Ghosts: Precognitive Dreams

Readers, have you ever had precognitive dreams which later prove to be prescient to the smallest detail?  I have.  I wonder how it happens: do we tap into Jung’s universal unconscious? Are we simply astute enough to assess and figure out some things in advance? Or are ghosts visiting our dreams? So many possibilities … 

Here’s an example of the sort of dream I mean.  I had a series of dreams some time back in which I was given hints about people I knew (but in most cases, with whom I’d been out of touch).  In one of the most startling of the lot, I had a dream in which I looked down at the seashore (I lived on an island at the time) and saw a character from a novel who is nice on the outside but an evil character.  She was striding along the beach and I didn’t want her to see me.  Then I’m in a home I lived in as a child and I see my deceased aunt and uncle walk by and greet me.  Then I see my then-mother in law, also deceased.  She is pointing at a calendar on the wall which says Aquarius 2 (which as an astrology student then I immediately interpret as “February 2”).  I ask her about relatives and then she looks me in the eye and says “that’s not who you should be worried about.”  Then I look over a scene of the island Naval Hospital, not far from my residence, and I knew someone would be there.  I awakened and wrote this down, as I remembered it clearly and it was so strange.

I couldn’t figure it out, so I forgot about it. Until I flew back to the island from the States on Feb. 2 and was met by my spouse’s boss, who informed me that my spouse had just been hospitalised and was in the ICU after an apparent heart attack. It was the hospital in my dream of course.  My spouse was the last person I’d have thought of: he was a runner, a pilot, in excellent health, with no history of problems (and had frequent flight physicals which he always passed). He had just turned 36 years of age at the time.   

I had a series of dreams along these lines, all vivid and all accurately predicting events in the future, one was a near death of a high school friend I had not seen in years, and one a friend from college, ditto.  

My theory is that when we have these dreams we somehow tap into a mysterious place.  Was the mother in law figure in my dream a ghost, and my aunt and uncle? Maybe.  I can’t say.  

Another dream that comes to mind is one that just happened to be interpreted by the professor in the above-mentioned dream course.  The odds were slim and none – I was lucky. We discussed the dream (which I won’t outline here except to say that the professor asked how my health had been. I said “Fine, why?”  He suggested that I see a doc, just to be on the safe side and discussed clues from the dream. So, I did.  The upshot was that I was referred quickly to a specialist, diagnosed with an extremely rare form of cancer, which was fortunately caught in time and treated.  So – another mystery.  

Have you had mysteriously prescient dreams?  

 Copyright © 2019 Bookemjano – All rights reserved. 
To learn more about real ghosts, please see About Ghosts: A Useful Handbook.  For some great ghost stories, please see Death Be Not Loud, Rest In Fleece, and Sepia Seepage.  To learn about ghosts in modern fiction, please see Infectious Ghosts. And so much more, at: Jan’s Amazon Page

Ghosts: Repost: Another Haunted House!

Readers, look at this story of a very haunted home.  (A repost from my blog). From the excellent Ghosts and Ghouls blog.

“In the ’80s, my aunt used to live in a haunted house in Columbia, South Carolina. As far as I know, it was an average home- there was no dark history or murders -but the creepiest stuff always happened. Here’s just some of what my aunt and her family experienced there. It started off with…

via Reader Submission: Haunted Home — Ghosts and Ghouls


 Copyright © 2019 Bookemjano – All rights reserved.
To learn more about real ghosts, please see About Ghosts: A Useful Handbook.  For some great ghost stories, please see Death Be Not Loud, Rest In Fleece, and Sepia Seepage.  To learn about ghosts in modern fiction, please see Infectious Ghosts. And so much more, at: Jan’s Amazon Page


Ghosts: Hot Date: A Cautionary Tale (Short Fiction)

Readers, here’s a cautionary tale from my collection of short ghostly fiction, Rest in Fleece: Ghosts, Tall Tales and Horror Stories.  “Be Careful What You Wish For.” 😁👻  Enjoy! 

Hot Date

Jake had tired of being single. After his breakup with Trisha, things had been good:  no more bitching about who didn’t take out the garbage, who didn’t wipe the dishes,  who didn’t this, who didn’t that, blah, blah, blah. But after a time, his own company (and having to iron his shirts) got old.  You can only eat so many frozen dinners. 

What to do? Jake’s buddy Cal had done well with online dating services. (In Marin County, the women outnumbered the men seven to one).   So Jake followed suit and claimed he was from Mill Valley.  Jake was actually from Richmond. There were other wee variations from reality in his dating profiles: his height (more), weight (less), his occupation (a better one), his age (younger), and his interests (what interests?).

