I did earlier.

Think about it. Our monk -- we'll call him Scooter, because I'm writing this, so there -- Scooter knows he's destined to spend his next miserable year hunched over a blank manuscript copying page after page of religious texts until the boils kill him or his eyesight fails, whichever comes first.

But instead of coping the book he was assigned, Scooter writes the world's first science fiction novel instead.

All those alien plants? All those weird astrological or alchemical charts?

Scooter made them up. I think the guy built a whole imaginary world in his poor 15th century head, and I think he did so out of sheer crushing boredom, because Scooter knew in his flea-bitten heart of hearts that life wasn't going to be anything worth living until the advent of Pink Floyd, the net, and the introduction of the cheeseburger.

And he was right. A world where one cannot go online, order a cheeseburger, and pick it up at a drive-thru to the accompaniment of Pink Floyd is a savage, desolate wasteland, unworthy of time or effort.

I'd still love to read Scooter's notes. I figure they're ninety-percent hard SF, and 10 percent slams against his bosses.

Take Pages 16 and 17 of the Manuscript, shown below. We're still in the relatively tame portion of the book, before the plants grow teeth and start chowing down on little naked people (hey, like I said, it was deadly dull in the 15th century):

My own loose translation of the notes on the left hand page reads thusly:

"Yea, this be the Snookered Blue & Red Stinkroot, which can be Used in ye Treatment of Flatulence, bad Breathe, and the Issue of Boiles upon the Buttockes, which Brother Isaac doth have, yea and in Spades, because he is a Wankere and a Close Talker besides, get a thee a Clue about Personale Space, willya, or I Feare I shalt open upon thy Pate a Roman-Empire sized Canne of Whoope-Ass, and how, I really Hate thatte Guy, Finis."

And the reason for the elaborate cypher?

Safety, of course. That way no one could claim heresy or blasphemy or even mild insult. Scooter was nothing if not careful.

I think our clever monk created his own alphabet entirely from scratch. Most of the glyphs are simple, and can be written with just a few pen-strokes. Which is exactly the kind of alphabet a hard-working monk would invent.

And the words?

Probably loose on-the-fly substitutions penned by Scooter using his own custom alphabet. Since he kept all this in his head, and wrote the Manuscript with the knowledge that no one would ever be able to read it, I doubt he bothered with corrections.

No, I think he was far more concerned with how the words looked, rather than how the text read.

Which is why I don't think the Voynich Manuscript will be be deciphered.

But that doesn't mean it can't be enjoyed. In fact, I lift my metaphorical glass to the unnamed author of the Manuscript, who like many of us was born in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Too bad he wasn't around to become a graphic artist or a SF author today, because he certainly had the work ethic and the drive.

I'm pretty sure this is the first draft of the script for Prometheus.

So here's to you, long-dead author of the world's most mysterious hand-drawn botanical manuscript. People are still talking about your book despite the fact that no one has a clue what it's about. That's got to be worth a crooked, gap-toothed 15th century grin.

And hey, if it's any consolation, at least you never had to beg for book reviews on Amazon, or watch your rankings plummet like a paralyzed falcon.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to turn my music up really loud and surf the ever-living crap out of the internet...

Things That Go Blah

Okay, so I have an embalming pump downstairs. Who doesn't?

Last week, during a daring midnight ghost hunt deep inside the forbidden ruins of an infamous cursed Antebellum manor house, I obtained video footage and an in-depth 22 minute EVP interview of an actual ghost. The afterlife and its mysteries were revealed to me, rewriting the entirety of modern scientific and metaphysical thought and philosophy. Too, I recorded a new Elvis song, and I can tell you where Amelia's plane wreckage lies.

Fig. 1: Random image bearing no relevance to text. Enjoy.

Sadly, an industrial rock-crusher chewed my video camera to bits and I accidentally dropped my audio recorder into a vat of molten steel. So that's bad.

Okay. The truth is, I engaged in no ghost hunts this last week.

Fig. 2: Turns out this guy was NOT a zombie. He just tripped at the All You Can Eat Spaghetti Buffet. Sorry about the machete wound, Mr. Ferguson.

Instead, I engaged in the sordid pursuit of roof repair. What I could have done in a day twenty years ago took me three, and left me with the primal and enduring realization that the phrase 'getting too old for this' is soon to take on terrifying new significance.

I can't tell you how much a bundle of roofing shingles weighs. Fifty pounds? Sixty?  Eighty? I can't tell you because it never mattered before. No, before now, I grabbed the nearest bundle, scrambled up the ladder, no problem, done.

Saturday I found myself halfway up a ladder, bundle of shingles across my shoulder, when my body decided the remainder of the climb was very much a toss-up in the fall off or keep climbing arena. Make it to the roof? Freeze? Collapse?

These were all options explored by my spine in a nanosecond of humbling panic which left me with lingering and unpleasant reappraisals of my own mortality.

I made it up the ladder, panting and sweating, if anyone is wondering. That time. Next time?

It's anyone's guess.

So there will be no EVP snippets this week. No photos of obscure Mississippi cemeteries. Hopefully, I can get back to posting interesting blogs next week.

Oh, I haven't gotten any writing done either. I've been so depressed about sales lately that's not surprising. Look, I understand this business well enough to know that for every Stephenie Meyer there are ten thousand Frank Tuttles. I'm okay with that. I never set out to finance my collection of vintage Ferraris by writing fantasy novels (sure, I may go on ghost hunts, but even I know a pure myth when I see it). But to watch your titles sink like a bathysphere into the frigid, inky waters of oblivion -- it's just unpleasant. Having forks shoved in your nose unpleasant. Being trapped in an elevator with the whole Westboro Baptist Church unpleasant.

It's no fun, is what I'm saying.

I know. No one said it was going to be fun. It's work, and there's a business aspect to it all, and a certain level of unavoidable drudgery is both implied and inescapable.

But there's part of me which keeps whispering things such as 'Ha ha, you're nearly fifty. Face it, you've peaked. It's all downhill from here. Ha ha.'

It's that snide little laugh I hate the most.

Have I peaked? Am I destined to be just another footnote in literary history? Will a Google search of my name in 2060 return the single result 'Tuttle, Frank, born 1963, died 2050, should have avoided ladders, not much else to tell.'

First of all, Google, shut up, and second, shut up again, it was a rhetorical question.

And really, does that even matter? I know there are people out there who've read and enjoyed my writing. Many of you have even taken the time to write and tell me so. And believe me, it's appreciated, maybe more than you know. Markhat and Darla. Mama Hog and Evis. Meralda and Mug. They all have stories, and I'm the guy they're stuck with, and if I stop typing, that's it. The End, literally and figuratively, for all the fictional worlds and make-believe people that have been such good company thus far.

So I guess it's time to stop worrying about the weight of a bundle of shingles or my future obituary and get back to work.

Sorry for whining. We writers are a moody bunch. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go and have a series of excrutiating back spasms. Ignore the screams, please, those are merely a means of coping with the sheer joy of residing in a not-quite-miraculous physical body...

Fig. 92b. Extreme haircut, and why is my head shaped like that of a Yeti?

Things That Go Bump, Famous Author Edition: As I Lay Dead (The William Faulkner Interview)

Welcome back to another edition of Things That Go Bump!

Tonight, we'll take a trip to the grave of Nobel Peace Prize winning author William Faulkner, and we'll pester him with impertinent questions while drawing curious stares from passers-by.

I traveled back in time to 1874 just to take an authentic old-timey photograph.

I live, reside, and/or dwell in Oxford, Mississippi, which is where Faulkner lived, wrote, and was eventually buried, although I'm sure he died first. We're pretty careful about the whole die-first-then-bury thing these days.

Faulkner's grave is located in a genteel old cemetery not far from Oxford's town square. It's a peaceful place, especially when the Rebels are playing Vanderbilt on the far side of town, which is why I chose a game day Saturday night for my EVP session with Mr. Faulkner.

I armed myself with my trusty Olympus voice recorder, my new Zoom H1 digital recorder, my video and still cameras, and my Ball Microphone housing, which I described in last week's blog. Also along was my iOvilus device, which prattled merrily on but did actually startle me once with a single insightful exchange (you'll see it later).

I arrived at Mr. Faulkner's grave at dusk, and was greeted the usual small assortment of empty liquor bottles, which students and fans are prone to leave as hi-octane offerings to the shade of old Bill.

Airline bottles? Red Solo cups? Sheesh, people, show a little class...

My methodology was simple. I placed the Zoom and the Olympus atop the headstone, put the video camera to the side, aimed at the mics. I held a brief EVP session in which I introduced myself and blathered inanities for about four minutes.

I'm posting the audio and the video links below. Note that the Zoom's audio was rendered useless by the faint breeze for the few moments it was outside the Ball Mic housing; I deleted that portion of the audio track, since it was nothing but a deafening roar. Note to self -- the Zoom needs a wind filter anytime it's outside, even in mild breeze conditions. 

The Olympus carried on nonplussed, as did the video camera's audio. Below are links to the full audio and video files, in case you'd like to see and hear everything for yourself without any commentary. Or, if you want, skip down and I'll post the relevant portions to save you some time

LINK TO BALL MIC FULL AUDIO FILE (about 20 minutes)
FaulknerZoomEVP.mp3

LINK TO OLYMPUS FULL AUDIO FILE (About 25 minutes)
FaulknerOlympusEVP.mp3

LINK TO VIDEO (YOUTUBE LINK) (About 25 minutes. Warning: Scenes of graphic violence, full frontal nudity, and a guest appearance by Donald Trump's hair may disturb some viewers. Discretion is advised).
Full Faulkner session video

So, you ask, what did I find?

