It is getting late, and as luck would have it, there is a storm coming in, lovely thunder, and lightning. No one died today in tho making of the electric fence, but it is not far along, so there may be some excitement yet, but I don’t think it is ready for it’s own entry.

We’ve been all over the garden, and covered the Bengals. Mim says she thinks it is a night for more stories. Here’s one…

Love and nighttime,
Lorraine

Haunted Stories

I will tell you stories tonight, as you lie in the darkness. You cannot much move yet, and you breath air that is cleaner than one can find here on Earth these days. But you can listen, and even if it hurts, I will make you laugh., and I will make you dream. , and I will make you believe, even if what I tell you is lies, and the stuff of fairy tales. Or truth so true, no one would believe it.

I could tell you of a boy who grew up in a Graveyard, and tho it will be a well known tale soon, very soon, at the moment there are not many who have heard it, and I was the first. But for one. You will love this story, and make many friends in the hearing of it.

I might regale you with the history of King’s Mistress’s. There were many, and they were always, then and now. They had the better end of the deal than did the wives. It was not so good to be born a Princess. In the fairy tales, they were beautiful, Damsels constantly in distress, awaiting rescue, by brave and handsome Princes. The truth is not so pretty. And neither were they, poor dears. And you had best bear a male heir..Or lose your mind, and your head for it.

I know why Romania draws people. I know why it is magic. I was there a log time ago and I knew those people. I built those cities, or caused them to be built, I knew the ones that lived there then and the ones that live there now. Some of them that were there then, are still there now. Walk softly around them, and when I tell you their tales, I will speak very softly. And only you will hear this. Listen…

Some love cats. Some think them fiends from Hell. And not the nice part. Demons, balls of fluff, claws ripping and tearing, purrs so soft they will lull you to sleep, where you WIll dream. Cats remember. Everything. They knew the first stories. They remember when they were worshipped in Temples, and sat upon bits of paper, on which were written all the prayers, the hopes and the history, of everything that has happened, or will happen one day.

Bast told me this, and I believe her. It is not wise to do anything else. Even for me. Or for you.

Do you want more stories?

I could tell you stories with my violin. That thing knows some rare tales. I could make you believe in anything. Everything. Or nothing. There are tunes that are not of this world. There are tunes that can take you, well, elsewhere. It’s not fair, sometimes, I think, hen I play. They have no chance. Bit at least they are happy. For a time. They see, something. They hear, something. And they are happy. They are magic. For a time.

As you are always. Are you comfortable? Are you tired, my dear? It is not yet sunrise, and there are many more stories that can be told…

I could tell the tale that is you. And that is me.

But that is a tale for another time.