Jake was, to be brutally frank, an utter cad.  His social rap sheet was rife with many particularly vile examples of assholery. He had been known to excuse himself to go to the men’s room at the end of the meal, then slip out the back door, leaving his date to pick up the enormous tab.  He was also deft at texting other women while on dates, even carrying on phone conversations (a Luddite, he still wore one of those Bluetooth devices over his ear, under the mistaken impression it was a cool look).  The light blinked, hypnotizing his already stupified dates.  Those who managed to stay conscious thought he had a third eye. 

He was disrespectful, late and laggardly. He refused to open doors or pull seats out. His was the Genghis Khan School of Etiquette.  Occasionally (if he wanted something) he’d pull out all the stops and buy flowers (two day old, half price bouquets, from the supermarket).

Jake accepted dinner invitations from women who cooked, and usually by the second course had already found things about which to complain.  He’d say he had allergies. If a woman grilled steaks, he’d be vegetarian.  Fish: he would informatively discuss toxic mercury levels in the ocean.  If he got chicken piccata, he’d whinge about capers.  It was always something. To make matters yet worse, his phone was right there on the table, so he could text other women and receive their calls.

When out on the town, it was not unusual for him to ditch his date for someone cuter across the room. (He liked to keep his options open).  He also (at least once that I know of) had been known to strand a woman by leaving her at one party, while he moved on to the next, better one. 

The holidays were his favorite season. He would hint at wonderful presents in order to be sure the woman got him something good. Then when gift exchange time came, he’d say earnestly “I sent it back, it wasn’t good enough for you.”

He insisted his women all be slender as anorexics, making him king of the unwelcome remark:  “Dessert? Really?” “That top makes you look fat.” “She’ll have the salad, no croutons, no dressing.” 

How you ask, did he get by with it?  Simple.  He was very attractive and dressed well.  He looked good (on paper). No new dates knew how the old ones had gone. When asked how it was that he was still single (this question never came up after a date) he would reply “I just haven’t met Ms Right. Until maybe now!”  People always hope for the best. And so it would go.


One night, Jake sees an ad for a new dating service on late night tv, cutting into his movie. Matchsticks dot com.  Our Matches Stick Forever!  He can’t resist. He gets to the website, registers and logs on. It has an immediate effect on him, almost as if the very website emitted a magic that made it unusually delicious and magnetic. 

Jake is certainly blown away. Never has he seen so many unspeakably beautiful ladies in one place. (Usually they were all dogs).  He wonders briefly if this is one of those rip off mail order bride sites.  But no, they’re not Moldavian. 

He decides to try the Matchsticks Matrix, even though it costs him a tenner (generally he is averse to ponying up money in his search for love).  He plugs in his astrological sign (he writes Aries. His real sign is Dungheap), hobbies (he makes these up: lacrosse, polo, fine dining).   He finishes his personal inventory and presses “enter.”  In a very short time his computer dings: he has received an email with a list of potential matches.  He opens it and to a slew of highly eye-catching photos.  He adores them all. 

He ponders his choices: Lillythe, an attorney, a gorgeous brunette.  Hekatie, a ski instructor from Vail.  Isis, a restaurateur. But wait.  Hold the phone.  Who’s this? His eyes bug out like those of a cartoon character who has just ingested a bottle of arsenic.

Her name, it says, is Charlotte Ann Abaddon.  Her motto:  “Call me Bad.” She is completely fetching” tall, blonde, huge blue eyes, long legs. Her profile says she’s a professional, an actuarial accountant with the firm Brackisch, Dante and Sludge.  She models for that fashion mag, Vive le France, and likes wine tasting, opera, poetry and art.  She’s dressed in cool, urban-chic black. 

Profiles like this might intimidate many guys.  But not Jake, whose self esteem knows no bounds: it spills over, drowning his common sense.  He snaps a fast selfie with his iPhone, downloads it to his computer to airbrush, then sends that with a quick note to Charlotte Ann. 

The next day, Jake gets an email from Matchsticks that Charlotte Ann has responded to his message.  He logs on, reads her missive, and is quite giddy with pleasure.  She can’t wait to meet him.  (Again, his intuition, such as it is, sits downcast in the corner of his consciousness, shouted down by the bully: his ego). 

Charlotte Ann invites him to cocktails at the Fairmont. He says yes, and leaves work early to take BART into the city.  He stops at Nordstrom’s to get new clothes (his entire wardrobe lies crumpled in a smelly, moldy pile next to his washer and old newspapers he forgot to take out) and changes in the store.  He arrives early and wanders up to the Hurricane Bar. 

Jake doesn’t bother to soak in the atmosphere at this famous spot. His phone holds more allure. He’s busily texting away when the lovely and statuesque Charlotte Ann arrives at his table. 