THE BALL MIC

Well, first of all, The Ball Mic is crazy sensitive. I heard a weird buzz-thump sound at about 9 minutes, and couldn't place it, until I reviewed the video and realized a fly landed on the granite grave-slab next to the Ball Mic. Not on the mic. Just close to it. Here, have a listen to it, looped:

Fly Landing Next To Housing

You can even hear his little fly feet hitting the granite. If that's not a stirring tribute to the awesome power of salsa bowls and duct tape, I don't know what is.

That kind of sensitivity is a double-edged sword, though. Traffic noise, inaudible to the other recorders or my delicate ears, was a non-stop cacaphony  in the Ball Mic. As excited as I was to use it on the Faulkner run, I think the Ball Mic is best suited for remote locations as far away from traffic as is possible.

Aside from the fly-landing, I'm afraid my Ball Mic didn't return a single apparent EVP occurrence. I've been through the audio twice now, and I never heard a thing out of place. 

THE VIDEO CAMERA

Again, nothing out of the ordinary. A few dogs barked. A few cars passed. At no time do any phantom voices admonish me to GET OUT. Camera-shy ghosts? Could be, I suppose. But the audio track is clean, and no visible spectres were observed waving from amid the headstones.

THE iOVILUS DEVICE

The iOvilus device managed to raise my eyebrows tonight, and I caught the whole exchange on all the recorders and the video camera. I was talking, asking questions, trying to engage something, anything, in conversation.

At one point, I said "Mr. Faulkner," beginning to address my host. Immediately, the iOvilus piped up with my name, Frank.

Here's a video excerpt of the exchange:

Now, is that evidence of something paranormal, or merely a statistically insignificant bit of random coincidence?

I lean toward the latter. The iOvilus has a thousand word vocabulary to draw from. Frank is one of those thousand words. It is odd that it chose to speak that word at that time, but until and unless it happens a lot more often than once every session, I'm going to call this happenstance. Although when you're sitting in a cemetery at nightfall and you hear your name called out of the blue it is a genuine hair-raising experience.

THE OLYMPUS AUDIO RECORDER

Of all the night's instruments, once again my humble Olympus returned the most amazing evidence.

I did not hear either of the voices I am about to present during recording. Neither voice was captured on any other piece of gear, though all were operating within a few feet of each other at all times.

The first piece of audio is a female voice speaking as I speak. I can't quite make out the words -- maybe you'll have better luck.

First you'll hear me speaking. I'm joking about my failure to drink the Faulkners any liquor, and I say "maybe I should have brought a case." Then a female voice says...something.

broughtacasevoice.mp3

Here's the female voice, looped:

hiphop.mp3

Hip hop? Hey pop? No clue, but something is there. Not the iOvilus, either -- it has a distinct male voice.

I get an even better voice as I'm leaving. By this point in the recording, I've left the Faulkner's gravesite, and I've taken a short stroll through the headstones. I comment that I'm about to leave, and a bit later, I caught this:

goahead.mp3

It sounds like the very same voice, but this time it's clearly saying 'Go ahead.'

That takes place at 22:32 in the full Olympus file. The wind was calm. The iOvilus was off and my phone was in my pocket. It doesn't have any speaking apps, and none of my gear talks.

So what the heck was that?

I don't have a clear answer for you. Two full words. Not a trick of the wind. Not a snatch of nearby conversation (check the video -- no one was there but me). Not a passing vehicle (again, check the video). I even checked the iOvilus log (it keeps a log of every word spoken, with a time stamp) for the words 'go ahead,' and it never said them.

I suppose some could argue that what we've just heard is an audio artifact created by the Olympus itself. After all, nothing else picked it up.

I really can't say. Do audio artifacts usually tend to present not only clear enunciation, but gender?

goahead.mp3

Very, very strange.

I do find it intriguing that the female voice presented after I invited Mrs. Faulkner to speak. Again, coincidence?

Could be.

I regret, of course, that Mr. Faulkner didn't bestow upon me a rambling 40-minute EVP which analysis revealed to be a single run-on sentence. A ghostly image in a photo, perhaps of Mr. Faulkner posing with one of my books, would have also been quite the coup.

But I am proud of the pair of EVPs I captured. I cannot explain either one in rational terms, which is precisely the kind of phenomena I'm after.

I hope you've enjoyed this week's October blog, even though it's November. I'm not sure when or if I'll switch gears away from the paranormal -- right now it's too much fun.

Next week will feature a visit to another local historical site, as well as the usual nonsense.

I can't let you go without plugging a book, though. I'm a writer, remember? With books to sell? If you haven't read my stuff, consider giving the Markhat series a try. Lots of graveyard gallivanting in those!

Dead Man's Rain

Or, if you prefer print books, here's a list!

All My Books At Amazon

Enjoy, and see you next week!

Things That Go Bump, Bonus Extended Edition

I know. It's November, and my Going Bump series was supposed to be an October bit. But I had a revelation, and a bunch of leftover junk in my parts drawer, and thus this Bonus Extended Edition was born.

I think I've made it clear I'm neither a true believer nor a hardened skeptic where EVP phenomena are concerned. I've heard some remarkable EVPs, recorded by people I have no reason to distrust. I've even recorded a couple of interesting sounds myself, and while I don't trust myself 100% (I have shifty eyes and have been known to partake of the Demon Rum) I do feel like the combined evidence is suggestive of an audio phenomena.

Notice I didn't use the G word. Because while it's one thing to assert that A) disembodied voices are real and B) they have been captured on various kinds of recording gear, it's quite another to start assigning identities to the voices.

I pretty much draw the line right after A and B above. I think we have to concentrate on proving the existence of the voices before we go labeling them as those of the dead.

So I was thinking. Let's go ahead and, just for fun, postulate that EVP voices are real. So, what do we know about these voices?

ONE: They are most often not heard by the person or persons in the area of the recording device. Yes, there are exceptions to this. But on the whole, EVPs appear to take place without the notice of the people running the recording gar.

TWO: Most EVP recordings are brief. Most are just a word or a sound or two. The longest one I've ever heard (the little girl in the Ruffin Theatre was about 20 seconds, and it was remarkable in that it was caught by not just one but two recording devices). But, most EVP occurrences are less than 5 seconds in duration.

THREE: The recording medium doesn't seem to matter. At first, back in the 50s and 60s, the theory was that 'spirits' somehow manipulated magnetic fields in order to impress their voices directly onto the recording medium of the day, which was magnetic tape.

If that were true, then the spirits must move with the times, because we've left magnetic tape for digital recordings formed on memory chips as a series of zeroes and ones. Quite a neat trick, for a spirit to somehow ascertain my Zoom's sampling rate, match it, and create a file which sounds like a word.

So. We've got invisible speakers leaving brief spoken messages across half a century of recording technology.

Then came my revelation, concerning the nature of the EVPs themselves.

What if it's not nearly so complicated as messing with the devices themselves?

What if the speakers, whatever or whomever they are, are just speaking?

Which begs the question why don't we hear them.

Okay, what if the 'voices' are tiny point-sources acting as a near-field event in relation to the microphone?

Stay with me for a moment. Imagine, if you will, that by means and agents unknown, tiny voices emerge from the air around us, now and then. They are so tiny and so far apart we don't hear them, or if we do, we attribute them to something else. The wind. A distant voice. The TV.

But what if these tiny point-source voices are sometimes captured by audio recording gear?

That scenario might explain why your Zoom mic catches the voice, but you never heard a thing. Maybe the 'voice' was tiny and faint and speaking from a point half a millimeter beyond the microphone.

Who does the voice belong to?

No clue. Honestly, until someone can prove EVPs exist, I don't care who might be speaking. Ghosts, aliens, playboy energy creatures from the nearest adjacent dimension -- doesn't matter, right now.

But back to my faint point-source near-field idea.

If that's true, then we've been trying to record EVPs with mics not suited to the task.

Enter my latest creation, the Tuttle Spherical Near-Field Capture Microphone Housing, or TSNFCMH for short. Go ahead, say TSNFCMH out loud. It helps if you cough.

Let's call it the Ball Mic instead.

My idea is simple. Take a parabolic microphone, turn the forward-facing parabolic element into a sphere, and then hang the mic in the exact center.

Any tiny near-field voices get reflected by the sphere and directed right to the mic. The sphere's inner surface acts as a collector and focuser, which renders even tiny little voices louder and stronger.

Here is a highly detailed technical drawing illustrating the concept:

Parabolic mics have been in use for decades. But I've never seen anyone use a spherical mic housing -- mainly because such a thing is absolutely useless in any application other than what I'm trying to do here.

So, the best way to test my small-voices-really-close theory is to build a Ball Mic and see if I catch anything.

First, some math:

Just kidding. Look, I'm on a budget here. I can't exactly run out and have a steel sphere machined down to the nearest billionth of a nanometer, coated in gold, and buffed to a high shine by a team of expert sphere-handlers.

So I rummaged. All I needed was a sphere. It didn't have to be huge. In fact, that would defeat the whole purpose of it.

My friend Denny suggested I obtain a garden mirror ball, which was a great idea. Sadly, I couldn't find one -- but I did find a pair of hi-tech industrial-grade salsa bowls, each of which was half of a perfect globe.

Again, a professionally-rendered technical drawing, detailing my prototype Ball Mic:

A bit of this, a bit of that, a few bolts, some screws, and of course a dilithium crystal later, and it was complete. Behold the wonder that is the first TSNFCMH, or Ball Mic!

There it is, the complete Ball Mic, glorious in its technological prowess. You can see my Zoom H1 inserted into the spherical collection chamber (aka a pair of plastic salsa bowls). The Zoom is held in place by a rubber-coated stop inside the sphere, a pair of Velcro straps just below the RECORD button, and a pivoting backstop rod that rests against the Zoom's rear when the recorder is in use. The handle is aligned so that it holds the Zoom's twin microphones dead center of the spherical volume.

I know, I generally photograph things on top of a scrap of red velvet but that's my actual workbench, scars, stains, and all.

Here's another view:

This is a close-up of the ball itself, with the Zoom in place. Not winning any beauty contests, is it?

Thor looks on, unimpressed.

BALL MIC, FIRST FIELD TEST:

I ran the Ball Mic rig for 52 minutes last night, just to get a feel for performance before I take it on a real EVP run.

Does it work?

Yes. The spherical volume does seem to act like a sort of closed parabolic mic. It's especially sensitive to sounds conducted through the ground and the surface on which the Ball Mic rests. Here, listen to this clip and try to identify the source:

boomboom.mp3

It confounded me at first. Kettle drums? A powerful car stereo? A marching band?

I was absolutely sure I didn't hear it while recording.

Finally, I realized the source was my big bare feet.

That's right. I rested the Ball Mic on our table on the patio. We were outside enjoying the cool evening and a fire. The boom boom booms are the sounds my bare feet made on the concrete patio when I got up to add another log to the fire.

Now, keep in mind I move as does the crafty Ninja. I don't stomp around making kettle-drum sounds with every step, thank you very much. But my stealthy footfalls, inaudible to the naked ear, were conducted up through the table and to the Ball Mic housing, resulting in the thunderous treads you hear now.

I can minimize this effect by adding rubber feet to the Ball Mic. Or I can leave it as is, because I can see how it could prove useful in catching ghostly footsteps in empty houses. I think I'll probably add rubber feet to the bottom prongs on the sphere housing, and leave the top as is, which will allow both options to remain open as I choose. And I dare any spook to stomp around from now on, because I *will* be able to catch it, even if they tip-toe.

The ball housing does nearly eliminate the sounds of nearby speech. High-frequency stuff, mainly bug noise, isn't affected to the same extent. Passing traffic is thunderous, again due to the ground-conduction effect.

I hope to take the rig out on a real EVP run next week. Yes, it's crude, but heck so were the first Marconi sets.

Total cost for construction of the Ball Microphone Housing: $3.00 and tax, since I bought a pair of salsa bowls and made do for the rest out of whatever I had lying around. The Zoom H1 I had already.

Stay tuned for a real field test next Sunday!

Oh, and lest ye forget -- you can grab a genuine printed copy of the latest Markhat adventure, The Broken Bell, for only ten bucks and change from Amazon. It hits the stands on November 6!

Things That Go Bump, Chapter 4: And Now, For Something Completely Different

It's nearly Halloween, so welcome to another installment of Things That Go Bump!

I've got a couple of new topics to explore this evening. We'll play with an Ovilus device, which is a box which alleges to convert spirit-induced fluctuations in the local EM and electric fields into clear speech. Then we'll examine a classic ghostly photograph which is, I believe, one of the most compelling images ever taken. Finally, I'll leave you with something special of mine I hope you'll enjoy.

On to the Ovilus, then!

The fisrt Ovilus device was built by a retired electrical engineer named Bill Chappell. Mr. Chappell went on to found the Digital Dowsing website, which is still active today.

To give you an idea of how an Ovilus recording sounds, here's an audio clip recorded by Gregory Myers of the Paranormal Task Force. The Ovilus is at a site used as a field hospital during the American Civil War.
Listen below:

OVILUS/Caledonia_Ovilus_Shot_Stomach.mp3

It does seem as if the device is interacting with the paranormal crew, doesn't it?

I was intrigued but suspicious. Suspicious not of any chicanery on the part of the device users, but in the inherent workings of the device itself.

Basically, an Ovilus box is a speech synthesizer chip, a power supply, and some EM/RF sensors. Fluctuations in the local EM environment trigger activation of the speech synthesis circuits. This is turn creates speech. The theory is that unseen entities can alter the EM environment with such precision that they can use these fluctuations to build words and sentences.

My problem with this theory is that I'm a corporeal human with access to all kinds of tools and technology and I'd probably die of old age long before I managed to rig up a piece of gear capable to forcing an Ovilus box to recite 'Mary had a little lamb.'

So how are the 'spirits' just squinting at the gadget and making it talk?

Maybe that's how spirits roll. Maybe Google is a lot more advanced on the Other Side. Look, I don't have an answer for that question.

But I do have an Ovilus box, or at least the iPhone app that simulates it, downloaded from Digital Dowsing.

About an hour ago, I fired up this Ovilus simulator, and recorded the entire session for your listening pleasure. This isn't a terribly long piece - -about 8 minutes, I think -- so crank up your PC volume and hear what an Ovilus session is really like!

ovilus.mp3

I admit it was a bit freaky when I asked what kind of creatures were in the room with me (meaning my dogs) and the Ovilus piped up and said 'animal.'

But since it also prattled merrily on about Monica and builds and speed, I'm pretty much ready to chalk the 'animal' word up to a mere instance of coincidence.

Next up, a photograph from 1959 -- the so-called Chinnery photo.

Take a look below:

Nothing much remarkable at first glance, is there? You see a man in the driver's seat (this photo was taken in England, where they drive on the wrong side of the road but that's okay because they also created Dr. Who). You see a lady in the rear passenger seat. The driver is one Mr. Chinnery. The photograph was taken by his wife, Mabel, after a visit to her mother's graveside.

What makes this photo remarkable is that the elderly lady seated in the rear of the vehicle is the deceased mother of Mabel Chinnery. Yes, it's her grave the couple came to visit; both living Chinnerys identified the woman in the back seat as the deceased mother of Mabel. And yes, that was her customary seat in the same car when she was alive.

It's 1959, people. Yes, photos could be altered, but it was a messy business, and the developer had to be in on the joke. By all accounts, the Chinnerys were staid, sensible people, people unlikely to indulge in such unsavory shenanigans.

The image of the back seat passenger appears quite solid. Her glasses are even reflective. I've seen a lot of faked ghost photos from the era in question, and 'attention to detail' is not a phrase often employed in the analysis of such photos. Most are so crude they're laughable.

Interesting, indeed!

Finally, the special treat I mentioned earlier.

Way back in 2004, I wrote a story called "The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree." It's always been one of my favorites, since it's a spooky story set in the Mississippi I remember from 1973. Yeah, there's magic, of a kind, but it's a uniquely Mississippi kind of magic.

What do I mean by that?

I mean it's touched by tragedy. Everything here is touched by tragedy. Which isn't a condemnation, by the way. I'm proud, for the most part, of what my state has become. We've rejected the heinous, inexcusable prejudice of our past, and embraced a new equality. I'm proud to have played small roles in that, from time to time. Yes, the battle continues -- but the forces of good, cliche as it sounds, are winning.

But the past is still there, grim and unchanged. It touches us all. I hope you can see some of that influence in the story.

I sold the story to an online magazine called Abyss & Apex. The story remained up in their archives until some time ago, when the link to it went dead. I've asked the new owners if they plan to put the story back up, but haven't heard back, so I'm presenting it here as a Halloween gift to all of you.

You can read the story, right on your browser, by clicking the READ link below. Or you can listen to the story as I read it in my thick Deep South accent, which for once is actually appropriate for the subject matter, by clicking LISTEN.

Either way, I hope you enjoy it. Many of the characters in the story are based on real people I knew, as a kid. Wade Lee, the one-armed black hoodoo man, is based on a kindly, gentle soul who lived not a thousand feet from where I sit, in a shack exactly as I describe it in the story. The real Wade Lee also lost both legs and one arm in a corn picker. There really was a Piggly Wiggly, and there really was a grease truck, and maybe, just maybe, the shadows on a certain gravel road were a shade darker than they had any business being...

I hope you enjoy the story. Thanks for coming along on my October tour of all things spooky and scary. Oh, and that scratching at the window behind you?

I'm sure it's just the wind.

LISTEN to The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree

READ The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree

Things That Go Bump, Chapter 3: Graveyard Ghost Hunt

Welcome back, fans of all things ghastly and ghostly!

As promised, this week I'm featuring yet another amateur ghost hunt. But it won't be more of the same -- not only did I catch a pair of new EVPs, I got a couple of interesting photographs as well.

This week's venture into the unknown (okay, so they're just local cemeteries, but allow me a little artistic license here) featured some exciting new gear.

As I said last week, I was suspicious that the 'yes' EVP might well be wind noise coupled with the cheap Automatic Limiting Circuit on my modestly-priced Olympus VN-4100PC voice recorder.

So this week, I took out two new pieces of gear. First up is a pro-grade Zoom H1 field recorder, used by musicians and media people to record everything from interviews to live concerts. The Zoom is shown below:

It's small and designed for one-handed operation, even if the dark. Perfect for ghost hunting!

Next up was a sound rig worthy of any movie production company. Donated for the day by a generous interested party, this rig included a Sennheiser PK40 mic, a heavy-duty windscreen, and a Tascam DR-40 digital recorder. Together, they form a recording system composed of of sheer solidified awesome.

I also took the usual array of stuff -- digital camera, Sony Handycam hi-def video camera, Ramsey Tri-Field Meter, my e-field sensor, and the K2.

Since I had a video camera, I made a couple of short movies! Since I'm apparently an idiot, I wound up with only one. Click below to see the gear, being loaded before I left for the graveyards on a clear but windy Friday morning:

So, armed with every piece of ghost-hunting gear eBay and begging can provide, I set out.

I took the whole day off from work to do these cemetery trips. I planned to have all day. I got up early, loaded my gear carefully, crossed every T and dotted every I.

Naturally, the official Ghost Hunting Field Vehicle refused to crank.

You know you're a Redneck Ghost Hunter when your pickup won't start and you wind up fixing it with Vise-Grips and Duct Tape.

ROCK HILL MISSIONARY BAPTIST CEMETERY

After finally getting on the road, I returned to Rock Hill, the site of last week's 'yes' EVP.

By the time I arrived, the wind was ferocious, gusting up to 35 MPH. Hardly ideal conditions for an outdoor EVP session, but having sworn off of rational decisions years ago I forged ahead.

Before we get to the EVP evidence (and yes, there is some!), let's look at a couple of odd photos.

I stood at the cemetery fence and just panned across it, taking pictures snap-snap-snap. Most of them looked like this:

Just a cemetery, in broad daylight.

But look at the images below, which were taken in rapid succession:

That smokey mist wasn't visible to my eyes. According to the EXIF information on the photos, the first one was taken at 11:53:55 AM. The second, at 11:53:59 AM. The light should have been the same. I didn't see smoke or dust.

So what the heck is that, in the bottom photo?

No idea.

Take a look at another set of Rock Hill photos.

There it is again. Top photo was taken at 11:54:11 AM. The bottom, at 11:54:14 AM. Again, I saw no smoke, dust, or mist with my eyes.

There was also a video camera running while these images were taken. The hi-def Sony didn't see any dust or smoke either.

So, are we looking at a camera artifact? If so, it only took place at Rock Hill. None of the Tula or Midway images repeated this effect.

Odd.

Now, on to the EVP!

As you recall, last week I captured a burst of noise that sounded a lot like a spoken YES. I was suspicious because it coincided with a puff of wind.

Well, gentle readers, I had wind by the bushel on Friday, when all this evidence was collected.

The Zoom H1, which arrived in the mail the day before I set out, didn't come with a windscreen. Which means it made stunning recordings between gusts and was absolutely overwhelmed by gusts. The Olympus has a noise floor so high wind has to work really hard to be heard above it anyway.

But the Sennheiser mic inside 'Mr. Fuzzy,' the world's most amazing windscreen, ignored the raging gales completely.

The first thing I did upon arriving at Rock Hill was introduce myself and note that it seemed someone had answered my question "So you guys were all Missionary Baptists, right?" on my previous visit.

I then asked if anyone present had answered me.

Listen for yourself. If you don't have headphones, crank this one up:

RockHillyesclip.wav

Here is it again, with the possible EVP boosted:

RockHillyesclipamped.wav

Here it is, looped, for those without 'phones:

yeslooped.wav

Is that another faint 'yes?'

Not sure. The Zoom was running, but wind noise rendered it useless. The video camera didn't catch a thing aside from me. The Olympus didn't either.

So -- one possible EVP, a couple of weird photos. I'll be going back to Rock Hill soon!

TULA CEMETERY

Tula Cemetery is another of my favorite haunts for EVP sessions. This time, I laid out all my gear, and watched for any fluctuations in electric, RF, or EMF fields.

Got nothing. No surprise there.

I took a number of still photos and ran the Sony video camera the whole time I was there. None of these images captured anything strange.

There you see the video cam, aimed into the cemetery, with my Ectoplasmic Pursuit Vehicle parked majestically in the background.

I ran all three audio recorders, snapped a lot of pics, walked and talked and asked and joked. If I got any responses that day, I missed them.

I did attract the attention of a pair of sour-faced ladies in a minivan, who looked at my gear and myself with the sort of expression one normally reserves for recently convicted felons one discovers hiding in one's jewelry box. Lady Number Two snatched up her cell phone and began describing me, no doubt to the local constabulary, before I could even offer a smile and wave.

That concluded my session at Tula, as ghost hunting is not seen as entirely savory hereabouts.

If you want to listen to the whole audio track, here it is: Tulafull.mp3. Maybe I missed something. This is an MP3 file to save space, but if anyone wants the WAV file, let me know.

MIDWAY CEMETERY

Midway is a tiny hilltop cemetery located at the end of a dirt logging road well off any track, beaten or not.

Moreover, it's familiar to me because many of my relatives are buried there.

As you can see, it's a small place, seldom used. I took a number of photos, and look at this one:

See that odd purple discoloration at the bottom, just to the left of the camera tripod?

I don't know what that is. It never repeated, though.

The next item of interest from Midway is a single brief EVP. Again, I ran all 3 of my audio recording devices. The Sennheiser/Tascam DR-40, the Zoom H1, the humble Olympus.

What follows was caught only on the Olympus. I was carrying the Sennheiser. The Zoom was atop a headstone. The Olympus was three feet away from the Zoom, in my gear bag.

I thought I heard faint music earlier, as I walked about. None showed up on the Tascam or Zoom recordings. But I got this brief clip from the Olympus. Take a listen, and see what you think.

MidwayOLmusicclip2.wav

It's faint, but you can hear the high notes, or what sound like high notes.

Here it is again, looped and amped:

MidwayOLmusiccliploopedamped.wav

I tramped around for a long time, trying to provoke a response. The place is peaceful, but a bit on the derelict side, and the woods are taking it slowly but surely back.

Eventually, I heard the sound of crunching gravel, and spied a vehicle winding its way up the dirt road toward the cemetery. Now, while I'm perfectly comfortable tramping around headstones all by my lonesome, Midway acquired a reputation a few years ago as being a favorite hangout for tweakers and their pals the crackheads, so I packed my gear in a hurry and scooted out of there before I made the acquaintance of anyone calling themselves Snoogie or Rip Hammer.

But, all in all, it wasn't a bad day for dabbling in Things Man Was Not Meant To Dabble Within. I got a couple of unexplained mist photos, a weird purple haze, an EVP that might say yes, and a snatch of faint otherworldly music. And I got to play with some awesome if borrowed gear! Thanks again to my Anonymous Benefactor.

If anyone would like to listen to full audio recordings of the EVP sessions, let me know! I'm running out of time today, so I don't think I'll get the full files uploaded and linked. But I have them, so just ask.

 Next week will be the final installment of my Bump in the Night blogs. Hopefully the wind will be a bit calmer, and I can find some exciting new locations, and not be arrested while recording.

One final note -- that book featured in the opening photo? The one in stacks by the skull, between the gargoyles? This book?

That's my book.  It's the print version of the Markhat novel that came out last December. If you've been waiting for the print version, The Broken Bell goes on sale in print format on November 6! You can pre-order from Amazon now. I'll cry if you don't.

Authors Against Bullying

Kids today have got it tough.

By now, you've probably heard the sad story of Amanda Todd, who committed suicide just 8 days ago after being targeted by a cabal of online bullies.

Amanda's story is heartbreaking, but hardly unique. Do a Google search on 'teen suicide online bullying.' Name after name pops up. Jared High. Rachel Ehmke. The list of kids goes on and on.

And kids they were. 15. 16. 14. Just kids, who should have been worried about acne and awkwardness, not  how best to end their lives.

I'm writing this blog along with a number of other authors at the behest of author Mandy M. Roth, who was also deeply touched by the suicide of Amanda Todd. You can see Mandy's blog here,along with links to all the other bloggers writing about bullying today.

I was never bullied as a kid. Keep in mind, I grew up in an era so different from this one I might as well have grown up on Mars. We had no social media. The Internet was decades away. No email. No smart phones. No texting.

All of our communication was done face-to-face, or on clunky wall-mounted telephones incapable of transmitting photos.

Bullies, in that day, had no choice but to face their victims directly. Which rendered the act of bullying a far more risk-inherent activity than it is today. The possibility of a fist in the face was quite real, as were the consequences of initiating a bullying campaign.

I had friends in all the social strata. Jocks. Nerds. Hot girls. Plain kids. I can't recall ever being in fear of any one person or group of persons; had a hand been raised against me, half a dozen classmates would have appeared in my defense. And I would have done the same for them.

I just realized something -- I grew up in Mayberry.

But Mayberry is gone. Today, from what I've seen and heard, kids live half or more of their social lives in some sort of odd rolling cybernetic mishmash of Facebook and text messages and instantly shared videos.

Which is what seems to be the environment that killed Amanda Todd.

It killed the others, too. These kids found themselves the targets of a violent, tireless mob of vicious online tormenters. Poor kids -- their every moment was scrutinized and attacked. Their appearance, their actions, their every glance and word was mocked, endlessly and without mercy.

No fifteen year old is emotionally suited to enduring prolonged exposure to that dosage of social venom.

Sure, if you need your wifi router unlocked or your email client fixed, grabbing a teenager is a smart move. They know computers.

But teenagers are still just kids. They haven't had time to grow the kind of rhinoceros hide that allows a frowning bull ape like me to respond to insult with a profound and vast indifference.  No. That takes years to learn, and years to master.

A 15 year old kid might as well be tossed into a meat grinder. They aren't coming out uninjured. They might not come out alive.

I grieve for any kid out there who is surrounded by a hateful jeering mob every hour of every day. If I wish I could bestow upon the kid just a small portion of my impenetrable middle-aged ego, which has been rendered indestructible by 48 years of coffee-fueled cynicism. My God, I'd send the jeering mobs fleeing, probably right into the arms of the nearest available therapist.

But I can't do that. I don't know who these kids are. Sadly, some of their own parents don't understand what their kids are going through. "My daughter is just playing on the computer again," I imagine some have said. "She's always online with her friends."

I'm not blaming the parents here, either. Maybe they were neighbors of mine in quaint, scenic little Mayberry,  where the worst kind of monkeyshines the young 'uns got up to was tipping apple-carts or playing in fresh mud.

But as I said, this isn't Mayberry, and the online world appears to be Mayberry's polar opposite in nearly every respect.

If you're a kid, and you're reading this, and you're being bullied, please let me give you a few words of Genuine Old Man (tm) advice.

People only have the power that you yourself give them.

Read it a couple of times. Let it sink in. I promise you -- I swear to you -- it's true.

There is no force in the Universe more awesome than one man or one woman's refusal to dance to music being forced upon you.

Look, kid, you're young. I know everything that happens right now feels deeply and unrelentingly profound. Your emotions are being yanked around. You don't know why you're here, what you're supposed to be doing here, and frankly you don't want to be here at all.

I get that. But hear me out -- give it time. Give it time, and one day in the not-so-distant future you'll realize that nothing those ignorant yammering bullies said meant anything. They're just, pardon the mild profanity, buttholes.

Do what myself and a host of other kids did when we found the world intolerable.

Leave it. No, not THAT way. I mean walk away from the mob, figuratively and literally. Get off the freaking net for a while. Lose yourself in books and music. Learn to play a guitar. Sit in the dark and write bad poetry. Take your power back. Do something.

Do whatever makes YOU happy.

Let the mob rail, if they wish. Fall silent to their taunts long enough, and they'll move on to more amusing targets. Because that's all you are to them -- a target. Something they can poke with a stick, just so they can watch it squirm.

So you really care what people like that say about you? Think about you?

I don't. They are, as I'm fond of saying, persons unworthy of consideration.

Maybe you're shaking your head at my unbelievable naivety. That's fine, maybe I'm utterly and entirely wrong in everything I've said.

But so were the kids who reasoned their dilemmas out and arrived at the conclusion that suicide was the only way out.

If only they'd held on. Told a parent. Logged off the net and stayed off for a month. Thrown their phone away. Run off and joined the circus, I don't know -- anything but a bullet, or a rope.

By comparison, does becoming a devoted Tolkien geek really look so bad?

If you are being bullied, I can guarantee you this -- somebody out there cares for you. If it's becoming too much and you just cannot handle even one more minute of it, talk to someone. I'll post toll-free phone numbers at the end of this blog. Yeah, you'll be talking to a stranger if you go that route. But they're manning the phones because they care. Because they've been there. Because they muddled through, somehow, and now they want to help someone do the same.

There are people who will listen, who will understand. Give them a try.

http://www.yourlifeyourvoice.org/AskIt/Pages/Suicide.aspx?gclid=CKalq-jvjbMCFQSEnQodyXAAfA

http://www.pamf.org/teen/hotlines.html

http://www.teenlifeline.org/

Things That Go Bump, Chapter 2

Welcome back!

In keeping with October's theme, today's installment involves more ghostly goings-on in a couple of local cemeteries. There will be spine-tingling photographs, hair-raising EVPs, and a stern admonition not to forget the Deep Woods Off when planning a trek to far-flung boneyards (if you don't know what a chigger is, look it up. You do NOT want a couple of hundred of them gnawing on your knees).

But first, we'll begin with a location far more sinister and foreboding than even the most fog-shrouded resting place of the dead.

No, first we will face a location that has known more despair, more tragedy, than anywhere else on the University of Mississippi campus.

I refer of course to my office at work.

As you recoil in abject terror, let me explain. Campus lore states that my humble work-space was once used to store cadavers for the Medical School, in the years long ago before the Med School moved to Jackson.

That would certainly explain the odd stains in the carpet, the eerie moans, and the finger-bones the custodian keeps vacuuming up.

Okay, the eerie moans are just my stomach, usually two hours before lunch. Still, my office seemed to be the perfect spot for a quick EVP session, lest anyone get the idea all I do is tramp around old cemeteries.

So below is my brief EVP session, conducted at my desk. It's not a pristine sound environment. People are talking nearby at times. Doors open and shut. I broke down into tears when I heard the vending machine dispensing salty, salty goodness to someone who was not me.

I'll go ahead and skip to the end, on this session.

I got nothing. Nada. Not a single pitiful moan, not a cryptic whispered plea for help, nothing.

Hey, but if you want to try your ears, go ahead! the sound file is below:

Frank's Office

So, another mundane location, another lack of any possible EVP activity.

Why would that be the case? Now look, I'm still on the fence as to what EVPs are. Could they be misinterpretations of audio artifacts generated by the equipment itself?

Yeah, maybe. That's one reason I want better gear. My next acquisition will be a Zoom H1 audio recorder, which is a pro-grade setup that I can actually trust. I've heard skeptics claim EVPs vanish when you start using top shelf equipment. If that's true, then mystery solved -- EVPs were all just a mixture of high noise floors and pareidolia.

My only personal quibble with this theory is this -- if it is true, then why don't I  'catch' possible EVPs in my office, on the patio, in the warehouse, like I do in cemeteries?

Look, I have a huge problem believing that the spirits of the dead hang around graveyards all day hoping some geek with a cheap digital voice recorder comes stomping by. Day after day? Year after year? Decade after decade?

No. No way.

I never expected to catch anything when I first started trying to capture EVPs. But here I am, catching them, and only in the kinds of places that seem, to be honest, a bit cliche.

Which brings me to my first cemetery visit for yesterday, Saturday October 13. The place: Tula Cemetery. That's it, pictured in the first photo of the blog (the BOO sign is mine).

It's a quiet, out-of-the-way graveyard outside Tula, MS. As far as I know, it has no reputation whatsoever for any kind of haunting or other phenomena. It's just a cemetery.

I went in light, with only my camera, my K2, and my voice recorder. That way I can hide everything but the camera if people show up and pretend to be taking photos of headstones. I do that because I don't imagine ghost hunting, no matter how careful or respectful, will prove very popular hereabouts.

I spent about 20 minutes wandering and talking. I put the recorder down on several stones and asked for comments. Here are a few of the markers I singled out:

The good Lieutenant above had nothing to say.

These poor souls were also silent. The sandstone markers and location suggest they died during a yellow fever epidemic in the early 1800s.

Mr. Hartin was equally reticent to speak.

Above we have a doctor, one Dr. Robert M. Webster. I was regaling Dr. Webster with tales of organ transplants in the hope he might express disbelief. I didn't get a voice, but I did get an odd noise (around the 8:30 mark in the full clip). Here it is, amplified just a bit for your convenience:

anythingsiramped.mp3

Right after I say "anything at all, sir" there is a weird rumbling groaning sort of noise. I didn't hear it during recording, and I'm not willing to say it's a vocalization of any kind. I just include it because it's odd.

The best odd recording I got at Tula is next. At the seven minute mark, while I was just walking about inviting anyone to speak, I said "Maybe I can understand you with the help of this instrument."

Apparently that struck someone (or, cue minor chords, something) as funny, because I recorded what sounds like a laugh.

Keep in mind I was alone. I heard nothing at the time of the recording. Here is the audio segment, unaltered:

Intrument.mp3

And here is the laugh, looped so you can hear it better, especially if you are listening with PC speakers:

laughlooped.mp3

To me, it sounds like this: "instrument."  HA HA HA.

The HA HA HA is repeated only 3 times in the original -- I looped it out to 30 in the clip just to make it easier to hear.

Here's another oddity about this item. Look at the screen-shot below.  It's the audio clip, isolated down to "...instrument HA HA HA."

See the first burst of sound, represented on the graph above? That's me, saying 'instrument.'

The next three bursts are the HA HA HA sounds. Notice how nearly they match the first burst -- my voice --in up-and-down space?

That's called amplitude. It directly relates to the volume of a sound. As you can see, the word instrument and the subsequent noises (HA HA HA or whatever they are) and nearly the same in amplitude. And they're all well above the background noise.

So, how did I not hear three bursts of sound that were nearly as loud as my own voice?

I don't have an answer for that. I didn't hear anything at the time of recording.

Those are the only two instances of odd audio I felt were worthy of note. Interested parties might want to listen very hard at the 3:00 and 9:01 marks, because I almost heard something there, but ultimately decided it was probably just wind noise.

Now, you heard me taking a lot of photos at Tula. I saw something odd in one of them, and I'll put it below:

You may have to click on it to get the big image to see it. But there is a weird purple corona around that stone. Chromatic lens distortion, or supernatural energy emission?

I'm going with the former. But hey, it's October.

Next up is another odd Tula photo. Let's play Spot the Apparition!

Okay, I cheated and drew you an arrow. But when I saw that, on my big screen monitor, it immediately looked out of place. In fact, to me it looks like a bad cut n' paste job. The colors don't match the rest of the scene and it just seems to be stuck there.

Too, it looks like a dog wearing a button-down collar shirt peeking around a grave marker. That's not on the list of Traditional Haunting Images.

Now, I think this happens a lot among amateur ghost hunters. They get a weird photo. They post it. Everyone scratches their head.

But, if you look at this photo in context -- i.e., among other pictures taken from different places and angles -- you soon see it's NOT actually a spectral but well-dressed dog peeking about. Look below:

It's just an old foot marker. Whew.

Okay, that debunked, we leave Tula with one.

Final.

Image.

I give you the Phantom of Tula!

Do you see it?

Is that an apparition I've circled? Or is it a trick of pareidola?

You decide....

Next stop -- Rock Hill Missionary Baptist Church and environs, just a few miles away. But first -- a cottonfield!

Here's Rock Hill MB Baptist Church:

The tiny cemetery is off to the right.

The cemetery is fenced in. Since I don't have anyone buried there, I didn't climb the fence, or try to open it. This is the Deep South and people take the sanctity of their dead very seriously. I take shotguns very seriously, so we're even on that point.

So I stood outside the gate and did a quick EVP session.

I got one odd result. It sounded like a whispered 'yes.' At first. then I remembered I turned to shield my mic from the wind and I'm writing that sound off as wind noise.

Note to self: No more cemetery EVP hunts on windy days without a good windscreen.

It was fun, hanging at cemeteries, snapping pictures of weathered grave-markers, talking to thin air like a loon.

Next week will be even more fun. So stick around! It's October. Who knows what might happen next?

Things That Go Bump, Chapter 1

Boo.

That's my theme for the month of October. Yeah, I know, it's a single word, and not a word laden with deep meaning, but on the plus side it's short and easy to pronounce, so boo it is.

I love October. The intense Mississippi heat gives way to a brief Mississippi autumn, which means our weather settings are being moved from INFERNO to TORNADO and we've got maybe a month before the big switch clicks into place and we start hearing the wail of the storm sirens again.

October. The leaves fall. The snakes pack their bags and head for winter quarters. I can stop mowing the bloody lawn every six hours just to keep the jungle from taking over.

But best of all, October means Halloween.

Which brings us back to boo.

Those of you who know me know I'm not just Oxford's least-renowned author. I also have a keen interest in the dubious science of the allegedly paranormal -- in other words, I do a little ghost hunting from time to time.

Let me get a few things straight with you up front. Do I or do I not believe in the existence of ghosts?

Yes and no, with a generous dollop of maybe. 

Glad we cleared that up.

Seriously, I'm not at all concerned with beliefs, even mine. No. I have one interest in this regard, and one interest only, and that is confirming or denying the existence of evidence of the paranormal. Specifically, EVP and related phenomena, magnetic anomalies associated with ghostly phenomena, and photographic evidence of hauntings and so forth.

A lot of people, many of whom just happen to have shows on TV, claim to routinely gather evidence (sound evidence, still and video evidence, etc.) of the paranormal. In fact, they gather evidence with such apparent ease and frequency that I decided to engage in the same techniques, and see if anything spooky happened to me.

It's taken a while, but I've put together a pretty decent ghost hunting kit. I've got cameras, digital and film, still and video. In addition to the usual cameras and so forth, I've got some of the gear you might see on TV, shown below:

From left to right, there's a Ramsey Tri-Field meter, which can sniff out electric fields, magnetic fields, and RF signals. You just select your mode and watch the lights. This thing is extremely sensitive, and in electric field mode it can pick up someone combing their hair from across the room. Would it react if the spirit of a dead person approached?

Maybe. Especially if they'd help out by combing their hair.

To the lower right of the Ramsey, you have an old-school cassette tape recorder. I keep it around because there is a school of thought which says ghosts can imprint their EVP conversations more easily on magnetic tape. Also because I've had it forever and it still works.  Yes, the motor sound can be heard on recordings, but it's pretty quiet as this technology goes.

Next to the tape recorder is the ever-popular K2 meter, first popularized on SyFy's "Ghost Hunters" and used by legions of ghost hunters ever since. This is a very simple, rugged device that measures EMF fields up to 20 milliGauss. One things you may not know about K2 meters (Not my Ramsey, so much, unless it's in RF mode) is this -- a cell phone in use nearby can light it up. Let's say an unscrupulous production assistant decided your show needed a little ratings boost -- stand in the next room, off camera, and order a pizza as the intrepid ghost hunters troop through Blood Mansion.

Look, there go the K2s. Must be a haunt!

To the right of the K2 is a device of my own design. It measures static electrical fields, and it too is very sensitive. You flip the big switch, put it somewhere, and watch the single red light. Changes in intensity signal changes in the nearby charges. Could be a cat walking past. Or not. Bwhahaha...

Finally, above it all, is a big black box that contains my first stab at making a so-called Raudive EVP mic/amp combination.

I started building it Saturday morning, using mostly spare parts. Here is a photo history of the construction, minus the segments of me pulling my hair out or foaming at the mouth:

It's all tucked neatly into its box now, ready to go. I did make one serious mistake in the design -- I planned to mount a speaker in the box, and listen to the device like you would a radio. But due to a math error (stupid math!) the output stage puts out two volts and not the twenty I was hoping for. So it can't drive a big speaker, but it can act as a microphone, and be plugged right into a digital voice recorder. So that's how I'll be using it today, because I'm out of parts, time, and patience.

Konstantin Raudive (pronounced raw-dee-vay, not raw-dive) is the father of EVP research. He was out recording birdsongs and found voices instead, which led him to make more recordings, which led to the discovery of even more voices.

Ask any scientist about this, and most of them will tell you what he and other EVP researchers are recording is simply stray radio noise. Then most scientists will smack you on the back of the head and laugh at you for thinking you were going to get 20 volts when you got only 2. They are often a bitter lot.

Is that what I think? The voices are all stray bits of Howard Stern broadcasts?

Could be. But -- and yes, there is a but -- I have heard EVP recordings which appeared to exhibit intelligence, responding to spoken questions with clarity and apparent reason. I don't believe that can be attributed to radio noise. Also, people are using good gear, and taking pains to reduce any radio interference. I've also heard EVP 'voices' which were captured on more than one device, and which showed evidence of echo and clear directionality -- which makes them an audio phenomena, not a radio one.

At this point, many people cry 'hoax.'  And I'm sure many EVP recordings are hoaxes. That's why I decided to capture them myself -- because that's the only way I can be absolutely sure I'm not being tricked. Because I keep a sharp eye on myself at all times.

The first time I tried to capture EVP activity was in a local cemetery on a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon. I made sure no one was around, I asked a few questions, stepped on a few graves, heard nothing out of the ordinary. Then went to a much more remote rural graveyard, where I did the same thing.

I downloaded the recordings and listened to them on my PC, expecting to hear nothing because after all I'd heard nothing.

But that's not what happened.

In the first graveyard, I caught a faint but distinct female voice saying 'hurry, honey.' In the rural cemetery, I captured part of what sounded like a conversation between a man and a woman, though no one was around having any conversation of any kind.

I didn't fake these. Yes, the sounds are faint. But they are there.

And that was my first time out.

Now, the gear I've been using is designed to capture sounds by use of audio microphones.

The box I slapped together yesterday is totally different. It has no microphone at all -- in fact, it's just a germanium diode (the classic 1n34A), a 0.5 mH coil, and a very basic op-amp which boosts the signal about 200 times.

This is a so-called 'Raudive microphone,' which is actually a crude, detuned AM radio with a tiny 3 inch antenna. All one should hear is static. There are people claiming to hear not just voices but whole conversations.

Well, today we're going to try it for ourselves. And you can be a part of it, because in a few minutes I'm going to set up every piece of gear I have and conduct an EVP session right here at my desk. I'll be running the Raudive unit all the while, and when I'm done I'll pull its audio and analyze it for anything odd. If I find voices, I'll clip them out and post them below.

If I don't, well, I'll reveal that too.

Now, I know many ghost hunters prefer to tramp around deserted old buildings in the dark.  And that does make for good TV. But I'm not on TV, the locals tend to get all shooty and litigious with people they discover tramping around in the dark, and anyway "Hell on Wheels" is on later and I never miss that.

So today's paranormal investigation takes place here, in scenic Yocona, Mississippi. It's finally cool enough so that I can turn off the fans and the AC. I'll be speaking into a pro-quality Blue Snowball microphone for the audio session. I'll be making a secondary recording on my iPhone, just in case. The Raudive unit will be Raudiving away on the table behind me. I'll have the K2 an the Ramsey in plain sight, ready to light up if the room's EMF profile changes (and it shouldn't).

If you do hear a fan, it's one of the four in my monster PC, which is optimized for writing (gaming) and research (gaming). I've got them set to run at minimums, though, so hopefully all you'll hear is my voice.

Present in the room is Lou Ann, asleep in the recliner, Petey, downstairs asleep, and Thor, who comes and goes with all the grace and agility of a drunken water buffalo. You can pretty much ignore sounds of movement, because that's obviously a dog.

Here's how this will work. I'll fire up the microphone and talk for a bit. Then I'll use the old PC to fire up a wall of pure white noise. A lot of EVP researchers claim the white noise is used by entities to form words. I'm more of the belief that loud white noise can trick you into thinking you heard words, but hey, I'll give it a shot.

Once I'm done with the session, I'll post it. Then I'll use my audio software (it's just Audacity, which you can get too -- it's free, and everyone uses it) to look for voices that shouldn't be there. If I find any, I'll post them too.

I won't do any elaborate post-processing. you can either hear it or you can't. I don't tweak the files much, because it's too easy to tweak plain old noise into something that does sound like 'Mustard, I feel the noses, dance my slacks, Portnoy.' 

And you get to be here for it, live! Okay, not live in the broadcast sense, but live as in not dead, I suppose. And if you are dead, please stop being such a prima donna and say something plain and direct, okay? Thanks.

Here's the setup -- K2, Ramsey, and EMF below monitor at to left of mic:

The ambient EMF, which is around 44 microTeslas:

Finally, the meters. The K2 is showing its usual one LED. The Ramsey is set for electric field detection, but is mostly very quiet.

So, the stage is set, the mics are hot, and it's time to see if anyone out there is in a talkative mood.  Join me as I take a brief journey into --

Okay, I won't say it, but you know you heard the theme song.

First EVP session

So that's five minutes of rambling by one more or less living person. Analysis of the entire segment revealed nothing out of the ordinary. 

Next, I added a blast of white noise to the mix. White noise is simply static. It's a very defined kind of static, and I could post a whole page of math about it, but you know what static sounds like.

I really cranked the level. It doesn't sound that thunderous on the recording, because the Blue was set for near field, but it was pretty loud to me.  I talked through it, asked the usual questions. But here, listen for yourself.

Second EVP session

I analysed the audio above, expecting nothing.

Oddly enough, I did find an oddity. At about four minutes, I noted that I was hearing a sort of sing-song high-pitched sound, like a child humming or singing in the distance. I was pretty sure I was imagining it, because I hadn't heard it before, and sing-song kid voices are NOT a component of white noise.

But I caught it, and I've isolated a sample below. It lasted for about 20 seconds. I have no idea what it was. It's faint -- I use a good pair of headphones to listen to my EVP recordings -- but if you crank the volume you can hear it. NOTE: I was forced to do a little noise reduction and loop this sample, because you really can't hear it without headphones otherwise.

Singsong Sound

What was it?

I have no idea whatsoever.  I heard it. The Blue caught it. So it was there, but whether it was Lou Ann playing her hidden accordion or some long-lost relative telling me to knock it off and get a real job, I'll probably never know.

I don't consider that clip evidence of anything paranormal. It's just a weird noise.

I also recorded 41 minutes of audio on my new Raudive box.

Have you ever tried to sit and listen intently to 41 minutes of static?

Oh yeah. Good times. Nothing there. Just static.

Today was a sort of general introduction to EVP recording and EVPs in general. Next week, I take to the field, recording some EVPs in the places ghosts reputably gather. Graveyards. Haunted houses. My book signings. You know, any desolate, lonely place where the living seldom dare intrude.

Thanks for joining me! Stay tuned, because this whole month is about ghosts, goblins, and things what go bump in der nicht.

I started with boo. Now I say bye. Until next time, my friends...

Markhat Unmasked!

Stand well back, gentle readers.

Stand back and brace yourselves, for the next image you will see is an artist's rendition of Markhat, Rannit's most (in)famous finder-for-hire.

Both of these amazing pieces of hand-drawn art were created by artist Raevyn Tws (his Facebook page is here). Both were drawn without the use of computer assistance of any kind, a feat which still leaves me awestruck.

The artist (who, it must be noted, rocks) captured Markhat delivering one of his smart-aleck one-liners. Maybe Markhat is mocking some mystical pronouncement by Mama Hog. Maybe he is chiding Evis for putting out the cheap beer. Or perhaps Markhat is tweaking some gangster's nose, hoping to goad him into doing something unwise.

Whatever the conversation, this is Markhat, brought to you by a man with an amazing talent and a skill perfected over years of dedicated attention to his craft. I give you Markhat, Engaged in Inadvisable Witticism!

Feast your eyes, friends. Favor the fantastic. Eagerly enjoy the enlightened effort. I love this image.

Obviously, this is post-Darla Markhat, because his suit is neat and pressed, his tie is on straight, and that's not Jed Clampett's battered old hat. No, this is Markhat at his best -- clean, sober, and not afraid for people to know it.

If I had to pick a scene to go with this image, I think I'd choose the time in The Broken Bell when Markhat bluffs his way into the Lethway mansion and winds up in an upstairs kitchen, eating with the domestic staff as he pretends to be a mining consultant. Now, the full extent of Markhat's knowledge of mining is that the practice seems to involve holes in the ground, but that doesn't stop him from delivering a long, detailed explanation of something he calls a Morris mining ram, which he makes up on the spot.

It works. The staff accepts him as just another tradesman, and he's able to glean a few important clues during his brief stay at the house.

That's Markhat, in a nutshell. He doesn't know anything about mining, but he understands people and how they work quite well indeed. Become the long-winded gasbag of a Morris ram salesman, and you'll be ignored. Avoided, even. Free to nose about.

As Markhat notes, more than once, his profession has risks, but at least it doesn't involve the rigors of honest work.

Look at that image again. That's exactly what the piece conveys -- a man not just pulling the wool over someone's eyes, but tugging their ears and tweaking their noses as he pulls.

Next we have Markhat in full standing profile, in a piece I like to call Markhat Redistributes Wealth:

Here we see an immaculately-dressed Markhat plying his trade in a swank dining club. Now, Markhat is not exactly a regular patron of any of Rannit's swank dining clubs, although, he asks me to add, 'he has been forcibly ejected from all the best ones.' But since many of his cases involve Rannit's wealthy plutocrats, Markhat finds himself inside the refined eateries and bars frequently. Here, Markhat is pointing out his dining companion to a suspicious headwaiter. Note Markhat's left hand, which is reaching into his pocket for the pair of Old Kingdom gold crowns he will accidentally press into the headwaiter's hand, which will in turn cause the headwaiter to conveniently look away long enough for Markhat to seat himself despite his lifetime banning from the somewhat stodgy establishment.

Now that's what I call art. I can see the stories in these pictures. And if you think I said to Raevyn 'I want one sitting smirk with a finger upraised and one standing while bribing a waiter in a fancy night club,' you'd be dead wrong. The man came up with these on his own.

I hope you ladies and gentlemen have enjoyed these two pieces as much as I have. I'm going to have both printed and framed and hung on my study wall.

I believe the artist would get a HUGE kick out of hearing how much you like these, too. You can email me and I'll forward your comments, or you can browse on over to Raevyn's FB page at http://www.facebook.com/raevyn.tws and tell him yourself. Honestly, the man is a walking miracle -- who else does portraits like these in magic marker?

So thank you, Raevyn Tws, for bringing a character I've been writing about for years to life.  I will treasure these images forever!

Markhat Revealed, Part Two

Last week, I posed a question to you, my vast army of loyal readers. The question was this -- what actors should be chosen to portray Markhat and Darla in the rumored movie adaptation of The Broken Bell?

Yes, there is a rumor that The Broken Bell is under consideration by several top Hollywood film producers. I know, because I just started the rumor. Do your part and help spread it! Remember, loose lips sink ships. I know that's not entirely applicable in this instance, but I like saying it fast.

Your responses were swift and insightful. I'm going to list them all below, and each will be linked to a Wikipedia photo of the actor or actress named, so if you don't know the face, click and it shall be shown unto you. I won't send you to any long-loading movie or unsavory fan sites, so click without worry or undue apprehension.

Markhat:

Todd Lowe  Currently starring in HBO's True Blood. He looks tough, and a bit haunted.

Joe Manganiello - You've seen him in ER and Spiderman (the 2002 release). He could do Markhat perfectly.

Michael McMillian - He's got a younger everyman quality I like too.

Richard Armitage - May be my favorite Markhat suggestion thus far. Good-looking but can carry a smirk.


Darla:

Winona Ryder - You know Wynona! A great choice for Darla.

Ashley Judd - I admit I never thought of Ashley Judd as Darla, but now that I do think about it, yes, she could pull it off.

Sandra Bullock - Wow. Sandra Bullock would make a wonderful Darla. Her eyes and hair are perfect.

Lacey Chabert - A fellow Mississippian, born in the little town of Purvis, not far from here. She's had many roles in live-action and as a voice actress in numerous animated films as well.

Essie Davis - Australian actress with big eyes. Blonde, but hair dye technology improves every day!

Putting aside for a moment my own idea that actor Timothy Hutton should portray Markhat, I think my favorite pairing for from the lists above comes down to this --

INSERT DRUMROLL HERE

Richard Armitage as Markhat, and Winona Ryder as Darla!

We also have a suggestion for the actress best suited to play Mama Hog. Phyllis Diller would have been perfect for the role, yes, but as she is sadly passed, Cloris Leachman would be wonderful for the role. Especially shrunk down digitally, as were the actors who portrayed the Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings.

I know, I know, most of you hate that pairing. But take it up with Universal Studios; they are the ones rumored to be doing the rumored casting. I have nothing to do with it. Complain to them, in writing, and remember to send thousands of registered letters each day for at least a month.

Let me offer a very special thanks to everyone who suggested a name. That would be Maria and JWB and Merrian and Kellie and April!

I'll make sure your monickers show up in a later book, so watch for them.

Now for the big news -- in next Sunday's entry, I hope to release, for the first time anywhere, a pair of absolutely brilliant hand-drawn portrayals of Markhat, done by a real artist. No computer enhancements, either -- he does all his work strictly by hand, with pens, on paper.

I've seen the sketches already, and I'm floored. You will be too, so stop back by next Sunday!

Markhat Revealed!

People are always asking me questions. Usually these questions are "Why aren't you wearing pants?" or "Is that your car up there in the tree?"

First of all, I am seldom without trousers. And second, most of these voices are in my head, and most of the time they just want me to panic so they can laugh and say 'Made you look!'

And yes, I have suffered numerous concussions. But that's really beside the point.

Lately, though, I have been asked more than once how I picture my fictional detective Markhat when I'm writing him.

That's easy. Markhat sprang to life with his face complete, and now, for the first time anywhere, I reveal it here, to you:

Yep. My fictional detective Markhat is a dead ringer for actor Timothy Hutton. Specifically, Timothy Hutton as he (brilliantly) portrayed fictional detective Archie Goodwin in A&E's 'Nero Wolfe' TV series.

Strange how these things work out, isn't it?

Here's another shot, of Markhat loitering with two women who are not Darla:

Speaking of Darla, I have an image in my head of her too. But I've not been able to match it exactly with anyone I can name. Darla is tall, slender, brown-eyed, black-haired, and just a touch pale. She wears her hair in a bob cut reminiscent of a Roaring Twenties flapper. She tends to be a conservative dresser, but favors purples and browns and umbers. She might wear a pillbox hat with a tiny bit of veil on it.

Any ideas?

Gina Bellman has been suggested. She works with Mr. Hutton now, on the TNT's show Leverage (which I love). She has a great look, and I think she'd be a wonderful Darla, given the right hairstyle. Here she is, below:

Darla is smart, brave, and nobody's shrinking violet. Bellman certainly has the look!

What do you guys think? Tell you what. Reply in the comments section, or email me at  franktuttle@franktuttle.com with your picks for actors to portray Markhat and Darla. The winner gets an all-expenses-paid trip to the set of the Markhat motion picture, OR I name a character after them in the new Markhat book, whichever event takes place first (I leave it to your judgment to determine the likelihood of that particular scenario).

So Timothy Hutton and Gina Bellman are taken. Who else should play Markhat and Darla? Contest starts...NOW! And runs until next Sunday, when I do another blog entry.


And for the benefit of anyone out there scratching their head and asking "Who is this Markhat character anyway?" I offer this, a complete listing of the Markhat books, in the order they are best read.

Dead Man's Rain

The Cadaver Client

The Mister Trophy

Hold the Dark

The Banshee's Walk

The Broken Bell

Don't have a Kindle? No worries, they're available in print too. Here's a link to all formats:

Frank's books on Amazon, including print!

So let's see who YOU think should play Markhat and Darla!

The Ghosts in the Camera

If you're a Lord of the Rings fan -- and I hope you are -- you've probably heard of the (in)famous parody of the epic series done by the Harvard Lampoon back in 1969.

The parody is called Bored of the Rings, and if you haven't read it yet, you should. Few books have moved me to laughter so many times. It's irreverent, crude, and often obscene, but as the polar opposite of the grandeur and dignity of the real Lord of the Rings it had to be.

Yes, I found the paperback, which appears to have been abducted by wolves, subjected to fires, and possibly passed between drunken tornadoes in the decades since '69.

But while looking, I found something else.

That, my friends, is a very old camera.

It was owned my my maternal grandfather, Harold Gean. Grandpaw Gean (hey, this is Mississippi, no one says 'grandfather' unless they're talking about a clock) was what we'd probably call a hoarder today. He got things. He kept things.

When he died, I wound up with this camera. I put it away, in a drawer, because I didn't want to sell it, and I've always had a fascination for anything optical.

Fast-forward through a few decades, to today. I found a sealed bag, vaguely remembered what was inside, and pulled it out.

A little research with my friend Google revealed this to be a German-made Agfa PB-20, probably manufactured in 1934. It used 120 mm film that came in a 9 exposure roll. It's a far cry from the whiz-bang zip-zap digital rigs of today. The photographer did all the work -- set the F-stop, set the focus, lined up the image with the twin pop-up framing sights. Checked his own lighting, heck, probably kicked wolves and badgers out of the way while he did all that. It was 1935. Rough and tumble was the order of the day.

Black and white film only, of course. Color for the average Joe was still a World War and a few years away. The Agfa PB-20 was a pretty popular camera, even though it cost a whopping seven bucks and change. And it took great photographs, too.

Granted, this particular specimen has seen better days. The leather is cracked and decaying. The bellows still expand and contract, but I doubt they're still light-tight. The lenses need a good cleaning. I think the shutter still works, but it needs a lot of TLC and some carefully-applied lubricant.

On the whole, though, the Agfa is in decent shape. The mechanics are still basically sound. Turns out the differences between the 1934 Agfa and my 1967 Pentax K1000 aren't that vast. Just for fun, I tried rewinding the film, sure the old camera was empty.

I felt resistance. Felt movement inside.

That's right -- it felt like there was a roll of Kodak Verichrome 120 mm B&W film still inside the camera. 

I completed the rewind process, telling myself the whole time I was just feeling eight decades of grime and decay acting against the rewind wheel, and nothing else. No need to get my hopes up. Even if there was film inside, what are the odds it might still be viable after all this time?

Still, I very carefully rewound it, and after a few more minutes on Google, I opened the Agfar for the first time since Franklin D. Roosevelt was President.

And there it was -- a roll of Kodak Verichrome, just like the Web predicted. Largely intact.

For all I know, it was last used to take photos sometime between the Great Depression and World War II.

Photos of people who might well be my grandparents or other relatives.

From seventy years ago.

The reality is that the film is probably so degraded it can't be developed at all. Or that if it can, I get five images of old shoes or blurry thumbs.

But what if, against all odds, a few snapshots of a long-gone place and time are preserved therein?

I put the film roll in a light-tight bag. I'm checking around now, to see if anyone I know has any darkroom equipment. If I ever do wind up with images, believe me, I'll post them here.

But even if I don't, for a moment I felt a unique connection with the man who loaded film in the Agfar, so many years ago. I'm sure he meant to have the photos developed. I'm sure he had no idea, no idea whatsoever, that his grandson would be posting pictures of the camera on something called the Net and talking about him in something called a blog. The words themselves would have held little or no meaning to him.

But the pictures, if they have survived, will transcend all that time, all those years. Even if I don't recognize any of the faces. We'll be looking at each other, through this tiny lens, across a gulf of years.

So maybe this weatherbeaten old camera served its purpose after all, seventy plus years after its day.

UPDATE!

It's the University of Mississippi Art Department to the rescue! An intrepid art instructor who specializes in photography has graciously agreed to take a stab at developing the film. I should know whether there are images there by the first of next week! Thanks Ashley! Will of course post an update then.

Out on the Patio Number Four!

You ever have one of those days?

Sure you have. Every cord you try to move is tangled. Every battery you try to use is dead. Every door you approach while bearing an armful of delicate items is inexplicably and implacably locked.

If you reach for a glass, it breaks. If you race through the house, barking more shins than any biped actually possesses to reach a ringing phone, it goes dead as soon as you pick it up, and it was a wrong number anyway.

I'm having one of those days.

It all started innocently enough. It's Sunday, and I always blog on Sundays. Today I decided to include an audio segment -- and that's when the Chaos Demons came out to play.

First, I took all my audio gear out on the patio. Laptop. Microphone. Pop filter. Cables. Book to read from. Frosty beverage with which to refresh myself. Handy multi-tool with which to open aforementioned frosty beverage.

I set everything up. Windows insisted on some sort of upgrade before loading. Clouds gathered, threatening a shower, while Windows loaded my netbook's tiny processor down with a few million no doubt urgent operations.

I kept an anxious eye on the weather. Meanwhile, Thor saw a book he hadn't read, and made off with my print copy of THE BANSHEE'S WALK. I took off in pursuit, the other dogs joined in the game, and we had a merry romp in the backyard while my poor copy of BANSHEE went from excellent to extremely dogged condition.

I get back to the makeshift recording studio, damp, bedraggled book in hand. I sit down, I start to speak, and the netbook's power light begins to flash, while the ominous Battery is low, connect to AC adapter message appears.

I just charged the blinkin' battery. But hey, arguing with electronics does no good, so I dart inside the study, grab the netbook's AC thingy, and race back out to the patio, arriving just in time to see the netbook shut itself down.

Yay. I run an extension cord out there, hook the netbook back up, wait while it boots. I observe the dogs at carefree play. I look down, and realize my pop filter is missing.

Yes, the dogs are at carefree play with my handmade microphone pop filter.

I make a lot of my own gear. The pop filter is just some weird steel foot-thing from who knows where, some steel pipe clamps, part of an industrial air filter, and some acoustic foam. You could probably drop it out of an airplane and pick it up and use it -- but four dogs? Four happy carefree big dogs?

Once again, hilarity ensues. The pop filter, which is pretty much made of steel, survives (the foam pop filter itself is sandwiched between two sheets of steel mesh). I turn my ankle chasing the dogs, but it's not a bad turn so I soldier on.

Finally, I start recording. You won't hear the segment in which I manage to overturn my frosty beverage nearly on top of my decidedly not-waterproof netbook, because neither I nor the dogs approve of that sort of language. The netbook survives, by the way. Barely.

The dogs decide to insist on air time of their own by holding the Annual Yocona Mississippi Loud Barking For No Apparent Reason Finals two meters from my mic. Finally, I finish, and head back inside, dropping everything at least once.

Once back in the study, I check the audio file before transferring it from my netbook to this big rig. Here's what the audio filed sounded like:

PPPPHT.

That's right. One brief raspberry.

I checked the filename, the filesize, the date, the whole bit. It simply would not play.

Okay. This has happened before. Sometimes big files just throw the netbook into a funk. It's an Atom processor trying to choke down twelve minutes of uncompressed audio, right? Can't blame it for choking. So I move the audio files to my big machine, and voila! It works.

Well, half of it works. Right about the time I start reading from my Thor-savaged book, the file simply ends, and no amount of coaxing can restore it.

So I bite my tongue and decide to finish the Out on the Patio segment right here, behind my desk.

I go to shut off the big fan that sits behind me and blows on my back. When I do that, I manage to knock a book over on Lou Ann. This startles her, and she jumps, and I step back, and I twist the ankle I just twisted again, achieving the rare double-twisted torture joint score.

So it's been one of those days.

But the audio is out there! Here it is, the latest installment of Out on the Patio!

New Out on the Patio!