“Hi, I’m Charlotte Ann.  You must be Jake.  My, you look so much better than your photo. So often it’s the other way around,” she says, shaking her lovely head.

“So true,” Jake commiserates.  “A pleasure to meet you.  You. Look. Marvelous.” (He spews out that tired Ricardo Montalban line like some third-rate Hollywood agent).

Charlotte Ann smiles (her teeth are Crest White Stripped, and just slightly long) and asks for the drinks menu.  She orders a Zombie. (Hint).  Jake gets a Singapore Sling.  They sit there with their umbrella drinks. For once, Jake is really taken with a date. She is so stunning.  He keeps his Bluetooth in his pocket, along with his iPhone.  He gazes into Charlotte Ann’s eyes and falls, hard.  This is new for him.   He is awash in the rosy glow of love at first sight.  Unfortunately, no second sight was involved.

Soaking in his new infatuation (and alcohol), Jake doesn’t observe little things:  the server knowing exactly how Charlotte Ann likes her drinks, or the bartender reading her hand signs like a baseball pitcher watching the catcher.   He doesn’t for a nanosecond wonder why such a hot ticket is hanging on his every (lame) word, not to mention his endless monologue about football. It’s all there for Jake to see, but it’s hiding behind his hubris: invisible.

Several drinks and appetizers later, Charlotte Ann excuses herself to powder her nose.  Jake waits for her return. He people watches. He waits. He plays with his cell. And waits. 

“Sir,” says the server, and presents Jake with the check.  It’s a steep one: after all, this is the Fairmont.  Jake wonders if he has enough credit on his bank card.  He hands it to the waiter and holds his breath.  Meanwhile he begins to feel slightly sick.  He goes to the men’s room to wash his face.

The door automatically clangs shut behind him. It’s sealed tighter than a bank vault.  Jake is befuddled.  But not for long.  Because his brain fog is a result of the loaded drinks: now he’s in a state of encroaching paralysis. As he stands there, the men’s room makes up for his lack of motion and swings to and fro. (Hey, it’s San Francisco. It’s an earthquake). 

After it’s over (safety first), the men’s room, with a sound like a muffled fart, begins to descend. It’s really an elevator. And it’s going down.  ‘Way down.

No.  Further. 


Ding! The elevator stops. It’s been a long ride indeed, and Jake has fallen asleep on the floor. Jake’s consciousness switches to the “on” position at the sound of another fart, which heralds the unbolting of the door.  It is opened by a  . . . wha’? 

A daemon!  Even now, Jake is shallow.  Rather than his destination, he’s all about appearances.  “Eeeuu, so ugly,” he thinks. Look at that scaly skin, the ET eyes, the claws, the tail.  And fat.  Rolls and rolls of it.  If daemons had weight, this one would be an easy half ton. 

Noting the flames and brimstone in the background, Jake now regrets the countless skipped Sunday schools, slept-through sermons, the “I’m not religious.” They were RIGHT.  Uh oh. 

He looks at the daemon again and suddenly recognizes the shoes.  Those Louboutins were the exact same pair on Charlotte Ann’s pretty feet!  Did the daemon capture her, too? No wonder she didn’t come back! He’d better see where she is. 

“Jake, Jake.”  The daemon spoke, but in Charlotte Ann’s voice.

Jake nearly pisses all over himself.  What a turn of events this is. 

“Are, are, are you, uh,” he stammers.  Charlotte Ann cuts him off.

“Yes, the very same.  Call me Bad.  Come on down. Welcome to Purgatory. I’m in charge of this department.”

“Which is?” asks Jake, still numb.

“‘Our Matches Stick Forever.’ Truth in advertising, you know.”  Charlotte Ann took a moment to pick her snout with an aardvark claw, examining her lode before releasing it to the fire pit on her immediate right, where it sizzled a moment. 

“Come on, Jake, sweet pea. Time for our second date.  We have all eternity.”  She shows her teeth (somehow, they are still sparkling white) and prods him with her trident.


 Copyright © 2019 Bookemjano – All rights reserved
To learn more about real ghosts, please see About Ghosts: A Useful Handbook.  For some great ghost stories, please see Death Be Not Loud, Rest In Fleece, and Sepia Seepage.  To learn about ghosts in modern fiction, please see Infectious Ghosts. And so much more, at: Jan’s Amazon Page

Ghosts: A Spirit In A Church and a Free Book!

Readers, check out this creepy tale of a ghost in a crumbling church!  From Backpackerverse via Church Ghost

Today only (25th) – FREE BOOK!  Get your copy of About Ghosts: A Useful Handbook — this is a brief but very useful compendium of info all about ghosts:  types, meaning, signs, significance and true stories! It is even cited in an upcoming novel! 

Don’t miss out! Tell your friends! And if you like it, please take a moment to leave a kind review and stars, as you know these mean everything to us writers!  Many thanks – enjoy!  

For more good books including collections of ghost stories, please see Jan’s Amazon Page


Ghosts: Ghosts They’ve Seen!

Readers, here is a great selection of ghost experiences related by those who saw them – on that source of all kinds of great discussion, Quora.  Have a look:

For more ghosts and other things, please see


New Book Alert: “And Now For Something Completely Different…” :)

Readers, this is not my usual Mob adventure (let’s face it, they’ve already gone Medieval 🙂 ) or ghost story, but something else. ‘WAY, ‘way else :). if you like medieval spirituality, art, art history, Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights and what it means, not to mention love, sex and sin in the medieval mind – this title may have your name on it!

My new book, Love in Bosch’s Garden: Profane and Sacred Love in the Medieval Imagination  is now available here: 

Have a look!  This is a thought-provoking, scholarly (but not boring!) examination of salvation and the role of devotional art in medieval spirituality, and lots about Bosch! Sex and sin, too – so what’s not to like? 🙂

For this book and more, please see



Ghosts: My Own Personal Ghost Sighting!

Readers, today I’ll share my own, brand new ghost story!

A friend and I went to visit another friend, someone I’d never met.  The house is said to be haunted, the residents often see a ghostly man on the stairs, and have experienced and seen things upstairs.  Some folks wouldn’t go upstairs to find out!

We walked into the kitchen. The house has a warm, inviting energy.  One could see through a passageway into the next room and the bottom part of the stairs.  I saw someone there, at the foot of the staircase, getting ready to go outside. It was an old woman, who resembled someone from the forties and fifties.  She wore a wool dress coat and a scarf around her head.  I assumed she was a relative who lived in the home, and thought no more of it. It was only later that I realized the only (living) people at home were us, the friend, and her husband. No old ladies. Nor had any female ghosts been seen there. And no one went outside.

I called to share my story with the homeowner, who got a kick out of it – she had never seen the woman I described, although she often saw the man on the stairs.  She thought a moment and said it sounded like her grandmother, who wore a scarf on her head every day.  She asked me what the energy felt like when I walked into the house, and I said “Warm and fuzzy.”  So she was pleased, and I was, too … I’d seen a ghost!

Note: the ghost appeared solid and real.  The one odd thing was when we came in, it didn’t turn to look our way, as any living person would do when people come in.

That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it!

Do you have a ghost story you’d like to share? If so, I’d be glad to post it here – you can send it via my contact button. Thanks in advance!

For more ghosts, please see



Ghosts: A Haunted Doll

Readers, here’s a tale about a doll with some strange powers!  Read on! From Ghosts and Ghouls blog:

“I heard this story from a friend of mine. She got this doll from a yard sale a couple of years ago. At first, everything seemed fine. The doll didn’t move, or speak, or do anything. About a month later, she noticed the doll had moved. At first, it only moved a couple of inches.…

via Reader Submission: Dolly Dearest — Ghosts and Ghouls

For more ghosts and scary things, please see


Ghosts: A Collection of Scary Tales

Readers, here’s a creepy, re-blogged compilation of scary ghost stories, brilliantly put together by the Dark Hauntings blog.  Enjoy!

Whether you believe in the paranormal or not, ghostly stories can still be chilling. I have put together a compilation of stories sure enough to send a chill up your spine. Over the span of two years, a teenager from Australia experienced poltergeist activity whilst living with her father. Her mother had a strong psychic […]

via Paranormal Stories — Dark Hauntings

For more ghostly tales, please see, and have a look at my new short book, Sepia Seepage, a collection of four ghost stories with the common theme of haunting via ancient photographs!  FREE on kindle unlimited or kindle users library, only 99 cents to buy.


Ghosts: The Hitchhiker Ghost

Readers, here’s an archetypal hitchhiker ghost accompanied by an informative essay on this particular bit or urban legendry.  From The Ghost In My Machine blog.

Previously: Kiyotaki Tunnel, Japan. In the New Manila district of Quezon City — the most populous city of the Philippines, located not too far away from the capital, Manila — there’s a two-lane street. It’s an undivided carriageway, which means that it lacks a median; still, though, it’s a busy thoroughfare frequented by jeepneys and cabs. It’s named for the trees line it — but those trees do more than provide scenery. Indeed, it might be because of the Balete trees that the legend of the White Lady of Balete Drive clings to the road, and why it has persisted for so many decades.

via Haunted Globetrotting: The White Lady Of Balete Drive, The Philippines — The Ghost In My Machine

For more ghosts, please see: